The Night Before

Aragorn led them down the wide garden path, eventually veering off the trail and stopping underneath a magnificent willow tree where a carved stone bench had been placed near its trunk. He released the Elf’s arm and sat down on the bench, looking up expectantly at his companion as he waited for the Prince to join him. Legolas glanced up at the drooping branches of the giant tree, looking as though he would rather sit among them, but tonight was Aragorn’s night and the Elf obliged his friend by sitting down cross-legged on the stone bench facing him. Satisfied, the Man reached down and groped around the back leg of the bench, his hand finally closing around the neck of a bottle which he pulled triumphantly from its hiding place. Two bronze goblets soon followed.

“Since when did you become a magician?” Legolas asked, the sight of the wine and the goblets raising his defenses a notch higher.

“Since I had the presence of mind to ask a page to leave the bottle and these two goblets by this bench late this afternoon,” Aragorn replied, easily popping the cork and blowing away any dust that may have accumulated in the goblets before pouring the wine. He handed one goblet to his friend and then raised his own in a toast. “What shall we drink to?” the Man wondered aloud.

“There is much to celebrate.”

“Then let us celebrate our friendship,” Aragorn decided, “for it is the closest to my heart. For all the years you have guided me and remained steadfastly by my side, for your strength when I needed it most, and for all the years that lay before us still as the Third Age comes to an end. May we greet the dawn of a new age together and stronger than before.”

Legolas schooled his features to maintain his mask of tranquility as he held up his own goblet. There was a clink of bronze upon bronze and then both friends drank; Aragorn, more deeply than he intended, while Legolas took a delicate sip, the wine leaving a bittersweet aftertaste in his mouth. Bittersweet, the Elf reflected, just like this toast.

“There must be something important you wish to tell me,” Legolas suddenly said in the silence that followed.

Aragorn looked at the Elf, surprised. “What makes you say that?”

“I have found that your race prefers the effects of wine when one needs to bolster one’s courage,” Legolas explained, setting his goblet on the bench. “The irony is that while imbibing alcohol may loosen one’s tongue, it may also make one lose control.”

“And Elves do not ‘lose’ control?”

“Rarely.” Legolas held the Man’s gaze, his lips curving into a sly smile. “We do not need wine to say what it is we wish to say.”

“There are those who would argue,” Aragorn countered, enjoying their easy repartee, “that Elves do not *say* anything at all.”

“To hold a conversation with an Elf requires subtlety and wit.”

“And how am I doing?”

“Admirably, that is, until your last question,” Legolas replied with a theatrical sigh. “The wine must already be taking effect.”

Aragorn let out a laugh. “Really, Legolas,” he chided. “Must everything be a challenge with you?”

“Challenges motivate me. If we do not constantly seek to challenge ourselves, then we would never grow as people. Life would be very dull without challenges,” the Elf finished.

“Is that why you have not married?” the King asked, the question taking the Prince by surprise although he did not show it. “You do not wish to be tied down to a wife and family?”

“I have not thought about it,” the Elf answered truthfully. “But one does not need a wife to be tied to one’s family,” he added, his words carrying a double meaning that Aragorn well understood.

“Then what challenge shall you embark on next?”

“For a usually reticent man you are asking many questions tonight,” Legolas noted with an amused smile.

“Is it not natural for one to wish to know the future plans of a dear friend?”

“We should be discussing *your* future plans, not mine,” the Elf said, attempting to divert the subject of discussion from himself. “They are of far greater import.”

“It is my past, not my future, that interests me,” Aragorn said heavily, pouring himself another goblet of wine. Legolas’ goblet had remained untouched since their toast. “Do you remember the first time I became drunk?”

The Prince’s face broke into a wide smile. “Vividly. You were fifteen and it was the Feast of Midsummer.”

“Yes,” Aragorn confirmed. “To this day I am certain that Elladan put some fiendish drug in my wine, although I was never able to prove it.”

“Whether he did or not,” Legolas countered, “you certainly drank enough wine on your own.”

“Do you remember what I did?”

“Could you be more specific? You did a great many foolish things.”

“Among those many foolish things, I remember a kiss.” Aragorn paused. “I kissed you.”

“You mistook me for an Elf-maid,” the Prince replied dryly, finally picking up his goblet and taking another sip, not noticing how the Man gauged his reaction carefully. “It is quite disturbing the number of times that has happened to me,” the Elf mused, “particularly when wine and feasting is involved. What *I* remember from that night,” he continued, “is a certain tonic that has become a staple in your life.”

“The witchroot tonic has many other uses,” Aragorn attempted to justify.

“Such as?”

“Such as…” The Man trailed off, searching for an adequate example. “Did you know that combined with the right mixture of raspberry and blueberry juice it is a powerful aphrodisiac?”

The Elf looked at the Man in shock. But a glint in Aragorn’s eye told the Prince that the revelation was made in jest and it was not long before the two were laughing merrily.

“A powerful aphrodisiac,” Legolas repeated, shaking his head.

“I almost had you,” Aragorn insisted, offering to pour more wine into the Elf’s goblet, which Legolas politely declined.

“May I remind you who introduced you to aphrodisiacs in the first place?”

“Elladan?”

“Have it your way then,” Legolas sniffed, pretending to be offended.

Aragorn smiled and took another drink of his wine. He liked the sensation of the rich liquid as it traveled down his throat, moved through his chest, finally settling at the bottom of his stomach, making him feel warm and content. Legolas is right, he thought to himself. I seek to loosen my tongue. Is this any way for a King to bolster his courage?

“I have always appreciated your tutelage,” Aragorn continued in a more serious manner. “Glorfindel is still the greatest of tutors, but I know that you taught me…other skills, aside from archery, that are of equal value.”

“And you have made good use of all of them,” the Prince complimented.

“Is it not strange, Legolas,” Aragorn suddenly said, leaning towards the Elf, “how in my youth I was always aware of my difference, of my limitations, of not being one of your kind. And now that I am among my own people, I do not feel like I belong.”

The Man looked at the Elf searchingly, and Legolas was moved by how vulnerable his friend appeared. It brought back memories of a youth named Estel who would come to him when he was confused, uncertain or distressed, and Legolas would comfort him, brushing away unruly hair from his eyes, often singing him to sleep in the crown of a great tree. Instinctively, Legolas reached out now and placed a hand on the Man’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.

“It is only natural, Aragorn,” he said gently. “It is but another step on your journey and in time you will grow accustomed to this new way of life. I know that you will use your dual heritage to your advantage and for the best interests of your people.”

Aragorn was aware of their nearness. He could feel the Elf’s breath, sweet with the scent of liquor, as it blew against his heated cheek. His eyes were drawn to the Prince’s lips as Legolas spoke, mesmerized by their movement. They appeared so soft, so inviting. He resisted the urge to kiss them, instead placing his hand on top of the Elf’s where it still rested on his shoulder. He meant to hold the Elf’s hand in his own, but his actions had the opposite effect of what he desired. As he lifted the Prince’s hand, returning the pressure of the comforting squeeze, Legolas pulled away and sat at his former distance, appearing smaller and even more withdrawn than before. Aragorn sighed inwardly, aware of the defenses his friend had erected on this night. It would be even more difficult to get through to the stubborn Elf.

“Do you know what else I remember?” Aragorn asked, trying another approach.

Legolas did not reply, secretly dreading where the conversation would head next, but he smiled in an encouraging manner, indicating that Aragorn should continue.

“I remember the first time I fell in love.”

It was all Legolas could do to prevent himself from standing up and leaving. Instead, he concentrated on his wine goblet as he performed quick breathing exercises to remain calm. He knew Aragorn’s last statement required a response.

“Your ambition was high,” the Prince said, “but you have proved your courage and honor. You are truly worthy of the Evenstar of my people.”

“My ambition was high,” the King agreed, “but it is not the Evenstar of whom I speak.”

Legolas’ head jerked up, genuine surprise written on his face. Aragorn watched as the surprise turned into curiosity. At last, the Man held the Elf’s interest.

“Who is this maiden?” the Prince asked. “Is she also an Elf?”

“Yes, *he* is also an Elf,” Aragorn answered.

The Prince’s eyes widened slightly. Truly, his friend was full of surprises this night. An amused half-smile graced the Elf’s features as he spoke, “You must have been but a youth,” he said, “to speak of a love before Arwen. Could you even be certain of your feelings during such a turbulent time? I would wager that what you felt was a strong infatuation that you confused with love.”

“It is *not* an infatuation,” the Man replied vehemently.

Legolas was taken aback by the forcefulness he heard in the King’s tone, the use of the present tense in Aragorn’s declaration not escaping his notice.

“I did not mean to upset you,” the Prince apologized.

“No, Legolas.” Aragorn let out a nervous laugh. “You could never upset me. This is something I should have told you sooner.”

“There is no obligation upon you to tell me such things,” Legolas said, trying to ease the distress he could detect in the Man’s voice.

“But there is,” Aragorn almost exclaimed, leaning forward again and grasping the Elf by his forearms. “You are my confidant.”

“And you are confiding in me now,” Legolas continued in the same soothing tone, holding the Man’s arms in return.

“I was embarrassed,” Aragorn explained, troubled eyes looking into the Elf’s clear blue, “and a bit ashamed. But most of all, I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“What all men in love are afraid of,” Aragorn replied, wondering if his wise friend could truly be so naïve. “Rejection.”

“But why would I reject you?”

Aragorn did not answer and there was no need to, for he saw the realization dawn upon his friend’s face, followed by a look of utter shock. Instantly the Elf was on his feet but the Man stood up just as swiftly, his grip on the Prince’s arms only tightening.

“Legolas,” Aragorn pleaded, “do you not wish to hear my story?”

Through his distress, the Prince’s diplomatic skills took over and he replied politely, “Perhaps another time.” Golden hair curtained his face as he looked away; ready to break free from the Man.

“There is no other time.”

His arms were released but the Prince did not move, the tone of resignation in the King’s voice preventing him from abandoning the Man. Slowly, he turned to look at him.

“What is this story?”

“It is nothing you have not heard countless times before,” the Man sighed in defeat. “I would not bore you with it.”

“Then why did you wish to tell it to me?”

Aragorn closed his eyes. The question and answer pattern was familiar enough. Many a confession had fallen from his lips in his youth in just this same manner, and he silently cursed himself for never being able to lie to the Elf. He had been fortunate, or was it unfortunate, that Legolas had never asked these particular questions before. Then again, he had never given the Elf reason to ask such questions. The blame lay with him.

“The wine has loosened my tongue,” Aragorn replied, “but it has not made me lose control.” He sighed again. “I thought that it would be enough that you would know, but I realize now that is not the case.”

Legolas took a small step closer, his heartbeat quickening. He could see the clear parallel between this revelation and the one he had shared with Haldir earlier that evening. “Why did you think that it would be enough?” he asked, wondering if his own reasoning would be given to him.

Aragorn laughed but it was a sad sound, and he looked at the ground as he shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said helplessly. “I don’t know what I expected of this night. But I had to tell you…before it was too late.” He felt a smooth palm against his cheek as Legolas lifted his face and he met the Elf’s blue eyes. “I did not expect you to return my feelings and I know you were shocked by my confession. I have upset you, albeit unintentionally.”

Tentatively, Aragorn covered Legolas’ hand with his own, despising the sorrow he could see in the Prince’s eyes caused by his words, but unable to stop himself from continuing all the same.

“If there was one thing I could ask of you,” the Man began, “and in return I would promise never to speak of this subject again, would you grant it to me?”

A flicker of uncertainty in the clear blue eyes before Legolas answered: “What would you ask of me?”

“A kiss.”

Legolas did not respond but had become as still as a statue, his arm outstretched, his hand against the Man’s cheek as though in offering. Only the barest nod of the Elf’s head told Aragorn that his proposal had been accepted.

Cautiously, the Man closed the distance between them cupping the Elf’s face in both his hands, while Legolas’ still cradled his cheek. The Prince’s skin was smooth and soft to the touch, and the Man knew that the rest of the Elf’s body was hard steel covered by the same delicate veneer. Legolas remained motionless, allowing Aragorn to advance and take the lead. He would do nothing to encourage the kiss, even though the air had become charged in anticipation of this moment that he believed would never come to pass. He closed his eyes as Aragorn bent down; he could feel time being drawn out, lengthening, and he willed this moment to last forever.

Their lips touched. Legolas was tickled by the rough stubble on the Man’s chin and the Elf idly wondered if Aragorn would ever shave now that he was king. That thought quickly fled his mind as the Man pulled on his lower lip, seeking entrance. The Prince hesitated, reminding himself that he would not encourage but Aragorn persisted, and Legolas knew this moment would never come again. Against his better judgment the Elf opened his mouth and Aragorn seized the opportunity. Legolas let the warm tongue invade him, wondering what he must taste like to the Man. Aragorn was gentle but demanding at the same time, the cusp of a hurricane that somehow held itself at bay. Their tongues tangled and Legolas knew he was lost. His arms snaked up the Man’s broad back, pulling him closer. Aragorn’s exploration continued, elated by Legolas’ response to the kiss. When at last he withdrew his tongue, he could hardly contain the thrill that passed through him, heat flooding his groin as Legolas followed, slowly but surely intent on exploring the Man’s mouth.

Aragorn tasted of the wine he had drunk with the faintest touch of pipe weed that he had smoked sometime during the night. The normally distasteful substance did not bother the Elf, intrinsically knowing that it was part of Aragorn’s being and that was all that mattered. He ran his tongue along the roof of the Man’s mouth and then wrapped it around Aragon’s own tongue one last time before pulling away, regretting the necessity of breath.

Aragorn still held the Elf’s face in his hands and he gazed at his friend in amazement, momentarily at a loss for words, both of them still breathing heavily.

“You do love me,” the Man whispered.

Legolas lowered his eyes knowing they could not hide what his voice could conceal. “Of course, I love you,” he said lightly, attempting to dismiss the topic. “You are like a brother to me.”

“I do not speak of fraternal love.”

The Elf sighed imperceptibly. Now that he had heard the Man’s confession, he found that he could not do the same. But nor could he deny what both parties knew to be implicitly true. Torn by his myriad emotions, the Prince held the Man tighter and laid his head to rest on his friend’s shoulder. Aragorn wrapped his arms around the Elf, his mind still trying to comprehend what had happened. Legolas loved him. His heart soaas tas the realization sunk in; it was more than he could have ever hoped for.

“We have both been fools,” Aragorn whispered, unable to keep the joy from his voice.

“On the contrary,” Legolas replied, his tone inexplicably sad to the Man’s ears, “we have both been very wise.”

Aragorn was not thinking of wisdom as he planted tender kisses on top of the Elf’s head, the silky hair smelling of pine and honeysuckle. Legolas lifted his head and the Man remained oblivious to the melancholic expression on the Elf’s face as he continued his trail of butterfly kisses along the Prince’s forehead, past the Elf’s temple and high cheekbone, finally capturing the sweet lips again. This time there was no hesitation and Legolas was swept into the kiss. Hands began to move and the fire that had been kindled in the Man’s groin started to burn. Aragorn’s hands slipped under the Elf’s tunic caressing the lean muscles, one hand remaining on Legolas’ back as the other found its way to the Elf’s chest, pinching a tweaked nipple before traveling lower, passing by a firm abdomen as it neared its desired goal. Just as the Man was about slip into the Elf’s breeches, a painful grip on his wrist stopped him.

“No.”

The Elf’s tone was harsh and Aragorn looked at his friend in surprise.

“It would not be right,” the Prince explained, controlling the fervor in his voice, “even though I greatly desire it.”

Aragorn nodded, suddenly aware of his own unfulfilled need. Mixed feelings of relief and regret passed through him. Trust Legolas to keep his head even in the midst of rising passion. The Elf was also aware of the Man’s discomfort and he weighed the possibilities, finally coming to a decision.

“Aragorn,” Legolas said softly, stepping toward the Man again. “Although you are betrothed to another, I do not think she would mind,” and here the Prince chose his words carefully, “ if I gave you a gift on this night. You cannot return this gift,” the Elf said sternly, “but you may accept it if you wish.” He looked uncertainly at his friend, almost embarrassed by his own bold offer.

Aragorn grasped the Elf’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckles gently. “I accept your gift,” he replied just as softly.

With his hand still clasped in Aragorn’s, Legolas leaned forward and kissed him, easily distracting the Man as he pushed him backward. Before Aragorn knew it, he was lying down on the stone bench, knocking over his own goblet in the process. The Elf, with his usual poise, picked up his goblet and took a sip of his wine before placing it aside. Then he glanced at the Man slyly before straddling him.

“You are heavier than you look, fair one,” Aragorn said, earning himself a dark look. “But it is not an unpleasant weight.”

“You were right, Aragorn,” Legolas began, “about the witchroot. It can be a powerful aphrodisiac but not with the preposterous recipe you gave me.”

The Man looked at the Elf doubtfully, wondering if this was another one of the Prince’s games. To prove his point, Legolas took out a tiny pouch from a pocket sewn on the inside of his tunic and undid its ties, placing the pouch under the Man’s nose. Aragorn immediately recognized the distinctive smell of the root. Even in its pure crushed form it emanated a foul, acrid smell.

“Then what is the genuine recipe for this aphrodisiac?” the Man asked.

“Simpler than you would imagine,” the Elf replied.

Aragorn watched as the Prince picked up his goblet again and sprinkled a fraction of the white powder into the remaining wine. Then he drained the cup, careful to keep the liquid in his mouth, and with a devious smile he bent down to kiss the Man. Aragorn accepted the kiss, the potion flowing into his mouth. The wine had taken on the bitter taste of the root, but it was still nowhere near as bitter as the witchroot tonic on its own. He ignored the taste, concentrating instead on drawing every last drop of the liquid from the Elf’s mouth. Legolas willingly obliged, finally ending the kiss when the wine had been thoroughly dissipated.

“Even a small amount takes effect quickly,” he whispered in Aragorn’s ear as nimble fingers began to undo the laces of the Man’s tunic. Legolas knew that his friend would feel quite warm in his velvet tunic soon enough.

Indeed Aragorn could feel his body temperature rising and his head was growing light. He closed his eyes, allowing the drug to take effect while a single thought crossed his mind: Legolas was a wicked Elf. It made him smile.

The Prince marked the smile on the Man’s face as he stripped him of his clothes. It mirrored the smile that he knew was also on his face. “I have always found it amusing,” he said, “that the witchroot when mixed with the very substance it is supposed to counteract becomes an even more powerful drug.”

The Man’s eyes snapped open as the felt the Elf lift his head and place some sort of cushion beneath it. He soon realized that he was resting on his own folded tunic. He is a considerate lover, Aragorn thought, pushing away the hint of sadness he could feel trying to overcome the power of the drug. Then Legolas settled comfortably on top of him, propping his head up on his elbows as he smiled down on his friend.

“The witchroot is just another example of what is true of all things in this world,” Legolas said. “Within it lies the potential for good as well as the potential for danger. It is how we choose to use this drug that determines its purpose.”

The Elf’s musical voice sounded distant to the Man, but the meaning was plain enough. Aragorn understood that there was much more at stake here than the discussion of a simple root. All of their actions carried a double meaning, a double significance that only one of them was willing to admit. The path seemed clear and Legolas was set in his course, but Aragorn was not so sure. There would be time to discuss it later, he reasoned.

It was at that moment Legolas decided to lift himself off the Man and Aragorn understood why the Elf had settled on top of his naked body in the first place. The controf tof the cool night air against his overheated skin served to electrify him like a million tiny charges against his flesh. He had never experienced such an intensity of physical feeling before and it was pleasurable in a way that words could not describe. He shuddered as another gentle breeze blew but it was not from the cold. When the Elf bent down again to place a kiss on his collarbone, the Man almost screamed.

Cold fire.

This was the true power of the witchroot as Aragorn soon discovered for himself: the ability to sensitize one’s flesh to an unbearable point of pleasure. Every touch, every caress sent fibers of ecstasy straight to the pleasure center of his brain until the Man was certain he could take no more.

“Legolas,” he managed to gasp in between incoherent moans and sighs.

The Elf wished to prolong his sweet torture, but one look at the writhing body beneath him convinced him otherwise. There was a dangerous point when the pleasure would turn into pain. He placed his hands under the Man’s back, sweeping them down his spine in one smooth motion. Aragorn cried out at the contact, instinctively arching his back and raising it off the bench. It was just the reaction Legolas expected and he held the Man’s hips firmly, suckling gently on the tip of the Man’s weeping shaft. Aragorn threw his head back as Legolas took him in. It was too much. He thrust into the Elf’s mouth to end it quickly, while Legolas’ hands remained on his hips to steady and guide him. In a few moments, Legolas felt a warm fluid at the back of his throat and he swallowed it. Aragorn lay back on the bench breathless and shaking from the effects of his release. His muscular body was covered in a sheet of sweat and he looked down at the golden head that still lay in between his spread legs as Legolas patiently licked him clean. He is a considerate lover, the Man thought again and this time he held back a t


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