Hammering the Anvil
Author: Penelope-Z
Pairing: Frodo/Legolas
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Everything is HIS. And thank God he'll never see this sacrilege!
Summary: During the endless journey, Frodo struggles to find some comfort in a cold embrace.
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They tried to be as discreet about it as possible, but it is hard to conceal your affair when you are traveling for months, through dense forests and snow-covered mountaintops with a company of nine. Of course the rumor spread out, like the yellow tongues of flames spread upon wheat fields scorched by the summer heat, that the Prince of Mirkwood was paying far more attention than necessary to the Ringbearer.

Of course there were talks about the long hours they spent together, jokes about archery lessons and the perfect aim of elves, dirty looks from Sam. And of course, Galadriel arched her beautiful eyebrows when she set eyes upon the two of them for the first time, but she didn't say a word about it.

But the others did, didn't they? Frodo could hear the endless whispering behind his back, like the incessant rustling of leaves in the breeze, and sometimes he had to struggle to restrain himself from turning around and knocking Merry's front teeth down his throat.

He knew that they considered it wrong and immoral. He, a Hobbit who knew nothing about life and had never set foot out of the protected world of the Shire, corrupted by the sweet talking of an elf as old as the tree roots. Whispers about misuse of power, of poisonous hunger for wide-eyed innocence, of the perverted desire of the Mirkwood Prince for child-like creatures.

Complete and utter nonsense. Frodo entered this relationship - and even if the word relationship is a clumsy creature, not adequate to describe the bond between them, it's still the most relevant one - with his eyes open and his mind clear. No, he wasn't hypnotized by the soft cadence of Legolas' voice, he wasn't wooed with melodic songs and false promises. And Frodo was hardly an innocent by anyone's definition; quite a few girls back at the Shire could confirm that.

There had been no abuse of power here, no evil conspiracy, apart perhaps from the one of the world against Frodo, and no one seemed to mind *that*.

So they had their meetings, their short, hurried, intimate moments. It had all began with the archery lessons, all those accidental touches while trying to draw the bowstring taut gaining an obscure meaning and significance. It had developed further when Frodo awoke one night, sobbing in agony from nightmares of iron armors and torrents of blood, of empty eye sockets and mice crawling in his skull. Legolas was the only one awake to comfort him.

And later, he always turned to the same pale hands, because only they could soothe the wordless, numb pain away, fingers running softly through his tangled hair, the pads massaging his scalp in circular movements. Later, the only way to forget the anguish that wrapped around his heart like an iron grip were those cold lips, pressed against his own. And they were always soft, they were always gentle, even if they didn't always find their aim in the velvet darkness and mouthed at his neck, his jaw, his cheek.

And when Legolas knelt before him, and that tongue tasting of mint invaded his mouth then he could almost forget the Ring, whose metallic touch was forever searing his skin like red hot iron, claiming him to the darkness. Almost.

Yes, they had their meetings, their short, hurried intimate moments, anywhere possible, any time possible, whenever they could escape from the scrutinizing gaze of Hobbits, Dwarves, Wizards and Men. They never spoke, neither in the company of the others, nor alone, as if fearing that the words would tear apart the thin veil they were both weaving to shield themselves from the bitter world.

Words have no significance, when there is sweat and heated skin, and you struggle to ditch your damned cloak and your back is slowly getting soaked in the muddy ground and a body slides over your own, tasting and seeking and finding. When silky strands brush over your bare neck and shoulders, when he is so close you can feel his heartbeats in your own chest, like a kettledrum in a cave, like a hammer striking on the anvil.

The pain of the first time, so intense Frodo though he was torn apart, torn into a thousand pieces, bleeding from every pore. A fair angel descending from the skies slashing him down with his razorblade wings. And when it was over, Legolas clutching him so tightly, rocking him back and forth, both on their knees on a carpet of decaying leaves. Mumbling that it was him, him he had been waiting for all those long, lonely years. And if those words were lies, Frodo didn't care, they were flower scented and candy sweet.

One would say that it was the mutual dread, the looming shadow of Mordor that brought them together, embraces so intense as if they meant to mesh into one another. The same instinct that leads animals to mate when they sense their imminent death approaching with hurried footsteps. Yes, one would say so.

But desire is an ocean, sweet spit and twining limbs and Frodo is drowning, giddy from lack of oxygen, tumbling head first into the dark waves.

No regrets. No regrets even though he knows that all this was doomed from the start, that it was all over before it really began and even though he hurts at only the *thought* of separation, no. No regrets.

And of course one can dream of merciful gods and fairy tale endings where the Prince and the Knight live happily ever after in a little house with a red door and a blue window. But Frodo is losing hope with every footstep, the Ring is a noose around his neck, and he is suspicious that the Undying Lands are nothing but a conspiracy of cartographers.

The end


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