Work Text:
Legolas’ hair had always taken care of itself. Not that that had ever set him apart from his people; an Elf without long, smooth, tangle-less hair was hardly an Elf at all, were they? It set him apart from someone, though. Aragorn’s hair seemed to have forgotten that its owner was raised by Elves. All his Rivendell learnings did nothing to tame the brown locks sitting thick on his head. They did nothing to stop Legolas staring, either.
It obscured his eyes. That, Legolas despised. Deep, cerulean blue eyes, with all the humanity of Man and all the unearthly beauty of Aragorn, veiled by brunette strands that irritated both the ranger and his Elven admirer. The Man would be sitting there, beautifully concentrated, when an unruly lock would fall in front of his face. Aragorn would flick it back or tuck it behind his ears, but these efforts were futile; it had a mind of its own. Legolas took offence at the gall of it, as if it were falling on purpose just to spite him. This frustration eventually bore a gift.
One morning, while the woodlands lay still and the last hints of night sky faded into a blue dawn, Legolas found the Man at the edge of the Forest River. He watched him for a moment, captivated by Aragorn’s strong, sure hands sharpening his knife.
“Aragorn,” Legolas’ voice eventually pierced through the morning fog; the ranger’s head snapped sideways in surprise before recognition settled his taut expression. The Man smiled, then turned back towards the rushing water. “I hope I didn’t frighten you,” Legolas apologised.
“No,” Aragorn hummed. The Elf found himself overcome with warmth and admiration for the Man, a familiar feeling. He envied any being who was fortunate enough to experience Aragorn’s beauty for more than a few short days at a time. These visits were few and far between, the ranger always back to Rivendell or some other faraway realm before the sun set, it seemed.
“What are you doing here?” Legolas wondered aloud, the sweet symphony of the surging water accompanying his words.
“Clearing my mind, I suppose.”
“As was I,” Legolas smiled. Mirkwood sunrises did wonders for a troubled mind. Whether your troubles be political, familial, or a dear friend’s imminent departure – Aragorn was prepared to return North on the morrow – the brilliant orange of a newborn sun often managed to put things into perspective. “May I sit with you?”
“Certainly,” Aragorn replied kindly.
The pair sat in silence as time passed comfortably. If Aragorn noticed Legolas staring, he didn’t vocalise any discomfort. The ranger truly was hypnotising. A dozen minutes felt like a single moment as Legolas studied his skilled fingers, the gentle rise and fall of his broad chest, the pooling of soft brown hair on his shoulders. The same soft brown hair that covered his eyes every time he lent forward an inch. Irritating. Offensive.
Legolas could blame the early hour for what happened next, or the fact that Aragorn was leaving the next morning, or the fact that the Man sitting across from him was just so damned beautiful. What happened next was that Legolas’ pale fingers found their way to the thick tresses that were casting shadows over the ranger’s face, tucking the disobedient strands behind Aragorn’s ear.
It wasn’t as if they’d never touched before, but the silence and the cool air and the romantic (Was it romantic, really, or was Legolas just enamoured enough to be imagining things?) cacophony of sounds emerging from the bubbling water made this touch feel different. Intimate. A warm shiver radiated from the prince’s fingers down into his stomach. Aragorn stared at him, looking miraculous and serene and so, so human, the surreal moment stretching for a little eternity.
“What’s plaguing you, to rise you so early?” Aragorn’s voice finally broke the silence, mellow blue eyes still fixed on the Elf who had just retracted his fingers from beside his ear.
Legolas felt his heart in his throat. “I was thinking about a friend. One whom I don’t wish to leave so soon.”
“Interesting.” Aragorn noted, his voice almost a whisper. “I was also thinking about a friend. One whom I don’t wish to abandon.”
The ranger’s words were pure poetry, as were his movements; he placed his knife on the ground and his hand assumed its place next to Legolas’ with all the natural rhythm of an old song. Legolas’ mind conjured countless meanings behind Aragorn’s words, but a sickly sweet buzzing inside his head tuned most of his thoughts out. His remaining thoughts consisted of the fact that Aragorn was next to him, and that Aragorn was beautiful, and that Aragorn appeared as if he wanted to kiss him.
Elven fingers found human hair once more as two pairs of lips collided, unhurried and sweet. They had all the time in the world. Legolas had been kissed before, by an older brother of an Elven friend, but it was fast and drunken and certainly not as fond as this. It was unclear to Legolas whether Men were better at kissing than Elves, or if Aragorn was just better than his previous companion, but he was suddenly very aware of a strong finger under his jaw, and the distinction seemed unimportant. The pair shared a breath, then broke apart to catch their own.
“I don’t suppose I’ve convinced you to stay,” Legolas joked, his lips still puffed and delicate from the kiss.
Aragorn’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps one more day.”
The prince and the ranger’s closeness bloomed as the months rolled over Middle Earth. They shared many more kisses, quiet moments, loving moments, and while Aragorn’s courting continued, Legolas only found himself more conquered by longing than before the pair had ever touched.
When they finally found themselves making love in Legolas’ soft bed, Aragorn’s hair splayed on the white sheets, the prince was undoubtedly certain that never had a more beautiful being existed than his ranger, his King, his Aragorn. After the fact, Legolas’ overwhelm of love was realised as he crafted sweat-slicked brunette strands into messy, careless braids, imprinting his culture onto his beloved’s head while the pair caught their breath.
“Make it look so easy,” the Man mumbled, holding a thickly braided strand in front of his eyes to admire his Elf’s handiwork.
“I’ll teach you,” Legolas smirked, resting one hand on his lover’s bare chest while the other continued to tease Aragorn’s soft tresses.
Uprooted by a common duty, the pair were soon thrust into a fast-paced, dangerous world that wasn’t new to either of them, but uncertain nonetheless. Legolas, with the steadfast skin of a warrior, still found himself yearning for the soft comforts of a warm bed and a cool, clean stream in which to bathe. His cherished ranger seemed less affected by the loss of these small pleasures.
The prince and his king had pledged to keep watch while the rest of the Fellowship slumbered. The cool silence of the night air reminded Legolas of easier times, of innocent kisses shared on a river’s edge. He reached for his lover’s face, disregarding his duty for just a moment to grouse about how filthy the Man had become during their journey.
“I can’t allow this,” Legolas teased, attempting to run his fingers through dark strands of hair, dismayed when they were stopped by knots and clumps of residue.
“I’m sorry,” Aragorn’s voice was thick with sarcasm as he flicked his hair away from the Elf’s judgemental touch. “I’ve been rather preoccupied as of late.” He glanced around as if he were unsure what to motion towards: the sleeping halflings, one of which possessed the One Ring, the arsenal of weapons that still didn’t instil utmost confidence against the threats the Fellowship were poised against, or the general sense of dread and unpredictability that permeated the nighttime air.
“There’s a stream close by. Come, and I’ll wash it,” Legolas insisted.
“We’re on watch, my prince,” Aragorn smirked, the title infused with respect and a mocking air simultaneously.
“Then allow me to fetch the water and I’ll do it here. Please?” The ranger seemed to recognise an underlying plea in the Elf’s words, a longing to return to normalcy, however faux or fleeting. He nodded.
Legolas unearthed strong lengths of bark and leaves, intertwining them to recreate a makeshift bucket. The water leaked a little, and small flecks of dirt floated on the top, but it would suffice. Tranquil rays of moonlight painted the water as the prince returned to the forest clearing, his king waiting for him.
Aragorn obeyed when Legolas motioned towards a flat stump upon which he should sit, charmingly docile as the Elf cupped small pools of water in his hands and released them above Aragorn’s hair. He let the water run its course without aid, occasionally interrupting its flow with deft fingers when a particularly offensive knot needed detangling.
Honey-tinged memories flooded Legolas’ mind, easy mornings spent in bed when there was nothing else to do except fiddle with his king’s hair, summer nights when that same rich head of hair could be found eager and loving between Legolas’ parted legs. His heart twitched; the phrase “perhaps never again” clouding the sweet recollections, almost nonsensical but still far too concrete to be dismissed.
Timing his breathing with the soft rises of Aragorn’s shoulders, Legolas calmed himself enough to comprehend that his lover was in front of him, safe and sound. The brown hair beneath his fingers appeared a lot cleaner, as well. The Elf manoeuvred his way in front of the ranger, tucking wet tresses behind Aragorn’s ear in a familiar gesture of love.
“Any better?” The Man raised an eyebrow.
“Beautiful,” Legolas beamed. “Always beautiful, my love.”
“Gi melin,” Aragorn rose to gift his lover a kiss.
Legolas never did teach Aragorn the art of Elven braiding as he’d promised. Not for lack of trying; the ranger was aptly skilled in combat, leadership, and survival, yet the act of threading one strand of hair over another proved impossible for the Man to master.
“It’s alright, mui anor,” Legolas would gently rib his lover as he detangled the blond knots he’d created while attempting to braid the Elf’s silken locks. “I’m always at your service, if you need it.”
The prince’s services were requested earlier than he’d expected. The charge on Mordor, a reflection of the unending bravery and honour found within Aragorn, wasn’t without its attached anxieties. While the army prepared itself, Aragorn had approached him demurely, a childlike shyness unignorable on his face.
“May I ask something of you, my prince?”
“Always,” Legolas responded truthfully, expecting a tactical request, perhaps a harnessing of his unique abilities to encourage the army’s chances. “What do you need?”
“It’s foolish,” Aragorn dismissed his lover’s urgency. “I wondered if you could do me the kindness of braiding my hair as yours before we depart.”
“Gladly, my love,” Legolas obliged. “Let us sit for a minute.”
The amorous moment didn’t feel dissimilar to when the Elf bathed his ranger’s hair in the woods, a drop of serenity in an ocean of doubt and fear. Both sitting silently, Legolas could hear the pair’s hearts beating together as he threaded brown tresses over each other with excerpt craftsmanship, much tighter than the foolish, loving braids he’d created in bed all those moons ago.
He began at the front of Aragorn’s head, catching glimpses of uneasy admiration in the blue eyes that watched his fingers. Then the sides, then the back; the small, practical braids pierced through thick hair like arrows, before meeting at the back where Legolas secured them with a small pin. When Aragorn finally did speak, his voice had a quality that the Elf had seldom heard inflect the Man’s speech. He sounded unsure of himself.
“Legolas,” he uttered, very softly.
“Yes?” Legolas fidgeted with the back of his lover’s hair even though he was finished, desperate to stretch this quiet moment for a little while longer.
“I don’t know if you feel the same,” Aragorn said, pivoting his broad body to face the Elf and placing his hands in his. Legolas admired his handiwork for a short moment. His lover always looked beautiful – he never let him forget it – but the clean, tight braids framing his face made Aragorn look beautifully his. “I’ve been feeling as if we’re being kissed by death lately, more often than before. I don’t have to point that out to you of all people, I suppose.”
“If you don’t like how death tastes, you shouldn’t court it so often,” Legolas laughed, feeling the cold swell of seriousness beneath the comedic air.
“Mhm,” Aragorn smiled, one foot steeped in seriousness as well. Legolas could tell that he was readying himself to discuss what they had come to know as the inevitable truth; Aragorn was going to die, and Legolas was going to live, and live, and live. The ranger inhaled deeply and continued.
“I’ve always known that you will live an infinity of lifetimes after me, Legolas. But perhaps that isn’t the truth, anymore. Maybe we are both slain today. I can accept the end of my life, but not without devoting the short one I have to you. I want to be yours, forever, my forever, at least.” Deep blue eyes did not break contact with Legolas’ as the Man asked: “Will you betrothe yourself to me?”
“Of course,” The Elf’s eyes pricked with warm tears. They both knew that Aragorn needn’t have asked, their souls were already tangled in each other for years everlasting; marriage would simply be an excuse for a grand party. The gesture was simply so Aragorn that Legolas couldn’t suppress the swell of emotions behind his eyes. An Elf braids a Man’s hair, then the Man asks the Elf to marry him. It was perfect. Legolas just had one objection. “But not today. Only once we make it home, and after you ascend the throne. I won’t accept any less.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything else,” Aragorn smiled, a thin wet tear escaping from his eye as well.
Legolas placed a kiss on the Man’s forehead, then his familiar lips. “Gi melin.”
“Gi melin, my heart. Eternally.”
They weren’t slain in the battle. Aragorn did ascend the throne, and the Elf and the Man were betrothed and married shortly after. The wedding was another excuse for Aragorn to request his hair be braided finely, and while his husband looked fine and dignified with Elf-like braids, Legolas still retained a preference for the undeniably human sight of Aragorn’s hair teased and gorgeously messy as the sun rose.
“Good morning, Elessar,” Legolas whispered delicately in bed one morning, twining his fingers through the hair of a dozy Aragorn. He felt his husband’s head lean into the comforting touch.
“My beauty.” Aragorn always seemed to infuse beauty, heart, and prince with the same value as Elessar or King. The Man seemed highly aware that Legolas was currently fascinated with his hair, and used his Elf’s obsession to propose a request. “Will you braid it?”
“You’re spoilt,” Legolas remarked. “The King of Gondor will charge on an army of Orcs but won’t learn to braid his own hair.”
“Oh, you know I’ve tried,” Aragorn scrunched his nose in faux irritation. “You like doing it, anyway.”
“No, no. I like this,” Legolas threaded his fingers through Aragorn’s soft, tousled locks. “It’s so human.”
“I don’t know if I’ve just been insulted or not,” The King admitted.
Legolas giggled in response, clasping his lover’s face and kissing him slowly. He felt Aragorn’s strong fingers in his own hair, needling through it and tugging just how Legolas liked it. Legs settled lazily between legs as the pair became lost in each other. Consumed by Aragorn’s loving touch, Legolas longed to remain in their quiet dawn of their peaceful chambers forever, a place that was their own, where mortality didn’t exist, and nary a minute passed that he didn’t marvel at the beauty of his King, his little eternity, his Aragorn.