by erobey  ¤  unbeta'd  ¤  italics=thoughts

SUMMARY: Here is a challenging plot bunny thrown my way recently and this is a sort of feeler to see if I want to continue it, so if you read this let me know your first impressions of it. The scenario: Legolas of Greenwood and Legolas of Gondolin are one and the same elf, No Rebirth (!) allowed. He is thus far older than almost everyone we are familiar with in the LOTR books, including Elrond. Of course, this would be an extreme AU as it places Thranduil alive in the First Age, too, and we know that was not true, either.

Still it has interesting possibilities, unfurling an immense tale that would have to be written in three parts, as the story commences in the Third Age at the time of the Quest and we must look back before moving ahead. Ultimately, it involves a double love-triangle: Legolas-Glorfindel-Aragorn and Legolas-Aragorn-Arwen. Lots of the story is in Gondolin and Doriath and the haven at Sirion, with Legolas involved in the defence of the refugees from Gondolin at the last kin-slaying. There's nothing else written as yet, just page layout and this preview of sorts. I am trying to follow all the twists and turns and get control of them!

Satin and Steel Aragorn struck the wall and collapsed against a small side table that proved to be more durable than its elegant design hinted. It did not give way and instead one corner nearly gored his side before he rolled off and landed in a gasping heap on the floor. His field of view was disrupted for several seconds as he sought to over come the wrenching pain in his back and the loud humming noise filling his head. Vaguely he registered the avalanche of curses and abusive insults pelting him, spoken fluently and elegantly, albeit with absolute disgust and outrage, in Vanyarin. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the table's legs and noticed a small mouse hole in the baseboard behind them. He groaned miserably and dragged himself to sitting, carefully feeling his side for broken ribs. No fractures detected, he sighed and took a moment to recover his wind and unravel his addled thoughts.

It was an honest mistake, and that was putting more weight on error than Aragorn rightly believed he should accept. The meeting had been held in Glorfindel's private study in his modest home deep in the heart of Lord Elrond's compound; the man had been invited to the meeting by the renowned general personally. He had taken the charts he and Halbarad had so diligently marked and annotated over the last few years; important intelligence the ancient warrior had needed to see and specifically requested. The discussions were progressing well and all present were absorbed in dissecting the strategy revealed by the enemy's activities in Eriador. Was it Aragorn's fault he was called suddenly away, a summons from Arwen he could not ignore? Well, he had left the maps and diagrams there with Glorfindel, Elrond, Erestor, Mithrandir, and Galdor for they were still using them, and that was the reason for all this trouble.

Granted, it was perhaps presumptuous to assume the study was empty now and that the Balrog Slayer would not mind if the man entered in to retrieve the maps. Just because Glorfindel's home had always been open in the past, that privacy had never been an issue before, did not mean Glorfindel never desired it. Or rather, that he did not prefer, as did everyone else in Imladris, to explore his desires in private. Still, now that Aragorn was thinking about it, he realised he had never seen Glorfindel engage in more than a passing flirtation with anyone. He was always alone and his home served more as a haven to the household and the warriors he commanded, his ear ever ready to listen to a tale of woe, his heart always prepared to speak wisdom gleaned from his years in Aman. Many were the gatherings that convened here, both for work and for play. How was Aragorn to guess this day would be different?

Truly, the man was not given to inordinate curiosity and had always refrained from prying into the re-born elf's personal life. He'd assumed there was someone left behind in Aman, someone who held Glorfindel's heart and to whom he would return when his vow to Manwë and the House of Eärendil was fulfilled. Certainly Aragorn was was not a voyeur. He had made plenty of noise tramping down the hall, too, suspecting nothing and thus not attempting to conceal his footfalls. That he threw open the door and caught the two elves in a rather intimate embrace was hardly what he was expecting or hoping to see. Glorfindel's explosive derogation and excessively physical manner of hoisting Aragorn up and ejecting him bodily from the room was entirely beyond reasonable behaviour.

And the diagrams were still in there.

The man scowled, rubbing his elbow and then the back of his head where he felt a knot growing, proof of the unprecedented attack to which he'd been subjected. He had half a mind to go right back and hammer his fist against the door and demand those charts right now, along with an apology. Except he had never, ever seen such a look of murderous fury on Glorfindel's face before. Even as he dragged himself off the floor, Aragorn knew he would do no such thing, and the next instant there was a resounding thud from the study that shook the whole frame of the door and made the man jump. A hungry, predatory growl rumbled through the wooden barrier, mingled with a short, sharp yelp of pain that cut off in an instant.

By the noble Vanya's devouring mouth, no doubt.

Aragorn felt a moment of mixed pity and envy, imagining the two elves pressed against the door, the stranger pinned beneath the bulk of the Balrog Slayer's dominating presence. Envy, for the brief glimpse he'd had of the other elf had been enough to register appreciation on the highest order. Pity, because he'd seen Glorfindel naked many times and imagined the ellon was going to be quite sore when they were done. It had been some time since the man had engaged in such antics with a male partner, but an ellon like this could quickly rekindle his craving for those early experiments in intimacy. He knew the pleasures Glorfindel was about to enjoy were not insignificant.

Never mind, I am committed to Arwen now anyway.

He was almost at the end of the corridor when new commotion erupted behind him. Glorfindel's voice, frantic, strident, loud, and unintelligible rang out before he yanked open the door and barrelled through it.

"Estel! Estel! Thank the Valar, come quickly now. Hurry!" Glorfindel sputtered out, snatching the man at the arm and hauling him back down the hall. "I didn't know he was hurt. You must do something; he's bleeding, Estel!"

Aragorn stared and almost let his mouth gape wide in astonishment, stunned to see Glorfindel's wan and worried countenance, the bright blue eyes awash in misery, guilt, and fear. Here was a warrior who had seen more blood in battle than anyone the man knew, except perhaps Celeborn and Elrond, shaking and near to hysteria because this unknown lover was injured? The next instant Aragorn grew seriously worried himself, thinking the injury must be horrible indeed to so disturb the veteran soldier's composure. He shook free and ran into the room. There propped awkwardly on the desk was the mystery elf, one arm bracing his body up, the other wrapped round his middle, hunched sideways in a posture indicative of pain while his face expressed embarrassed remorse to cause such a stir. Glorfindel bustled past and reached him, gripped the the ellon's shoulder to steady him, brushed back a few errant strands of hair from his face.

"Estel is a gifted healer, meleth, trained by Elrond himself; he will set you right. Here, let me help you get the tunic and shirt off now."

"Nay, it is fine; I can do it, Glorfindel," said the elf, casting an appraising eye over the mortal hovering behind the tall Vanyarin lord.

Aragorn offered a smile when the ellon's eyes met his, the reassuringly professional one he reserved for elvish patients who had never been in the hands of the Second-born before, at least, not for their health and welfare. He ran a cursory eye over this one, relieved to find him conscious and coherent, but beyond this his scrutiny was somewhat lacking in clinical evaluation. The ellon was long and lanky, broad of shoulders and slender everywhere else, a perfect example of that unique quality of lethal elegance that marked the First-born. Instantly he categorised him: an archer, Telerin, probably Sindarin, and wondered if he was from Mithlond, one of Lord Galdor's people.

Elegance was hardly a sufficient word; the elf's features were breathtaking, his face fairer than the Lady Galadriel, his eyes a hue the man had never seen before, a shade of blue that was like that found in a pale dawn sky just before Anor lifts over the horizon. Though clamped firmly shut in rigid control, his jaw was refined instead of heavy; his lips, though compressed tightly, must be full and florid; his strain-wrinkled brow was high and his hair came to a neat point at its center. He had a glorious mane of sun-coloured tresses that he was actually sitting on it was so lengthy. The man thought this was likely the one feature over which he was vain and could hardly fault him for it; the hair shimmered with his elvish aura, tempting fingers to test its texture.

Aragorn caught his breath as the compelling gaze once more caught him with that inquisitive, wondering curiosity he never could quite rationalise. How could people who lived virtually forever still find everyday sights so fascinating? Surely the archer had seen a man before. Aragorn looked away quickly, a little perturbed by the effect this elf's aura generated, and raised a brow, for he was not the only one captured within its field of influence. He watched Glorfindel fumbling to remove the garments without causing his paramour any additional discomfort. The tunic and shirt were already ripped and gaping; Aragorn could see the haphazard bandaging round the ellon's chest, a dark stain there.

"By the Powers, why didn't you tell me you'd been hurt?" Glorfindel quietly offered this reprimand, softening it with a gentle kiss pressed against his lover's forehead and another soft caress of the trailing locks.

"I was not expecting you to slam me into the door frame or I surely would have mentioned it, melethen," the archer defended himself with a wry smile, eyes flickering again to the man watching all this. Glorfindel tugged his arm up in exactly the wrong way and he could not suppress a grunt and an involuntary flinch. "Easy!" he snapped, pushing his lover roughly away.

"Ai! Forgive me! I did not mean to cause you pain," wailed Glorfindel and though he was not the kind of elf to wring his hands, he came very near to it, stepping back in hapless quandary, wanting only to help, fearing only to hurt.

"Glorfindel, there are things I will need from the House of Healing," Aragorn stated calmly, meeting the agonised eyes of his patient over the distraught warrior's shoulder. Glorfindel spun to face him, eager and anxious. "Clean bandaging, athelas, calendula, achillea, and Miruvor would be beneficial as well." He ticked off the items and watched Glorfindel mimicking his motions, tapping on his fingers, nodding, as though this was the most vital list he had ever been given and must take care to recall each article.

"At once, at once," he said, turned and bent to kiss the ellon chastely, then hastened away, running as though the valley was under attack from Mordor itself. Aragorn and the archer watched him go and then locked eyes again, each one smiling in affectionate humour.

"Thank you," said the elf. "I feel rotten to have made him so frantic, but he did not give me time to warn him to be careful." He shifted on the desk, trying without success to ease himself into a less uncomfortable pose.

"So I noticed," Aragorn smiled and lightly touched the torn shirt, felt his heart bound when the ellon ducked his face aside to try and hide a faint blush, golden hair cascading forward. The man stifled his unexpected reaction, surprised and unsettled by it, for his pulse was now thumping hard and fast. He adopted the serious, clinical demeanour that seemed to calm his less trusting patients. In this case, it was to steady his own nerves, for the ellon did not seem worried about his healing skills. "I think this would be easier if we moved you from the desk to the bed in the next room," said Aragorn. "Can you stand?" He settled a firm grip around the biceps in case the elf needed aid and felt the strength of the muscle. His heart made another ungainly leap as his eyes fell to the open shirt and the bared clavicle revealed there.

"Aye, I have not lost much blood." Slowly the archer stood and while he attempted to hide it, the shaky trembling of his knees was not a thing a healer of even the lowest ranks would fail to note. He took a delicate step forward and then another, let the man steady him with an arm about his waist, and slowly the pair walked the distance.

Aragorn replied quietly, "but it is obvious to me you have lost too much blood, though perhaps it was not today. You have not given yourself time to recover properly."

"Ah, you sound like Lord Elrond," he said, laughing lightly. They were at the bedside and he sighed in relief, lowering himself with a faint groan. "You are right; I was in a hurry to get here and the High Pass is no place to treat a wound like this anyway."

That set his homeland for the man and Aragorn felt another jolt of surprise. The folk of Lorien used the High Pass, but he knew the elves of the Golden Wood. If this one lived there, surely he would have heard of him from his foster-brothers or from Arwen. That left only Mirkwood and he had never met a Wood Elf before, though the legends of them were many and many were quite entertaining.

"I agree the High Pass is treacherous country, but once over them it might have been wiser to pause and rest a few days to recover your strength," Aragorn replied, using his dagger to cut through the fabric of tunic and shirt. He eased the cloth away and looked upon a fine physique, svelte and cream-coloured, small dusky pink nipples perched atop sculpted pectorals that rose and fell as the archer sought to regulate his distress. Aragorn examined the linen wrapping before attempting to remove it, dismayed to note the bleeding was both dried brown and and fresh red and not restricted to the chest. The elf's back had a corresponding vermilion blossom saturating the old blot. Indeed, thin streaks of crimson were trickling down the tapered back. He leaned close and inhaled deeply, disturbed at a faint aroma of putrefaction arising from the site.

He straightened and met the ellon's contrite expression with one of stern remonstrance, but did not vocalise his concerns. Instead he sighed, moving away to gather a basin and a ewer of water, cleaning supplies and towels, bandaging and medicinal herbs from Glorfindel's bathing chamber. All these things were ready to hand in the warrior's house for he tended his own injuries if they were minor; a fact the legendary warrior had forgotten in his upset over his lover's hurts.

Aragorn got right to work without comment, cutting away the old bandaging and tossing it to the floor. He worked quickly but thoroughly and was glad that at least the lung was not punctured. He invoked the patient's help to supply pressure to staunch bleeding as he cleansed the infected area, pleased the ellon responded without hesitation, an indication his distress was not beyond the limits of elvish healing. There was no question in Aragorn's mind that an injury of this nature would be fatal for a man. The wound looked to be from a lance or a spear and had broken ribs and missed the spine by only a finger's breadth. Aragorn inwardly shuddered at the impact of such a blow, pierced right through, skewered, and marvelled at the resilience and strength of the First-born.

"Is there poison?" his patient asked, voice strained and breath short, though he was bearing up without complaint.

"I do not think so; a wound like this is usually deadly without need for added agents," answered the man. "Orcs?"

"Aye, and then I ran into trolls in the hills on the western side. The Orcs were no trouble but the trolls have a longer range than…AI!" He gave vent to a sharp expletive as the caustic herbs were rubbed into the abused flesh, arching away and nearly rising from the bed.

"Nay, stay, mellon, this is necessary," cautioned Aragorn, settling a strong hand on the archer's shoulder and holding him still. "Not much longer, but it is best to be thorough; there is infection starting."

"Aye, get it over with," he gasped, shuddering, and bowed his head, flaxen strands curtaining down around his face.

The treatment resumed and no more talk was exchanged, Aragorn striving to be as gentle as his worries allowed. Despite the unpleasant situation, he could not but appreciate the warrior's exquisite form, the warmth of his skin, the scent of him, the very physical presence of the ellon a bit overwhelming. He presented a merging of strength and beauty rare even among elves. The archer was satin and steel, like a finely honed blade encased in a living sheath, a dangerous combination of supple grace and indomitable tenacity clothed in smooth, silken flesh and studded in ruby points. The man wanted to ask who he was and how he came to be here, but concentrated on the task at hand, for it was clear the archer was suffering. Just as Aragorn finished tying off the fresh bandages, Glorfindel came racing back into the house.

"Legolas? Where are you, meleth?" he called out as he ran.

"Here," the archer answered, voice not quite as strong as he would wish. The response was unnecessary for the Balrog Slayer was coming through the door, guessing where to find him.

His eyes swept over the scene and he instantly felt better. Legolas was smiling, though the pain in his eyes was not gone, and Aragorn was helping him sit back against the pillows for support. White linen wrapped round his torso and all sign of the wound was hidden. Glorfindel exhaled a loud sigh and dumped his armload of supplies on a nearby table, hurrying over and jostling Aragorn aside to offer his love another kiss. "You look better already," he said.

"I feel better," smiled Legolas. "Is there Miruvor?"

"Yes, yes," Glorfindel turned to get it, favouring Aragorn with a beaming smile of gratitude as he retrieved the small bottle. "Thank you, Estel. I can endure any horror dreamed up in Mordor save the sight of Legolas in pain."

"So I gathered," the man smiled back and slapped the general on the arm. "He will be well soon, but needs a time of quiet and rest. There is a slight infection, but the treatment should banish it by tomorrow's noon at the latest. Still, if it does not, you must consult Lord Elrond at once."

"We will," Glorfindel promised, hovering protectively over Legolas, just short of holding the flask as he drank. He plucked at the pillows and worked on the quilt, dragging it down so to cover his love. Legolas raised a brow and balked at this, tossing it aside impatiently.

"I do not need to be tucked in for bed-time, Pen-vallen," (Golden One) he chided. "I was hoping for something a little more exciting on our first afternoon together."

"As was I, but you heard the healer." Glorfindel's tone was much aggrieved as he said this.

"He did not say not to," argued Legolas and looked past his beloved to the man. "When can we have sex, Estel?" he asked bluntly.

"Ah, well, that is entirely according to your own judgement," the man felt his cheeks grow hot and wondered at himself to be so easily stirred by this elf, for the way he spoke the words made Aragorn want sex in the worst way, with this elf, right now.

"So, as long as he does not throw me against the furniture, there is no danger?" Legolas' eyes had a bright sparkle to them that bespoke mischief and desire both, and he knew this and exactly what sort of affect it produced. He watched in satisfied delight as both the man and the Balrog Slayer completely failed to suppress quickening in the crotch, quite visible as their cocks filled. He leaned back into the pillows and moved a hand down his body, spread his legs apart.

"Uh, oh, no. No danger if you are careful," Aragorn managed to say, though he was watching Legolas' hand caress its way down the long, lean torso, stopping to rest stop his navel. He blinked and raised his gaze to those unique blue eyes, found smug mirth in them and could not help grinning. Ai! What a prize! Glorfindel is blessed by the Valar.

"Yes?" Glorfindel asked, face brightening up like the sun for which his noble House was named.

"Yes," said Aragorn, giving him another slap on the arm as he moved toward the door. "I will just get those maps now, if you do not mind waiting a few minutes before you gently ravish your guest."

"Ai! Aragorn, Legolas is my mate not my guest," exclaimed the warrior, indignant. He frowned, but Legolas made a soft little noise, a needy, plaintive moan, and Glorfindel could not keep his ire burning, too aware of the yearning desire building inside him. "I'll see you to the door," he actually took the man's elbow and began shoving, which made Legolas laugh. Well, that was worth the embarrassment of revealing his urgent hunger, for the archer did not do so often enough to suit his mate. Glorfindel let go of Estel with a sheepish grin.

"I can take a hint," joked Aragorn. "I'm leaving now. Legolas, I am glad to have met you and hope you will be in the valley a long time."

"Aye, well met, Estel," Legolas called at the retreating back, his smile in his voice. "Join us for dinner tomorrow."

"My thanks, I will," Aragorn called back. He and Glorfindel reached the study and he retrieved the diagrams. "I did not know you had a mate," he ventured, unable to bridle his curiosity, and watched the re-born warrior stand tall and proud.

"Aye, he is not here with me often enough, nor I with him. We've been parted more than a hundred years, which is why you haven't seen him before, but that is a short time compared to some of the separations we've endured. He has heavy obligations in Mirkwood, for his father is the Elven King, Thranduil. No love of me has he!" Glorfindel announced ruefully, "and not without reason does he complain, for his son has suffered on my account. Yet, he knows Legolas and I share a bond that cannot be broken. Death could not defeat it, nor separation, nor interference, nor entanglements, nor any burden one may imagine can so much as make the faintest hairline crack within it." His words rang now with both pride and something like awe or reverence. They were on the front porch and Aragorn peered at him, intrigued.

"I believe you," he said. "Here is a story of your life that is never told, Glorfindel. Why, for it is clear this union gives you great joy and contentment?"

"It is not only my story," answered Glorfindel. "Most of it is Legolas' and he has not given leave to turn it into songs and ballads. There is too much of it, spanning Ages of time. How like a great river is Legolas' life," he mused, "moving constantly, changing, flowing, shifting, reshaping all it touches and traverses, passing leagues and leagues before it empties into the sea. Aye, and like a river it is filled with all things: sorrow and pain as well as happiness and pleasures. In time, mayhap you will learn some of his tale, if he comes to trust in you, but…"

"Pen-vallen," the soft call wafted out from the inner room, sweet, seductive, and insistent .

Glorfindel gave Aragorn a grin and promptly shut the door on him, leaving him standing on the porch. He did not stay there long, hastening away to seek for Arwen.