Author's Note: I first posted this fic for the 2008 Legolas/Aragorn Fic-a-thon at the livejournal community. So you might recognize it. I've worked up the courage to post it again, here (and this time, no longer anonymously) in the hopes that you can all enjoy it, too. So it is that I humbly present my work. And as a side note, thank you so much to all those people who have already read this, and who said kind things about it!

Warning: this fic focuses on a slash relationship (meaning two males). So if you do not like that, than please do not read. Thank you.

Disclaimer: Lotr, and all characters, places, etc. associated with it are property of Tolkien. I wish they were mine, but they are not.

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Aragorn was frustrated. The day had not begun well. He and Arwen had been arguing. As they had been for some time. They were petty skirmishes, trivialities. But they had been growing of late, in their frequency and intensity.

It was unreasonable of him to ask of her what he had, he knew. The love between the King and Queen, - no matter that in its prime it had burned more ardently than the sun - had faded. As the ships on the Western shore, Arwen's heart had sailed. She had given him an heir, and owed him nothing more. Though she might care for him as a dutiful wife for a cherished husband, and though she regarded him with as much fondness as she would a dear friend, she would not lay with him.

Which left him, as a man, particularly frustrated.

Denied her caresses, there was no one who could relieve him.

And here was the source of their disagreement.

For Arwen was not an inconsiderate Queen, and she understood the needs of men. More acutely, it seemed, than he understood, himself. So she had come to him one late afternoon with a proposition. "Make warm your bed with the heat of another," she had said, wise and composed, and fair. Yet he, to her calm suggestion, was filled with despair. He wanted no other, though he could not deny that his desire for her was no longer. Even as he saw others to be desirous, he restrained himself. His dreams, indeed had been haunted by a faceless creature, clear eyes, and strong voice. Alas! to love another would tarnish her image, for still he held her highly in his heart, despite the cooled embers of their erstwhile ardor. If she could not find comfort in the arms another, than neither would he, Aragorn insisted. To which she had smiled, touched by his loyalty, but more knowing than he.

"I need no other," was her tender reply, eyes brimmed with truth. Elves did not have the same needs, after all, and though their passion was great, it was short-lived. It was a passing pleasure, though one much celebrated. Once their children were born, there was no more need of it; their love was much more profound than a physical act. So the physical act was inessential.

And, she had reminded him, glowing with pride, that she had Eldarion. What more in all of Middle-Earth could she ask for than a sweet child onto whom she might shower her affection? How could she be unhappy when she had a son to raise?

So, she urged him, he should find a lover, and have no shame in doing so. There was not one woman, she told him, in all the land, who would not gladly have him. There were high ladies and virtuous maids, respected and beautiful, within the white walls, who spoke openly of their admiration for him. Surely he could find one to love. Even, she informed him, he had gotten secret proposals, and just the other day she had heard that there were bets placed - though she would not reveal on who or by whom - as to which proposal he would accept.

Yet he could not bring himself to do it. Even with her permission, even with her approval, and even with her hopefulness, he could not. Besides, it was not their rubicund faces that haunted his dreams. That is why the two had begun to argue. Because the neglect of his physical needs was beginning to manifest itself in his behavior. The stress of his position was wearing on him, and without any outlet, any corporeal nourishment, he was becoming irritable. In his dealings in the court, when once he was patient he was becoming curt and cold.

Arwen was not the only one to notice. Aragorn's advisors, too, showed concern for the erosion of their Lord's temperament.

The King sighed. He had left the Evenstar too heatedly. At the last moment, he had stopped himself from any words uncouth, and for that he was relieved. She did not deserve the venom of his tongue. She was his trusted confidante, honest and true. A familiar face in a sea of less sympathetic ones. All she had meant to do was help him. Even if her help insulted him, trying to find him a lover.

Now, however, hot with argument, rifted by indecision, he huffed down the halls of the citadel, a storm of moodiness and guilt. Noblemen and advisors, servants and soldiers, they avoided him indiscreetly. When he was angry, none but the lofty Queen herself were bold enough to face him. Even the rosy-cheeked infant, Eldarion, was known to cry, seeing his father in so distrait a state.

He passed Faramir and a gaggle of his loyal men, gathered round a pillar. They were discussing something, with much fervor, collecting coins, and making marks on a crinkled parchment. Aragorn could only guess that it was on the upcoming archery tournament that they were so frenziedly arguing their wagers. Faintly, he heard the name of an Elven archer, known for his skill and accuracy, as it was thrown about to a hubbub of discord at its mention. But they all became silent as he rounded the corner. Which only served to intensify Aragorn's cross mood. He continued heatedly on his way.

As the gloomy King paced the parapets and prowled the passageways, he spied a lone steed rounding the winding city streets, with two riders. A gleam of bright hair, a flash of sharp, shimmering eyes, the wiry frame of an archer. Behind him the rounded helm, the sturdy build, the broad shoulders and bearded chin of an axe-man.

For a fleeting second, his heart fluttered. Then his brooding brow down-turned once more, falling into the all too deepened groove. They were late, he remembered. Their missive he had received some days past. It had promised a swift arrival, upon the thoughtful request of the Queen. It had been written in a friend's hand, and dated with the day of their departure. His lips slipped into a frown. He had missed their cheerfulness greatly, and though he knew that they were strong and brave and could aptly defend themselves, he still worried of the perils they might encounter.

Perhaps something had happened to slow their journey? Perhaps something grave? Orcs, outlaws, bandits? There were many dangers, still, plaguing Middle-Earth, and the shadowy places of the realm. Beyond his borders he could guarantee no safe passage, and these two travelers were wanton pursuers of the far reaches of his lands and past. As he watched the lanky steed's progress, he imagined that its powerful strides were not long and swift, but slow and arduous. On its speckled flanks he imagined he saw flecks of red, and not the dappled brown of a glossy coat. And the elegant curve of the archer's straight back he envisioned slumped, the solid stance of the short one unsteady. He made for the stairs, rushing down them in bounds. He saw the pair dismount. His heart was jumping into his throat.

He called to the gates to open wide, and to the guardsmen to the aid of the approaching pair. The soldiers clamored into action, surprised by the presence of their King and by his demands. The colossal gates were slowly swung open, with screeching complaint on their great hinges. In front of them stood two wide-eyed, weary, yet completely wholesome travelers. Their horse stamped its feet, having been startled by the loud moan of the gates. The archer ran his long hands down its muzzle, murmuring soft words of comfort. It calmed quickly under his touch.

"Goodness, that was unexpected!" grumbled the short one, gruff and glaring, suspicious and alarmed. "Not a decent welcome at all. I do not blame the beast for starting."

"Well, Gimli, you cannot help yourself."

The collecting soldiers began to whisper, their chatter growing louder. The King pushed through their throngs, and stopped abruptly in front of the two newcomers. He grasped the taller one by the shoulders, leaning over him and checking him from head to foot. The object of his inspections remained still, bemused; concern ghosted his fair features. Aragorn stood straight again, hands resting on either stalwart shoulder.

"You are unhurt!"

The fair one blinked. His stout companion guffawed. Then from the beard-covered throat rose a rolling, rough, rich laughter. He slapped a thigh. The taller one's lips curved downwards, and upwards again, wavering between a frown and a grin.

"Priceless!" spluttered the stout one with laughter again, pulling off his helm, tears in his crinkling eyes. "You hear that, Legolas? He is surprised that you are unhurt. Oh ho ho, Aragorn, you have outdone yourself."

"So have you, Gimli" shot the bewildered Legolas at his robust friend. Gimli only laughed louder. Turning back to Aragorn, Legolas bowed. On his face he wore a good-natured brightness. Beneath it was scarcely masked the traces of uneasiness. This was not a creature incapable of humor at his own expense, but the King's fretful manner of approach had been all too convincing for jest. Having been the recipient of that fretfulness, he was even less confident that it was an act. Although, he thought passively, if it had been an act, by the sea and the stars it had been a good one, definitely deserving of Gimli's applaud. "Aye, I am unhurt. My Lord, wherefore should I not be hale?"

Aragorn narrowed his eyes at the Elf, as if he were collecting himself. Legolas was not blind to the fleeting wave of confusion that washed across the King's noble brow. In an instant it was gone. Hidden away.

"Wherefore not?" Scoffed the Dwarf. Legolas flashed a glare. "Do not turn those steely pools on me, my friend." Gimli shook a finger. "You have been royally duped."

Legolas could not help but crack a smile. When he looked back at the onetime ranger, he could find no remnants of confusion. Aragorn was stealthy. Mayhap that was all it was. If so, then Gimli was right; he had been duped.

Aragorn shook his head. Legolas was unhurt. Gimli was unhurt. He had imagined it all. It had been too vivid, the scene his mind had so deceitfully woven. His foul mood had spun a fouler vision. Perhaps this ordeal with Arwen was effecting him more deeply than he knew. His thoughts were in turmoil. It had taken his concern for his friends and morphed it into something dreadful. Such was the power of a mind distraught. He knitted his brow.

"In so grim a city, a chance for good cheer makes a jester of e'en the sternest kings," smiled Legolas, placing a hand over Aragorn's and thinking that he had let down the man by not participating in his joke. "Well met, my Lord."

Aragorn laughed, too tensely, pressing their foreheads close in a comrade's embrace.

"So it seems," he rubbed his neck self-consciously. He could feel Legolas' keen eyes upon him. "Well met."

They pulled apart. In the sunlight, Legolas' face was undeniably resplendent. Warm skin and softly flushed cheeks. The graceful arc of his brows, the long lashes, delicate, gently sloping nose, the tug of his lips as they anticipated a smile. His jaw was strong, and elegant. His hair glimmered like gold, in the sun's gilded rays. His eyes, like clear jewels, ever emotive, kind and watchful. Sharp yet yielding. Intelligent yet curious. He did not fit with the grey tones of Minas Tirith. Legolas blinked once more, perplexed by the King's studious stare.

"He is easy sport for any jester," Gimli chortled, elbowing his lithe companion in the side and interrupting Aragorn from his ponderous gaze. "King or fool."

"And which might you be?" Quoth Legolas, lips in the tight line of a smirk. The horse huffed loudly, air rushing from its nostrils in a snort. It had learned, on the long journey, to cut short these witty jibes ere they could mature into arguments. As friendly as the two riders might have been, it was too much for any creature, man or beast, to hearken overmuch to their banter.

Aragorn smiled, watching Legolas puff out his chest to have gained the last word, Gimli narrowing his eyes, twisting his beard indignantly. It was good to have them within the White City once more. Their presence was uplifting. The two carried with them an air of warmness and old wisdom, and yet also a youthful spirit despite their ages. The King took much pleasure in watching the sunbeams dance in the Elf's eyes, swirling and twinkling. He placed a hand on Legolas' back, urging him and Gimli to walk beside him. He called a soldier to him, to relieve Legolas of his mount.

"The servants will tend to your packs. So come, my friends, and tell me of your travels, for it has been too long since last these stones heard your tales."

"Not just the stones," smiled Legolas.

Thus the pair told the man of their most recent journeys. But as happy as Aragorn was to have the two in his company, they did not entirely dispel his agitated mood. In fact, the scene he had made caused a burning, spitting pit in the bottom of his throat. But he knew one way to remedy it, and he led them, subtly, towards a place that never failed to bring him joy.

The King's weathered hand remained, as they walked, rested on the small of Legolas' strong back. On his palm, Aragorn could feel the comforting warmth of his skin, through his silky garb. Oh how he missed the touch of skin, he mused. He could feel the way the sinewy muscles moved with each step. Still, the gesture was friendly enough, and Legolas thought nothing of it.

They passed throughout the citadel, three idly chattering specters amidst the courtyards and corridors. Yet Aragorn did have an aim for their seemingly aimless stroll. He had a surprise for them. Little Eldarion could totter on his own, and he would have his companions witness his son's tiny strides. The babe would be in the nursery, now. Just laying down his head for a midday nap.

He poked his head into the door. The nursemaid did not like him to sneak in to see his son before naptime. She worked hard to put him to bed, and Aragorn too frequently riled the child up, negating her efforts. She would not like that he had brought visitors.

"Ah, she is not here," Aragorn breathed, relieved. The room was empty, shades drawn but for a shaft of white light from the window panes. Outside, birds chirped lullingly. Two little eyes peered out of the dimness, curious. Gimli clomped into the room.

"Aragorn, where are you -- Oh!" Eldarion's eyes latched onto the dwarf. "A little one."

"Certainly no one as little as you, Gim - Oh!" The infant's eyes flashed to Legolas, trailing behind the Dwarf. The Elf stopped in the door. He mimicked the babe's intense scrutiny, only his lips twitched into a grin. "Eldarion."

Aragorn walked over to the curtains and threw them open. The noonday sunlight flooded the nursery. "The nursemaid will have my head, but as it were, it has been a year since last you saw my son, and so I must needs show off his improvements."

"Improvements?"

Aragorn beamed. "You shall see." The King reached into the crib, picking up his son, and embracing him. Then he plopped him into Legolas' arms. Legolas took him unconsciously, and gracefully, but was surprised nevertheless to find a child suddenly against his chest. He was unsure of what to do.

"He is heavier," announced Legolas, though he was no strain on muscles accustomed to a taught bow. The boy looked up at him, shrewdly. He had a strong gaze, like his father's, that the Elf recognized immediately. "To think it has been only a year! And already he is a character."

"Only a year, Legolas! That is a long time. More so for a babe," spouted Gimli. Legolas scratched his head.

"I suppose you are right," Legolas conceded, gently reclaiming his hair from Eldarion's reaching hands. The boy looked up at the Elf again.

"Yes," said Aragorn with a grin. "Now, open your mouth." Legolas looked at the King, puzzled.

"Not you, the child." Gimli elbowed his willowy companion in the rib.

Eldarion did as he was told, opening wide his mouth. Three teeth poked through pink gums. The tiny lord was extremely proud of them, displaying them as though they were real pearls, and not just pearly white.

"A fine start," chuckled Gimli, gruffly, un-entwining Legolas' hair from the chubby fingers that had tangled it despite the Elf's best efforts. "But do not eat these longs locks with them!"

Eldarion looked momentarily appalled that the Dwarf would suggest such a thing. Still, he could not deny that he had an inexplicable urge to put everything into his mouth, to the great frustration of his caretakers. His fingers rewove themselves into the Elf's soft strands. The sun glinted off of them and made them irresistible. He fiddled with the neck of Legolas' shirt, instead, to prove his restraint.

"There is one more thing that I would show you, ere the nursemaid finds us. His greatest accomplishment."

Legolas kissed the boy's forehead, pushing back his bangs. "Greatest, you say? Pray tell."

Aragorn nodded.

"He will show you for himself. Put him on his feet," said the happy father, eyes crinkling. Legolas looked at the man, alarmed. This was an infant he held in his arms, not a toddler. Surely he would topple over.

"But what if -"

"You shall see. If he falls, I shall take the blame." Legolas bent down, cautiously, and set the boy on his feet. Yet he was hesitant to relinquish his grasp. The stone floor was hard. He glanced up once more at Aragorn, who nodded reassuringly. So Legolas let the child go. And to his surprise, Eldarion did not fall but stood sturdy as a rock, peering up at the three.

"Wonderful," said Gimli, face warm with tenderness. "A veritable Dwarf! Ever steady!" The child romped towards his crib, lifting his feet high, and confidently, but comically in the way of young walkers.

"Oh!" The boy began to tip. Legolas leant swiftly down and caught him, ere his rear could hit the ground. Aragorn scratched his stubble.

The image of Legolas with the little child in the crook of his arm struck him as oddly attractive. The way he smiled goofily at the boy, and let him tug at his hair. As if for the first time, he realized the Elf's allure.

"Excellent catch," said a kind, feminine voice. Arwen stood in the doorway, the humor in her tone proof of her witness to the display. Her rich, black hair was like the night, and her pale complexion, the moon. Her skirts shifted as she walked. Aragorn's face darkened.

"My lady." Legolas bowed, as best he could whilst holding Eldarion. The child giggled with the motion. Gimli bowed much more deeply, unhindered. Arwen held up a gracious hand, waving away their formalities, though she appreciated their respect.

"I see that you three have interrupted Eldarion's nap." The boy reached for his mother. Legolas handed Arwen her son, who yawned into her chest. She stroked his dark head.

"Forgive us, my Queen," replied Gimli, his deep timbre full of admiration. Arwen tilted her head.

"Wherefore, Master Dwarf? You have committed no offense," she placed a palm on his shoulder. "It is the nursemaid you have to fear, not I." She whispered to him, gently. Gimli chuckled once more.

"I have heard her mentioned many times now, by Aragorn."

"Have you now?"

"Aye, M'lady, and always with a tremor of dread. Tell me, is she so worthy of the King's trepidation?"

Arwen lowered her voice. "Most assuredly."

Legolas and Gimli laughed. They noticed, however, that Aragorn was not laughing with them. In fact, Aragorn was no longer with them at all. There was an empty space where once had stood a man. Arwen sighed.

"Where did he go?" Wondered Gimli, looking around. "He was just here."

"He slipped out. Even I scarcely heard, but I saw his foot disappear round yon doorway," said Legolas.

"And why did you not stop him?" Gimli huffed, stepping towards the Elf. Legolas rubbed his chin, pensive.

"He did not seem to want to be stopped. I do not think he would have listened had I asked him."

"Well what does that mean?" Grumbled Gimli, agitated as per usual by the cryptic way his companion spoke.

"His mood turned foul, is what it means. Or his features did. Yet I do not know why."

"I hope he was not insulted by my words." Gimli frowned. He had not meant them as a slight, but as a jest. He knew Aragorn, and jibes had never bothered him before. Gimli tugged at his beard.

"Nay Gimli, it was not your words," said Arwen, sadly, knowing distinctly the reason for

his flight. "He left because of me, I am sure."

Legolas and Gimli raised their brows. Arwen had said nothing harsh. Why should Aragorn be displeased with her?

"Who would quit your presence, Lady Arwen? Verily, it is an honor!" Cried the Dwarf. Legolas rolled his eyes, though he did not disagree. Gimli was ever the gentleman when it came to the female sex. They, unlike Legolas, did not have to hear him belch, and thus were always charmed.

"My Lady, wherefore should Aragorn leave because of you?"

With a sigh, and two slender fingers poised against her temple, the Evenstar sat slowly into the rocking chair. Eldarion was asleep. Just to make sure, she glanced down at him ere speaking, cupping a hand over his ear.

"We have had an argument," she said lightly. Her eyes met theirs with a wistful regret, though they did not understand it. Legolas blinked.

"It must have been an argument of great magnitude, my Lady, to conjure so sorrowful a tone." There was a hint of questioning in his sympathetic reply, though he did not voice it directly.

"Yes," she looked briefly away. "But no matter! Do not let our silly quarrels spoil your gay arrival."

"But certainly you can confide in us your grievances," quoth Gimli, heartbroken by the selflessness of the Evenstar. She leant him a grateful smile.

"That is a generous offer, Master Dwarf, and one that I shall keep in mind. But for now, I do not think that our Lord would appreciate my revealing our private matters without his consent." She thought for a moment, catching the crestfallen expression on the Dwarf's face. "Nonetheless, there is one thing that you two might do for me." Gimli lit up.

"Anything, my Lady."

"Aragorn has been. . . frustrated, as of late. Burdened by our recent dispute, he is quick to lash out. Please be as sympathetic to him as you are to me. Company is what he needs. Indeed, desires, though he will not say it." She paused, and whispered quietly to herself, "tho' perhaps of a different sort." Gimli did not hear it, but Legolas did, and was puzzled. Still, he did not reveal his puzzlement to the Queen, and was happy to comply with her request.

"You have our word, my Queen," said Legolas, bowing low. Gimli did so, as well.

"We will go now to find him, and assuage his foul mood." Gimli turned to Legolas. "You have a curious song, recently acquired, that you had wished to sing him, did you not, Legolas?"

"I do. A joyous one, well-fitting our duty of cheering the glum King. So fear not, Arwen. Your dear Aragorn will be tapping his foot to my happy tune ere sundown." He headed towards the door, Gimli bowing once more and rushing after him.

"Slow down, troubadour, lest you lose your bass line!"

Arwen laughed as they left, her heart lightened. Forsooth, if anyone could brighten Aragorn's day, it was this pair. She had faith in them, and though mayhap they could not relieve the man physically, they could relieve his mind. She kissed Eldarion on the forehead, rocking him contentedly.

Legolas and Gimli found Aragorn in the courtyard, sullenly watching the fountain bubble. They approached him cautiously, and Legolas made an effort to put sound to his step that he might make his presence known. Even so, Aragorn was startled when they announced themselves.

He had been brooding, mind stuck on something new and alarming. It was not his wife that had sent him fleeing from the room - though she played a part - but a shocking urge, followed by a crushing guilt. He could not understand the source of either. Yet the resounding wave remained.

"My Lord?" A soft and concerned voice was at his side. Slight fingers on his shoulders. Their touch made him shudder, and so they withdrew. "Aragorn, are you well?"

"Aye, my friend," Aragorn said, turning to face the unlikely pair. He put a smile on his face, but it felt more that he had pulled it there than it had come naturally. "I am well."

Both Elf and Dwarf raised a skeptical brow. The King chuckled dryly. "You do not believe me?"

"We do not," they said as one, taking a seat, on either side of him.

"But," began Legolas.

"We have come to remedy that," finished Gimli. It was Aragorn's turn to raise his brows.

"Oh? How so?"

"Why, with our company," grinned the Elf.

"Ah, I should have guessed."

"Yes, and your treatment begins now," quoth the Dwarf, pulling a lute from hindmost his back. He began to pluck the strings, tuning it to the proper pitch.

"Now where did you find that?" Asked the King, growing, as the two had promised, more cheerful by the second. A lute was a peculiar instrument for the pair to have. It meant that they were plotting something.

"Did you not know, my Lord? Gimli has ever been the skilled musician," said Legolas.

"Marry, I have played for the sparkling gems of the glittering caves - a most appreciate audience - and the twisting trees of Fangorn." There was a ping of agreement from the lute. "Thought you Elves the only creatures with a knack for composition?" Said the stout Dwarf with a hearty strum of his lute. "Well, Legolas, in that case let us show him the minstrel in you!"

"And the picker in you!"

Gimli began a quick and merry thrum, stamping his foot in time. The chords were warm, the lively ditty of a pub. A drinking song.

"You two scoundrels!" Grinned Aragorn, realizing what it was. Legolas tossed him a wink, uncrossing his legs, and tapping his own foot with Gimli.

"Wait until you hear the words," chortled Gimli. Legolas nodded, and opened his mouth, stomping his foot now just as loudly as Gimli.

Ho! to the tavern we shall go

and have ourselves a row or so

and all sit by the fire.

For here's a tale, of Harrowdale,

That needs no bard or choir.

It was Gimli's influence on him, no doubt. Aragorn knew that the Dwarf had more than once dragged his friend with him to the inns. So it was not unbelievable that the Elf could have picked up the hearty flavor to his tone thereat. Then again, the Mirkwood Elves were known to have a love of wine. So perhaps he had always known how to make a man nostalgic for a tankard and a crackling hearth.

In Underharrow, the gents exclaim

A finer dame they never saw, than buxom Lady Lane!

She tied her hair,

in ribbons fair,

and put the maids to shame.

Legolas' voice was strong and bright. Aragorn had never heard that lilting timbre leant to a drinking song such as this - Legolas was not wont to sing such tunes - but hearing it now, it sounded more entrancing than the most eloquent of epics. He would, now and again, make his voice more husky to better match the color of the song. When Gimli's low gravel joined the clear tenor, harmonizing perfectly, Aragorn could not help but crack a genuine smile. Legolas watched him with a twinkle in his eye.

From Upbourn came a suitor, to try his hand at Lady Lane.

A finer blade she never saw, than bawdy Master Hane!

He slicked his hair,

and shined his boots,

and put the lads to shame.

Anon, Legolas stood, swaying to the tap of Gimli's foot, and singing all the more cheerfully that his listener should find it humorous. After all, this was not a song for quiet admiration, this was a song for dancing, and drinking, and laughing. So he offered Aragorn his hand, which the King hesitantly took, and swept him into a whimsical jig.

In dear Harrowdale,

She served him ale,

And every night, without a fail

He'd find himself inside a jail.

For should a lusty gentleman

Ask the lady for her hand,

Drunken Hane could not withstand,

On their face his fist to brand.

He'd start a brawl,

Then to her crawl,

Professing in a slurréd drawl

That for her love it was he mauled,

the gentleman and all his band.

At first reluctant, Aragorn let himself forget his worries. Caught up in Legolas' jollity, he grasped the Elf's hand more confidently and swung him close, spinning and swirling as at a ball. Legolas, glad to have his friend in good spirits once more, did not mind in the least. He let Aragorn lead him, feeling the strong hand fall into place around his waist to guide him.

In dear Harrowdale, where Snowbourn splits in twain,

The richest men in all the town, are not fain to complain.

The barkeep sells poor Hane the ale,

Yon jailer keeps the bail.

Aragorn reveled in the sinewy form in his arms. It moved in sync with him, anticipating his step, and yielding to it. Legolas' hand was smooth wrapped in his rough palm, and his waist slender. The courtyard blurred around them as they spun such that naught remained save for the earthly sensation of holding another in his arms.

Ho! to the tavern we shall go

And have ourselves a row or so

And all sit by the fire.

For there's a tale, of Harrowdale,

That needs no bard or choir.

The words came to an end, but Aragorn hardly noticed. Gimli continued to strum lightly on his lute, slower and slower until the last chord, which resonated in the strings and in the courtyard. Aragorn slowed also, until he, too, came to a stop, entangled in an embrace that for him had somehow transformed itself from something friendly to something much more intimate.

Clearly, Legolas did not think so, from the comic way he mimicked the King's interlaced fingers at his lower back. He leaned in sillily, and gazed up at Aragorn, face a perfect image of loyalty and brotherly love. For him, their closeness was comradely. Clearly, his goal was to cheer the man only.

Aragorn pressed his brow against Legolas', both breathing quickly and loudly after the dance. He could feel the fast rise and fall of the Elf's chest against his own. His skin was warm. The King stared deep into the orbs below him, filled to the brim with unbridled, unselfish, happiness. Then his own eyes began to trail downwards, over the full lips, long bared neck, the tight muscles, and slim hips. He could feel the curve of a sculpted back, and just below, imagine the swell of hindquarters. He had an intense urge, more intense than anything he had felt in many years, to kiss bestow a kiss on the lovely creature so yielding in his arms.

"Alright, lovebirds," chuckled Gimli, laying down his lute on the bench with a twang. Legolas pulled away, turning towards the Dwarf. Aragorn sighed at the loss.

"Very funny," retorted Legolas, with a roll of his eyes. "Aragorn and I are but friends."

"Oh, I do not know," said Gimli with a smirk, idly plucking his lute. "You were awfully close. Almost as if," he puckered his lips, raising a thick brow, "you wanted to kiss."

Legolas plopped down on the bench, unaffected, next to his compact companion. He snatched away the lute. Neither noticed Aragorn's blanch.

"Think what you will, my diminutive friend. Aragorn and I are no more lovebirds than you and I." Legolas fiddled with the instrument.

"Are we not lovebirds?" Simpered Gimli, feigning hurt. Legolas laughed, shaking his head.

"There, there." He played a short scale on the lute, his tongue peeking out as he concentrated on the fingerings. "You know my love for you is far more passionate than any love between birds might be," he quipped, kissing the Dwarf lightly on the cheek. Gimli blushed.

"Baah, what have I told you about doing that," he spluttered, embarrassed. Legolas pretended to study his fingernails, sticking out a lip in what wavered between a pout and smug satisfaction.

"He doubts my adoration, Aragorn, and then rebuffs my affections. What am I to do?"

Aragorn was not listening. He had fallen into deep, serious thought. "Hm?"

"Oh, do not drag him into this, you feather-brained Elf," Gimli scolded. "Aragorn, ignore him. Attention only encourages him."

It was not difficult for Aragorn to comply. Indeed, for the rest of the day, his mind was elsewhere. Even when they went for a peaceful ride, the feathery clouds lazing across the blue sky, and the breeze lilting across the grassy plains, the King seemed preoccupied. His head had been filled with images of flowing hair and strong thighs. And although the object of his mind's obsession was quite oblivious to his stolen stares, Aragorn perceived that the other, whose keen eyes had grown accustomed to keeping a close watch on his companion - dangers, he knew, could spring up at any moment - had noticed.

And that other, Aragorn felt, was beginning to guess that his odd distractedness had more suspicious sources than simple marital strife. When the Dwarf might catch him, gaze latched too long on their happy companion, an unconscious warning seemed to flash across the broad, bearded face. Then, as quickly as it had surfaced, it would dissipate into the stern friendliness Aragorn was accustomed to.

When the three sat down for dinner that evening, Aragorn could scarcely remember how he had arrived at the table. His memory was a blur of smiling Elves and grumbling Dwarves. And for all the pleasantness his friends had poured upon him, his thoughts remained absorbed with one staggering dance. The elusive touches. The slender form. So, when all had parted to their chambers, Aragorn lingered, pondering these things.