.|. Radical Dreamers .|.

Chapter 4

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Boromir awoke to a weight on his chest. Around him - two people bickering. Two people bickering *incredibly close* to his ears. He managed to keep his eyes open for a fraction, and then his lids fell back down, heavy as rocks. He fought to remain conscious, at the same time telling himself the weight sprawled across him, chest to chest, raven hair pooling at his collarbone was *not* Arwen.

“Keep your hands off him!” It sounded strangely like her, though. Another voice answered, forcedly mellifluous, and the weight over him had the instinctive reflex to press itself flat against Boromir. Funny, it smelled like her as well.

“I wish only to help…” Éowyn’s voice, Boromir acknowledged from deep within the umbra he was submerged in.

“I told you already, he needs *not* your help. He will recover in mere moments, thankyouverymuch.” Arwen shot back quickly. One of Éowyn’s thin eyebrows arched upwards.

“It seems to me that he does need it.”

“*I* can tend to his every need better than you can ever do!” She moved her arms round Boromir’s neck and leaped to a seating position, cradling the Man’s head to her shoulder. “THANKS.” She squeezed tighter, and Boromir’s face turned an unhealthy shade of green. Ox…i…gen… he mouthed. Agh…

“His every need…” Éowyn raised and eyebrow even as she crawled closer, propped very un-lady like on all fours, and then wiggled both brows suggestively. “Are sure? His *every* need?” Arwen’s face went ashen, and then red suffused through her cheeks at amazing speed. Her hold loosened some – barely enough to allow some oxygen to reach the Man’s starved lungs. He sighed a sigh of relief and woke up some more, fluttering his eyes against the light. Where…? What…? Who…?

“Maybe… err… not. It’s not like I’m… we’re… I mean… uhm… we’re… just… uhm… friends. I’d never--”

“Thought so.” Éowyn cut the Elven Lady off and with a subtle movement, yanked Boromir's neck toward herself, pressing it to her chest. Boromir gasped, his head moving toward Eowyn's breast, stretching with the suddenness of the movement, just like a jack-in-a-box's neck would stretch if suddenly tugged on. Keeping him out of reach from Arwen’s frenetic attempts, Éowyn let her fingers waft through the Man’s hair, soothingly. “How are you feeling noble Boromir?”

“Let go!” Arwen whined, prying Éowyn’s hands from Boromir’s forehead.

“As the *Princess* of Mirkwood it’s *my* duty to offer help to my guests!”

“Go help Elladan!” Arwen argued. “Boromir’s *my* Guardian! Go find *your* own!”

“Elladan does not seem to need my help.” Éowyn seethed back. “Whoever he is! Boromir’s mine now!”

“He’s not something you can own! Leave him alone and… and… let go of *his* head! Now!” Éowyn spun around, tightening her arms and almost choking Boromir in result, and cocooned her body around the Man’s head. “Not fair! You *cheated*!” Éowyn struggled to keep her hold on the Man, but the other woman kept tugging at her elbow, defiantly.

“Stop it! It is mine, I tell you!” she shouted. “Mine!”

“I had it first!” Boromir chose that moment to woke up completely and, once realizing *exactly* where he was, he leaped away from Éowyn with sudden force. Not only that but, with one final pull, Arwen pulled Boromir to her and they collapsed in a tangled heap on the floor. An awkward moment of silence let the two realize exactly how compromising the position they were in was. Then, with an incredible speed, Arwen and Boromir sprang immediately apart, the Man dusting his tunic and Arwen checking her hair, as if nothing wrong had happened. A servant came to help Éowyn to her feet and lead her back to the dais where she stood before. Boromir raised an eyebrow at Arwen.

“…‘I had it first’, Milady?”

“Well,” she replied defensively. “It’s true. I *was* holding your head before she.”

“…”

A long moment passed, one in which nothing moved or made a sound. Then Boromir and Arwen both remembered why exactly the Man had collapsed and whirled on the Morning Star, gaping. If *that* was Legolas, the Prince had surely passed through a *huge* change since they had last seen him. VERY huge. Boromir was about to turn and ask Arwen for explanation when Éowyn wordlessly fluttered her lashes at him again. He held her gaze for a moment, admiration frank in his eyes, and she smiled. A chorus of ‘awww’ and ‘oooh’ came as she stepped forward, her hand out to be kissed.

Aragorn crossed his arms in annoyance, grimacing at the look of awe his companions and the Mirkwood’s Elves alike were wearing, and looked away with a snort when Elladan and Elrohir AND Gandalf fought to take Éowyn’s outstretched hand. Truth must be told that not only Aragorn, but Boromir too seemed unaffected by the Aurêl’s beauty. It may have been because of the confusion still claiming him, or maybe for the foot Arwen had ‘accidentally’ stomped on his own and that had send him almost doubling over in pain when he’d offered Éowyn a weak smile.

Aragorn snorted again, letting his gaze wandered aimlessly through the huge hall. Then a glimpse of gold – different from that of the furniture, richer, purer and simply more alluring- caught his eyes. An eyebrow raised Aragorn turned toward a white column frowning at him in the close distance, just outside the impossible high doorway, and he was astonished to see a pale face framed with long golden hair peer furtively from behind it. He was unable to suppress a small wondering noise, and was less than unable to stop his feet when they carried him – without him asking them to- toward the mysterious spy.

As he neared the pale face disappeared behind the column momentarily, and once in front of it Aragorn bent forward some. Just then the spy moved abruptly out, and Aragorn’s breath caught when he found his face –and, you may understand, his lips- merely inches apart from that of what he immediately swore to be the most beautiful creature to ever walk Middle Earth. Bottomless blue eyes set in a face as pale as snow and as soft as satin, peering up at him amidst stray wisps of sungold hair. He would have gasped if he had the breath to, and seeing how the blonde elf – for an elf he was, as the dramatic point of his ears protruding proudly from his fine hair proved- had parted his lips, it seemed he was caught in the same dilemma: wanting to gasp but lacking the breath to. Then the incredible blue eyes blinked once, and the rosy lips tightened in a thin line. The face began disappearing behind the column again, slowly.

The movement awoke the Man abruptly, who reached out and caught the fleeing elf’s wrist in a gentle hold. The blonde’s eyes widened, and he seemed both stunned and ready to attack, but unwilling to. Aragorn realized his action had surely seemed hostile and relaxed the hold on the slim wrist until it wasn’t more than a mere caress. He began tracing circles on the pure white skin with a thumb, and was strangely delighted to see the Elf relax visibly. Encouraged by this small token of approval, Aragorn pulled the Elf into his arms, rewarded by a look of placid surprise.

“I’m sorry if I…” scared you, he wanted to say, but the Elf did not seem one that could be scared, or that would like the thought of being referred to as frightful. He swallowed the rest of his sentence as said simply, “Beautiful.” Accompanying his words with a gentle squeeze of his hand, “Who are you?”

“Legolas is how they call me.” The other replied with a smirk. “Green Leaf” they breathed out together then, and as Legolas eyes flashed with delighted surprise, he tilted his head to better study the Ranger.  “Handsome.” He chuckled out at last. “Who are you?” Aragorn bowed, still not letting go of Legolas’s wrist.

“My name is Aragorn, though they call me Strider. I’m a Ranger, chieftain of the Dùnedain of the North and head of the group of warriors sent here to retrieve the Morning Star.”

“Oh…” Legolas said softly, painfully, staring out of a high window for a moment. His eyes fell on a fleeting cloud, and for a moment Legolas whished to be like a cloud –that cloud- and roam free across the limitless skies. He looked back down at the Man, a sad smile gracing his lips. But wasn’t he like that cloud already? Drifting away from what he knew not by will, but because carried by a wind that would not let it rest. “The Morning Star. I see. I’m… I’m just a servant assigned to her Majesty Éowyn for the journey, Master Aragorn.”

“Please. Call me Strider.” Legolas beamed, the light of it putting the sunlight on shame.

“Strider then.” He whispered. The name flowed out his lips in the most sweet and sensual musical tone Aragorn had ever heard, and he couldn’t stifle the little whimper that rose from deep within his throat. The Elf stepped even closer, moving so gracefully it seemed he was dancing, his hands laying gently upon the Man’s heaving pectorals as he rose on his tiptoes.

This human was like nothing Legolas had ever seen before, and the Elf was determined to discover all he could about him as quickly as possible. Elves, you must know, are the most curious creatures on Middle Earth, and Legolas, an Elf from the tips of his hair to the toes of his feet, did nothing to tame his curiosity about the Man. Without warning, and without permission he placed his hands on the Man’s face, studying the strong features. His fingers skipped across the proud forehead, down the curves of the temples; across Aragorn’s closed eyelids and then across his lips, before Legolas pressed his palm to the Man’s cheek, head tilted and one eyebrow raised at the tickling sensation of the stubble there.

Aragorn understood immediately Legolas had probably never seen any human before, and was fascinated by him, thus he remained silent and motionless as the Elf studied him. Not that he would have moved if he hadn’t realized that: the Elf’s hands on him felt just too good to step away. He understood too that Legolas was not one to ever ask permission, but when he questioned himself about how could a mere servant be so proud and lawless, Legolas arms encircled his neck, his breath warm across his skin. Aragorn shivered again, breath quick, and thought fled from his mind.

Legolas went to study the rounded ears he’d seen only Éowyn and Boromir sport before, leisurely. They’d always fascinated him, human ears: so bizarre, round and short, unlike his own. Legolas’s head placed softly on the curve of Aragorn’s shoulder as the Elf caressed the Man’s ear, and Aragorn had the sudden proof that ears were weak spots in Humans as well than in Elves. He looked down at Legolas and slowly, leisurely, a burning fire bloomed in his chest, consuming him from inside.

“…it’s round…” Legolas was oblivious of the Man’s dilemma as he blew softly, experimentally, across the Man’s ear, giggling when Aragorn shivered. Swiftly, but with his usual, liquid grace, the Elf stepped apart, smiling to Aragorn in a way that was taunting him to catch him. He began to walk around him then, one finger tracing over his muscular chest and back. Aragorn didn’t offer any resistance; however, once Legolas stepped in front of him once again to gaze in his eyes, Aragorn found out he couldn’t stand the lack of contact.

Aragorn knew it not as he gazed back at the Elf, enchanted by him, but Legolas’s calm and beautiful façade served to hide the angered feelings boiling deep inside him. Albeit he knew – he’d always known – his fate as the Heir to the throne of Mirkwood was to be handed over to a stranger as part of a politic deal, it still stirred dark rage inside of him. He knew the day would come when *he*, Legolas the free, Legolas the son of the woods and the earth and the water and the wind, would be considered like a mere object – a toy. Now that time had come, and he was loosing his freedom, trapped in a marriage he did not want. He couldn’t argue - and he wouldn’t; but that he, so free and lawless, couldn’t do as he pleased this once stung him deeper than he cared to admit. He was affronted, unable to fight against his destiny and angered at this helplessness of his.

Yet… touching Strider, just *looking* at him, made him at ease, peaceful. Gazing at his dark features and proud complexion Legolas felt there could be good and happiness for him outside Mirkwood. That there could be a place where even a cloud could rest, lulled by the wind and nor ragged around by it. And the mere thought, the Man alone maybe, was a balsam for that hurt pride of his.

All of a sudden, as if a magnetic force was attracting them to one another, they were holding again. Aragorn caught Legolas and pressed him against his chest and Legolas placed both hands on each of Strider’s shoulders. Their breathes met and mingled in the thin space between their mouths, and Aragorn’s eyes narrowed, so deep and dark that the pupils were only rimmed by the smallest hue of silver, and yet glowing with the fascinated intensity of an hunting hawk. Oblivious and innocent, Legolas beamed up at him, without trace of malice or seduction, but so irresistible that Aragorn’s heart speeded up suddenly, thumping so loud he was sure the Elf could hear it. So, lost in his confusion and desperate to prevent the Elf from hearing his strange excitation, Aragorn did the first thing that came to his mind.

Held Legolas closer even, dipped his head, and kissed him.

It was a caste kiss, if not for where Aragorn had placed it: right across Legolas’s lips; and it was enough to rise an angered screech from behind him.

“Cut his head off!!”

Uh-oh…

Aragorn and Legolas moved apart, the Elf running the tip of his tongue across his lips and tasted a lingering trace of the Man, trying to do it nonchalantly. What they saw when they turned toward the Company made Aragorn’s blood turn into ice at the same times at it made Legolas smirk. Éowyn was stomping her foot on the ground, waving her fists madly in the air as she screeched about cutting the Man’s head off. Aragorn had the instinctive reflex to hold Legolas even closer – Éowyn’s screeches immediately escalated of at least a good octave. She made as if to step closer, one menacing finger pointed at Aragorn, but she was not-so-gently pushed aside when Arwen speeded past her, and then pushed back into position when Boromir dashed after Arwen.

“Legolas!”

“Legolas!!” They cried out as one.

Legolas’s eyes grew wide with pleasure, and he softly pulled away from Aragorn’s chest, stepping toward the two dashing figures with a radiant smile. He had no time to utter a single word that he was caught in Arwen’s arms, Boromir circling them both and inspecting Legolas as if expecting him to be hurt or something. Suddenly Arwen pushed him away, her hands curled around Legolas arms, and inspected him closely.

“Legolas, you’re all right, thanking the Valar! I was staring to worry! What happened?! Who—Ehy! Have you cut your hair?” She said, grasping a blond strand and giving a savage pull. Old habits die hard, Legolas thought wistfully. He opened his mouth to speak, but Boromir rose from his personal inspection of the Elven Prince and clasped the blonde’s shoulder warmly. When he spoke, his tone was deadly serious.

“Legolas, what happened? Have strangers attacked Mirkwood? Has Thranduil lost the throne?” Legolas blinked.

“Ehm… actually… no.” Arwen threw her hands up in the air.

“What’s happening here, then?! That woman who greeted us--”

“Oh!” Legolas cut her off, winking. “You mean her Majesty Éowyn, the Morning Star of Mirkwood!” Arwen and Boromir looked at Legolas as if he’d grown a second head before sharing a look. They then turned to Éowyn, who had stopped dead in her tracks when she had realized Arwen and Boromir knew the Aurêl’s true identity, and who was now gaping at them like a fish out of the water. Again they looked at each other, glanced at Legolas, and then, as if to check she was really there, they looked at Éowyn again. She actually waved a little this time, attempting a small smile. At once they turned toward Legolas.

“No, Legolas.” Arwen began, an eyebrow quirked up. “I was not referring to the Aurêl. I was talking about--”

“The Lady Éowyn, of course! Who *is* the Morning Star. Just what I said.” Legolas exclaimed, sharing a worried look with Éowyn above Arwen’s shoulder. The woman shook her head, looking as lost as he felt. Boromir and Arwen looked at each other again. At Legolas. At each other.

“Legolas…” Boromir began, his tone placid and slow as if he was talking to a dense child. “We know perfectly well that the Aurêl is--”

“—the Lady Éowyn, the Maiden standing *just* *behind* *you*.” Legolas said, stressing his words as he kept winking at them repeatedly.

“No, Legolas.” Arwen tried again. “The Aurêl isn’t behind us. In fact…”

“She’s right next to you!” Éowyn chirped, her head popping up between the two. Boromir and Arwen leaped apart, and Éowyn batted her eyelashes at them, trying to look as cute as possible and making a damn good job since almost all the people in the Hall gave a dreamy sigh.

Again the Elven Lady and her Knight shared a worried look. What was this woman saying? And why did Legolas keep winking? Was it a medical problem? Wait… Elves do not catch diseases, do them? Then what…? Legolas gave a small sigh of relief when his old friends said nothing for a long moment, sure they had caught on and would keep silent for the moment being. But he watched, in pure shock, as the two shook their heads and whirled on him with huge, worried eyes. Legolas placed a hand on his forehead, and Éowyn clutched ineffectively to their arms in a vane attempt to drag them away from Legolas.

“Legolas… what’s going on?” Legolas glanced about nervously as Boromir and Arwen advanced on him, effectively dragging Éowyn along, and when his instinct concluded that there was no escape, he straightened his back and swallowed. If he was to capitulate, he’d do so as a warrior, fighting! Not that he would survive it if he told them about his Father’s plan before he could. His father was a very *fusspot* when it came to one of his plans.

Legolas’s salvation came in the form of a pair of arms that, wrapping themselves around his waist from behind, pulled him away from the crowd. Before he knew Legolas had his back pressed against Strider’s chest, who squeezed him possessively as he glared daggers at his cousin and his best friend.

“Leave him *alone*!” Legolas blinked up at Aragorn, decided he felt really comfortable in the circle of those strong arms, and snuggled deeper into the possessive embrace, tucking his head under the Man’s chin. Éowyn was about to give another screech: that fitly, low Man was touching the Prince!! (notice how she conveniently failed to notice Legolas enjoying and searching the Man’s touch) but caught herself barely in time, reminding herself this could shut Arwen and Boromir up.

It didn’t – but something else did.

The huge door that lead to the King’s quarters slammed open just then, and a quiver ran through the whole room as Thranduil entered the Halls. His finely-chiselled, ageless features were twisted in annoyance. His glinting blue eyes were narrowed, reduced to two dark slits. His lips, which could change with a single word the destiny of Elves and Men, were pressed in a thin line, and their natural hue was magnified to a deep red. Legolas whimpered. His father seemed enraged, and that meant troubles - for him.

Wordlessly, Thranduil advanced one step, enclosed in a fog of dignity. Without waiting for his brain to order him to do so, Legolas pressed himself closer to the Man’s warmth. Aragorn did not move, nor did he say anything, surprise claiming him as he gazed at Elrond’s best friend. What caught the Man’s eyes were not the proud features, the silvery hair, or the magnificent robes – it was the crown Thranduil wore, shaped as an Eagle with her wings spread. Aragorn did not know that Eagles were so important in Mirkwood – he honestly thought Mirkwood’s symbol and thus shape of its King’s crown was a leaf! Then the crown gave a cry, fluttering her wings wildly, and Aragorn wondered if there was something he’d missed.

Soon, the King was in front of his son, and his face was blank of any expression. Then his eyes fell on Arwen, and he gave a delighted cry, the Eagle on his head immediately screeching in response.

“My little lovely dove!” he flung himself at Arwen and the Eagle on his head fluttered her wings at the sudden movement.

“Uncle Thranduil…” she managed, as the older Elf squeezed her breathless. Thranduil and her father were *very* similar when it came to greeting and farewells, it seemed. Very uncharacteristic of him, Boromir did not run to Arwen’s aid, instead swirled around and began tiptoeing away, all the while muttering prayers to the Goddess of luck. Which must have been deaf other than blind, Boromir concluded when –with another happy cry- Thranduil pulled the Man to him and proceeded to squeeze the air out of him as she was doing to Arwen.

“And if this isn’t little Boromir! My, how much have you grown up!” The Elven King smirked and proceeded to move the struggling captives he held until their heads were tucked each under one of his armpits. 

“We have so *much* to discuss, dear friends! It has been decades since you last visited!!” He moved a step forward and stopped, realizing there was something missing. “My child must come with us, too!” he said out loud, and glancing up he found the Eagle looking down at him. He muttered something in Elvish to her, and the Eagle was more than happy to oblige. She took flight with a sharp cry, and as Thranduil skidded down the corridor she dived for Éowyn, gripped her gown and began dragging her along. The woman glanced at Legolas for help –the King’s child was *him*, after all - and found the blonde prince waving at her with a grin.

“Come back soon!” he called after her as she, the Eagle, Thranduil and the still struggling Arwen and Boromir disappeared behind the huge door into the King’s quarters.

Blinking, Aragorn slumped into a chair, dragging Legolas down with him. The Elf sat gracefully down on his lap, long limbs crossed, and leaned back just as Aragorn leaned forward. Legolas’s head fell on the Man’s shoulder, and Aragorn tightened his hold around the Elf’s waist, his cheek now touching Legolas’s.

“What was all that about?” he queried, and eyebrow quirked up.

“Don’t ask me.” Legolas replied seriously, crawling imperceptibly back some more. Standing each on one of Aragorn’s sides, Elladan and Elrohir shared an amused look above their cousin’s head, wondering when he and this… ‘Legolas’ would realize how they were acting. Unnoticed, Gandalf sat down in a corner, took out his pipe and began blowing heart-shaped smoke rings.

TBC

This wasn't as fun as the other chapters, was it? LOL but I made it long to apologize! ^_^ I was seriously considering to cut this chapter where Aragorn kisses Legolas and Éowyn yells that she must get the Man’s head… then, seeing I had already part of the next chapter done I thought, ‘why not?!’ and made of this a nice, long chapter. I hope that you found the meeting of Aragorn and Legolas worth the waiting! ^_^ I have a question for all of you, now… do you want the Company to meet Gimli and/or the Hobbits and have him/them join our group of heroes? I have ideas, but they would make the fic longer… funnier, but longer… delaying the wedding day… ;)