#aralasweek2024

[magicinavalon]

“Come on, meleth-nîn; I am here now, am I not?”

My third submission for @aralas-week!! Once again, a collaboration with the wonderful @queerofthedagger. You can find their incredible accompanying fic here as well as a little snippet below <33 The title of the drawing is also a line they wrote from the fic!!

“Come here,” Aragorn says, and his voice is stripped of concern now, of that careful distance he has been keeping up since he returned—as if he was scared that Legolas would crumble if Aragorn let him see properly.

[celestianana]

Aralas Week Day 1: Before Fellowship

Finally! I had to finished this!✨

[aramblingjay]

The weave of your hands (part 1/6)

Tags: Aragorn/Legolas, friends to lovers, canon era, braiding Words: 2.3K (so far)

Written for @aralas-week Day 1: Before Fellowship

Legolas’s skin was warm where he brushed against it, and his shoulders rose and fell in steady breaths as Aragorn’s fingers worked. Occasionally he would make a sound if Aragorn pulled a strand too hard or fumbled the flow of the braid—not a sound of pain, but that of a teacher, guiding the hand of his student. Or: 5 times aragorn does legolas’s braids + 1 time it’s the other way around

-

I. Rivendell

Aragorn found Legolas, as he knew he would, sitting on a bench in the outer courtyard gardens. He had not successfully approached Legolas without discovery since he was but a young boy whose footballs were too light to be of any notice, and therefore did not try. If Legolas did not welcome his presence, he would not be shy in saying so.

Legolas said nothing, so Aragorn took a seat at the opposite edge of the same bench.

They had not seen each other in several long years, though he still held great fondness for the memories they’d shared in the last decades, many in these very gardens. That Legolas was here appeared to be the only silver lining among the very grim tidings that had resulted in the Council being assembled at all. The guest rooms of the Last Homely House were already teeming with the Men, Elves, and Dwarves who would be present at the meeting, and a good many more besides. He had no doubt he understood only a part of what was truly at work here, but certainly the reappearance of the Ring, the emergence of the Nazgûl, and the gathering of the races all spoke of another desperate alliance against the powerful oncoming evil.

But all of that felt somewhat far away sitting here, in the comfort and security of his first home, alongside one of his first friends. Gandalf had passed along the news that Frodo had awoken in good health, and the Council was therefore set to take place the following morning. There would be time enough to think of the march against evil then. In this moment, he rather intended to focus on the good.

“I was surprised to hear you had come,” Aragorn opened, opting for the simplest of his thoughts. In truth, he wished to converse with his old friend but had little idea where to start, and pleasantries had never been their way.

“A pleasant surprise, I hope.” There was a strange tension in Legolas’s frame, a bowstring pulled taut when it should have been relaxed.

“Always, my friend.”

“I would not have been allowed to come had the circumstances not been so dire. And still worsening, if all I have heard since my arrival is true.” At last Legolas turned to face him, his lips curving into a small smile—what, on his elven features, amounted to the equivalent of a full-toothed grin from a man. “But it is wonderful to see you, Estel.”

Aragorn smiled back, as much at the sentiment as at hearing his childhood name. It had been a long time since he had been addressed as such, for nobody outside the realm of Elves knew him by that name. It seemed he was destined to collect names the way Dwarves collected jewels or maidens beautiful gowns, but there would always be a special place in his heart for this one, the first and simplest.

Legolas’s thoughts appeared to follow in a similar direction, for he continued with mirth in his voice, “Or should I say Strider? Thorongil?” Legolas’s voice lowered, turned serious. “Or have you at last embraced Aragorn, perhaps?”

No matter how long he lived, he would never, ever understand how his friend always seemed to cut to the heart of a matter as though guided there by Ilúvatar himself.

“I don’t believe I will have a choice, tomorrow, and I have made my peace with that.” His rather frosty encounter with Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor, seemed to him a sign of what would continue to happen if he did not shed the cloak of the Ranger. Whatever was to come next, it could not be Strider or even Estel who stepped forward to face it, but Aragorn. The question was only who would introduce him, and in what manner. “But for today, let me remain Estel.”

“I shall call you by any name you like, my friend, not just today but tomorrow as well. Know that it does not change who you are.”

Aragorn would not tolerate any other speaking to him about this topic in this way—indeed, even Lord Elrond was more careful in discussing his supposed destiny. But Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of Mirkwood, understood his specific circumstances in a way few others could, and as a result they had spoken of this particular topic at length. Aragorn understood Legolas’s words as both a kindness and a familiar reminder that embracing his ancestral name did not mean he had to walk the same path as his ancestors did. Between Legolas and Arwen, he had heard a version of that wisdom often enough that it had started to put down roots in his mind.

“I would that you call me Aragorn, tomorrow,” he said finally. “Of all who could do so first, I would be honored for it to be you.”

Legolas gave him a single nod, agreement and gratitude in one, and Aragorn knew they would speak no more this evening of things yet to pass.

They settled instead into pleasant silence. The time that lapsed before another word was spoken could have been mere minutes or a matter of hours, for it passed both slowly and in a great rush, as all moments of calm seemed to in his life. He could remember with vivid detail the battles, the injuries, the days of chasing or being chased, but memories of peacetime always fell through his fingers like grains of sand, fragmented and fleeting. With that in mind, Aragorn was determined to savor this moment—the chirp of birds, the rustle of trees, the golden glow of Imladris’s famed marble arches under the setting sun; and above all, the comforting presence of a friend beside him. There was no telling what the next day would bring, but this day, despite the series of solemn events that had led to it, was all the sweeter as the last port before the storm.

None came to disturb them. The moment could have extended until moonrise, if they had let it.

The Elves of Imladris, he had learned, had a patience to match the millennia of their lifespan. But not Legolas. Whether wood-elves themselves had a different comportment than the rest, or it was simply Legolas who was singular, he had not spent enough time in Mirkwood to say, though he suspected the latter. That Legolas did not act as though he was merely stepping where he had already trodden before, that he was willing to seize a moment rather than simply wait for it to find him as though floating through a life already lived, was likely one of the reasons Aragorn had been drawn to him as he had to no other Elf.

It also meant, more practically, that Legolas was willing to be the first to break their gentle silence.

“Tell me, Estel, did you walk here all the way from the keep merely to admire the trees with me?”

“And if I had?” He had not, but he had missed joking with his friend.

“I would say you have changed much indeed from the last time I saw you, if you have such a newfound appreciation for the forest. And that perhaps there is some wood-elf in you after all.”

Aragorn chuckled. He had long ago made peace with being a Man among Elves, always an outsider to their unique ways of interacting with the natural world. Even among Elves, he knew the Mirkwood bunch to be uniquer still, able to commune with the trees in a way that seemed closer to magic than anything tangible. “We both know there is no chance of that.”

“Indeed.” Legolas’s voice was light and dry, but the request for honesty could not have been clearer if he’d said speak freely aloud. That strange tension remained in his tight shoulders and hard jaw.

Aragorn chose his words carefully. “You are not braided,” he said at length. There was no need to voice the questions or implications contained therein.

“You saw that from your rooms and came rushing to fix it, did you?” Still light, but with a sharpened edge.

It seemed more elaboration would be necessary. Well, Aragorn had been called many things, too many, but shy to speak his mind had never been one of them. “If you are laboring under some guilt that the creature Gollum was allowed to escape Mirkwood, I hope I am not the first to say it is unfounded.”

“If I am unbraided, it is because I rode from Mirkwood as a messenger, not a warrior. Perhaps what you perceive as some window to my inner thoughts is merely a reflection of your own ignorance.”

If Aragorn had been any other, he would have backed slowly away from the topic and indeed this corner of Imladris entirely, such was the dark undercurrent in Legolas’s voice. But that had never been the manner of their friendship.

“As I think you know, I came rushing here from my rooms merely because I had hoped to see you,” Aragorn said evenly, and Legolas’s stony expression softened. “I will certainly not claim to know all the customs of your people, but I believe I know you, mellon-nin.” They had spoken thus far in the common tongue, for Aragorn did not want any who might drift through these gardens to learn just how deep his connection to Imladris and its elves truly went. Perhaps all the more for being the only Elvish they had exchanged, the Sindarin endearment had a clear effect on Legolas, who looked away and bowed his head. “I have seen you in times of both war and rest, and never have you been without some manner of braid.”

“Forgive me,” Legolas said quietly. “I should not have been cruel.”

“It is already forgotten.” Legolas did not have a cruel bone in his body, this Aragorn knew well. Whenever his usual composure slipped, it almost inevitably had to do with his father. Aragorn could imagine King Thranduil’s displeasure at the escape of Gollum, and certainly could imagine how he might express that displeasure to his only son, regardless of whether Legolas was truly to blame. “Mithrandir himself told me he believes Gollum has yet some role to play. Leave the past where it belongs, Legolas. Let us enjoy this relative peace while we can.”

The tension that he had noticed in Legolas from the beginning of their conversation seemed, finally, to dissipate. “When did you turn so wise, Estel?”

“I’ve had many a good teacher,” Aragorn said, meaning it. Legolas himself had been one for much of his youth. “Besides, it’s mostly selfish—I don’t like seeing you without your braids.”

Something twitched across Legolas’s face. Aragorn waited for it to take shape, employing what he had learned of patience over the years.

“Would you like to put them back in for me?” Legolas asked at last.

Aragorn could not stop his surprise from showing. “I think you’re overestimating my skill.” He gestured vaguely at his own hair, which looked a sight better than it normally did while he was out in the wilds, but remained, stubbornly, an unruly mop of tangles and curls. “Although I don’t see how you could.”

Legolas smiled. “Proficiency requires practice, does it not? Come, Estel.”

“If you are sure—”

“I am.”

“—then it would be my honor.”

Aragorn rose from the bench and walked around it to stand at Legolas’s back. He reached out and tentatively ran a hand through the fine elven hair, attempting to learn its form. As a child, he had perhaps attempted to braid Elladan or Elrohir’s hair, but it had been many years since his fingers had been put to such a delicate task. He had a Ranger’s hands, large and coarse and shaped for strength, not the nimble dexterity required for this.

But Legolas had asked. And indeed, despite not knowing any of the customs involved, he could guess at the significance of being extended such an invitation.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to picture Legolas’s usual style. It was easier than he imagined, for he had spent more than a little time contemplating that lovely face—most of his hair would always hang free, held in place by narrow braids along his ears, and the rest would be gathered into a thicker braid that ran down his back.

He didn’t have the skill to attempt the more complicated main plait, and settled instead for weaving the thin braids at Legolas’s temples. It was not entirely dissimilar to tying knots, with which he was very familiar, but this was decidedly more intimate. Legolas’s skin was warm where he brushed against it, and his shoulders rose and fell in steady breaths as Aragorn’s fingers worked. Occasionally he would make a sound if Aragorn pulled a strand too hard or fumbled the flow of the braid—not a sound of pain, but that of a teacher, guiding the hand of his student.

It had been a long time since his hands had learned a new skill. Aragorn enjoyed the time it took to shape the braid around the curve of Legolas’s ear and down to his nape almost as much for that as for what he was quickly realizing was the magnitude of this gesture.

Men were not so easily shown an Elf’s back, or allowed to place their hands so close to an Elf’s neck and ears. Or indeed to engage in a ritual so deeply steeped in a custom and culture to which they did not belong.

“There are few others permitted this honor,” Legolas said, as though he could read the thoughts in the very movement of Aragorn’s fingers. “But none more deserving. If not for you, I would have arrived at the Council entirely unbraided.”

Instead, he wore to the Council his usual half-braid of an elegant fishtail down his back, nimbly fashioned as the sun rose—and two narrow braids at his temples, wispy and a touch messy in parts, unchanged from how Aragorn had weaved them the previous evening.

[seagull-energy]

Alas, I completely forgot about @aralas-week for the most part but I intend to do some drawings for it over the next few days since I am quite fond of them in movie canon

To start off, here's a drawing vaguely related to the day 4 prompt, "siege of Gondor". It's Legolas braiding Aragorn's hair before they set off to the Black Gate :D This is a longstanding headcanon of mine because we all know Aragorn didn't do those braids himself (the man has never met a comb in his life XD) and I don't think they look like Gimli's handiwork

[estel-elrondion]

Day 2: To Lothlorien

My submission to @aralas-week

[queerofthedagger]

The First Step Was a Stumble

[Aragorn/Legolas | T+ | 4,9k]

Written for @aralas-week Day 1: Before the Fellowship, with marvellous art by @magicinavalon! <3

Tags: Pre-Canon, Meet-Ugly, Falling in Love, Banter as Foreplay, First Kiss

Summary:

He breathes in. Turns on the exhale, the tip of his sword coming to rest against an unblemished throat. Grey eyes stare back at him in a mixture of genuine shock and amused surprise. “Impressive,” the elf says, raising his hands in a mock gesture of peace. --- Legolas joins the rangers. Or—five times they misunderstand each other, and one time they finally get it right.

[aralas-week]

Happy Aralas Week, Everyone!

Here's a cute art you can use as your avatar~

Make sure you tag @aralas-week here and give hashtag #aralasweek2024 We will reshare your beloved works with pleasure✨✨✨

PROMPT LIST

[the-noir-symphony]

Fic for Aralas Week 2024

Title: How hard Online dating can be?

Yes, I'm suck at naming my fanfic

Summary:

[Greeny: I'm so bored. This history lesson is killing me. Wish I'm on your lap and learn more about your "history" ;)]

The entire class erupted with gasps and murmurs. It was clear that everyone was in shock as they stared at the projector screen.

On the screen, the text he just sent unexpectedly popped up from the corner! Meanwhile, his 'so hot yet ever so calm' history professor barely batted an eye. With an air of unflappable composure, Professor Elessar calmly dismissed the notification and continued with the lecture as if nothing had happened.

Note: This is for @aralas-week, thank you for organizing this event. Thanks to the intense stare of @vamp-ress that I'm able to finish this. Although I feel the ending isn't quite satisfying, it's the best I could do. Hopefully, I didn't accidentally include any lines from my paper in the fic.

Read here

[vamp-ress]

I just finished scheduling my posts for @aralas-week. There are seven chapters of yummy (hopefully, at least) Aralas waiting for you, about 14.000 words in total.

I hope you're as excited for this event as I am.

via GIPHY

[queerofthedagger]

like burning flame

[Aragorn/Legolas | T+ | 1.4k]

(Belatedly) written for @aralas-week Day 4, once again with fantastic art by @magicinavalon <3

Tags: Canon Divergence, Siege of Helm's Deep, Established Relationship Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst

Summary:

He thinks he had not quite understood his father’s scorn—the one that only buried grief—for the short, frail life of mortals. It makes little sense, of course; they all can be slain in battle any day, an opportunity that looks increasingly likely. And yet. He had never thought of Aragorn as frail. He had, he realises, never thought of Aragorn as mortal. --- Aragorn arrives at Helm's Deep despite everyone thinking him dead. Legolas deals with it as well as can be expected.

[seagull-energy]

Another drawing for the aralas week prompt "Coronation" Nice and bittersweet this time because we all deserve some angst as a treat :) I got weird and experimental with my art style this time and I think it looks surprisingly good, especially on Aragorn's armor!

[queerofthedagger]

a promise like winter

[Aragorn/Legolas | Mature | 1,1k]

Written for @aralas-week Day 3: Between Anduin and Rohan, with more brilliant art by @magicinavalon ! <3

Tags: Established Relationship, Missing Scene/Stolen Moments, Fluff

Summary:

They have always lived more on stolen moments than in marital beds, but there is an urgency to this now, a fear of numbered days and looming futures. It makes them both hold on too tightly, makes teeth find exposed flesh, fingers burying into skin until they bruise. --- As the Fellowship travels down the Anduin, Legolas and Aragorn get a rare moment to themselves. Naturally, they make the most of it, as best they can.

[estel-elrondion]

Probably my only submission for @aralas-week this year. I have my semester exams coming up and am unfortunately unable to create any other content. Sorry guys 😟

Having said that this is an artwork in a soulmates AU, where aragorn is raised by Elrond. He was fea adopted when he was 4 years old and the fea bond allowed the dormant elf and maiarin blood to shine.

And also, nolder hair and jewelry, cause I couldn't resist

[aralas-week]

How to use prompts?

Each prompt can be used only once per day (for seven days).

You can use the prompts in this recipe: Day 1: Canon Prompt 1, Day 2: AU Prompt 2, etc. Also you have to reverse threads recipe.

You can make just for all canon prompts, or all AU's prompts.

GUIDELINES

Please note, must include Aragorn x Legolas as the main pairing in every fanworks.

The hashtag #aralasweek2024 #aralasweek

You can include prompt name from each days, like: Day 1: Prompt (etc)

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For fanfic entries, any language is very welcome

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Late post will be fine

Just spread love and let’s have fun!

Tag us in your post @aralas-week and/or use hashtag #aralasweek2024 so we can find it.

Enjoy and let’s have fun!

[aramblingjay]

The weave of your hands (part 2/6)

Tags: Aragorn/Legolas, friends to lovers, canon era, braiding Words: 5K (so far)

Written for @aralas-week Day 2: To Lothlorien

They passed the night with Aragorn’s fingers working away at the golden tapestry before him, guided by Legolas’s quiet words of tutelage. The hours slipped by and he did not feel himself tire, or grow restless, merely more determined as the moon dipped lower and lower in the sky—Legolas would leave Lothlórien wearing braids worthy of him, and he wanted them to be fashioned by his hands alone. Or: 5 times aragorn does legolas’s braids + 1 time it’s the other way around

part one

-

II. Lothlórien

Night fell over the forest, and Aragorn busied himself as long as he could with seeing to the needs of the fellowship. There was food to eat and weapons to sharpen and spirits to lift at least enough to carry on the next day, and with Gandalf lost to them, the burden of ensuring his companions were looked after fell ever-more-firmly on his shoulders.

But eventually, the Hobbits were all asleep, or at the very least feigning it well enough, collapsed next to each other on Elvish bedrolls for what would be their first comfortable slumber in weeks. Aragorn himself was looking forward to lying down on a surface that wasn’t the rocks of a mountain pass or the twigs and brambles of a forest floor, for all that he had no doubt sleep would not find him this night. Not after the loss they had borne.

It appeared Boromir shared his view, for he was neither sleeping nor attempting any approximation of it. But he had at least eaten and settled at the base of a tree, looking as though he did not plan to move from his spot until the sun rose to force him, and Aragorn left him to it. They had already exchanged, earlier in the evening, all the words he had to offer.

He understood Gimli least of the fellowship, but that was unsurprising, given they had never met before the Council. Still, he could not help his relief to see the Dwarf sound asleep and deadened to the world when he returned from speaking with Boromir. Whatever guilt Gimli bore for Gandalf’s loss having occurred in the place of his kin, and whatever grief he suffered at learning of the deaths of his cousin and friends, Aragorn did not know how to fix any of it.

Instead, once he had seen to every member of the fellowship except the one who loomed, always, largest in his mind, Aragorn went to find Legolas.

It did not take long. His friend’s preference for high places well-surrounded by trees was no secret, and Aragorn found him in exactly such a place, balanced on a slender branch and looking ethereal in the silver light shining through the leaves. His long, elegant fingers were busy undoing the braids in his hair—the sight made something swoop in Aragorn’s stomach that he could not explain.

“Are you attempting to make this, too, your fault?” he asked Legolas in Elvish, scaling the tree Legolas had chosen and sitting next to him in what felt like a distorted reflection of that peaceful evening they’d shared in the gardens of Imladris. There was no need to specify what this referred to, for even though the Elves had finished their lament, only one thing was on any of their minds.

“No more than you.”

He could not argue with that. Gandalf’s fall was an open, gaping wound among the entire fellowship, and so it would remain. He was a good enough healer to know when there was no salve or remedy that could soothe a pain.

“I suppose we each bear some blame, for surviving in his place.” Even as he said it, however, Aragorn knew that wasn’t entirely true. He would place no blame on the Hobbits, who were above all else innocents in their care, and especially not on the Ringbearer, who carried a heavy enough burden as it was. “Or none of us. Indeed, I do not know what to think.”

“Perhaps it is not for us to know,” Legolas said, with a conviction Aragorn would not have believed from anyone else, and turned so he was facing Aragorn, leaning back against the trunk of the tree whose branch they were sitting on. He stretched out his legs until his feet were nearly in Aragorn’s lap, balancing expertly. “Our task remains, and we can only continue forward.”

“I do not know how we can do so without Mithrandir,” he admitted. None other would see this side of him, the side that doubted and despaired. But Legolas’s face was open and kind, his eyes so piercing Aragorn would not have been surprised if Legolas could read his very mind, and the admission came easy.

“Estel,” Legolas said softly, with emphasis.

Aragorn scoffed. He had been named for hope, yes, but hope seemed very far away in this moment.

Out of nowhere, Legolas’s foot stretched forward and nudged him lightly in the thigh. The action was so unexpected Aragorn couldn’t help his spluttered laugh. “Lassë, what—”

Legolas gave him a small, warm smile.

Aragorn mirrored it, feeling an equal burst of warmth in his chest, and decided to accept the distraction. “You are several hundred years too old for such antics,” he teased, embracing the first lightness he had felt since watching Gandalf disappear into the chasm. “I would have expected this from one of the Hobbits, not you.”

Legolas did it again. He was barefoot, his usual shoes likely somewhere at the base of the tree, and Aragorn could feel each of Legolas’s toes through the thin linen of his leggings, five bright bursts of heat on his thigh like a brand.

“Lassë—” Aragorn did not know why he was suddenly inclined to keep using what had once been Estel’s childhood nickname for Legolas, back when he was first learning Quenya and had read that it meant leaf. He hadn’t used it since leaving Imladris for the first time as a young man, but here, after so much else had changed, he found he liked the comfort of it in his mouth, and the thought that no one had ever called Legolas this but him.

“You have not called me that in a long time.”

“You do not like it?” Aragorn would stop in a heartbeat if Legolas felt it was somehow disrespectful, or diminishing of his status as a Prince and an equal. Estel as a child would have had much more leeway to address Thranduil’s heir however he liked than he did now, as Aragorn the man.

Legolas shook his head immediately. “I did not say that. You have collected so many names, perhaps it was inevitable you tried to give me a few.”

“I can stop,” he offered, more to keep the light mood going than because he did not take Legolas at his word.

“Don’t,” Legolas said, soft and serious, more serious than the moment deserved.

“Alright.” Whether he understood or not, he wouldn’t deny his friend something so simple.

Heaviness descended upon them again. It was impossible to hold at bay for long, oppressive on all sides, the inescapable feeling that what had always been a fool’s hope of a quest was now pure folly. Perhaps it was Gandalf who should have been named for hope, Aragorn thought with some derision, for without him it seemed there was none left.

In search of a distraction, he watched Legolas. His long hair gleamed silver-white in the moonlight as he combed through it with his fingers, slow and methodical, though Aragorn couldn’t spot a single strand out of place. His brow was creased with a grief that had not left his face since Moria, but the rest of his expression was settled in a sort of placid stillness not unlike a calm lake. Whatever stirred beneath, there was no trace of it on the surface. Aragorn had grown so used to the bow and quiver perpetually slung over his shoulders that it felt odd to see Legolas without them, though he knew any threat they faced in Lórien could not be countered with arrows. If the Lady Galadriel or even Haldir withdrew their favor, the fellowship would not last long.

When Legolas finished his finger-combing and began to section his hair to re-weave his braids, the words bubbled up.

“May I?” Aragorn asked before he could think better of it. Perhaps Legolas’s offer in Imladris had been a special circumstance, but he could do with something to busy his hands and occupy his mind even just a little. And if he was honest with himself, it had not been an unenjoyable experience, being close to Legolas like that in a privilege afforded to few others.

Legolas gave him a long, searching look in reply; he did his best to hold steady under the weight of that heavy gaze.

Finally, Legolas nodded—once, with a significance Aragorn did not fully understand.

They stared at each other for several beats; Aragorn felt his cheeks heat and looked away first, turning their attention to the matter most immediately at hand.

“How—” He gestured loosely to the way they were sitting, attempting to convey that he couldn’t even reach Legolas’s hair in this position.

In a sudden whirlwind of movement so fast he could barely follow each step with his eyes, Legolas swung his legs around and spun so that he was straddling the branch, his back now to Aragorn. “Better?” he asked, smug in a way that should have been unbecoming but only stirred a heat low in Aragorn’s stomach that he had spent many, many years convincing himself was unrelated to his friend.

The fact that this particular reaction only happened when the Elf was near, usually in direct response to something he had done, was a truth Aragorn had not yet reconciled.

“Much.” Aragorn slid forward until he was sitting directly behind Legolas. Like the last time, he ran his fingers carefully through Legolas’s hair first, re-accustoming himself. The rest of them were ragged and dirty from all the trekking so far, and none more than himself—but not Legolas. His hair was exactly as soft as before, and exactly as straight, and exactly as smooth. Aragorn might have been upset if not for how clearly he could see the marks of their journey in other ways—the shadows in Legolas’s eyes, the grief that hung over him like a dark cloak. “What would you have me braid?”

One shoulder rose and then fell in an elegant shrug. “Anything you’d like.”

It had not escaped Aragorn’s notice that Legolas had worn the braids he’d weaved into his hair to the Council, despite them looking like the messy first attempt of a young Elfling still learning how it was done. The gesture had touched him more than he could express, and indeed he hadn’t expressed it, unwilling to call attention to something that he didn’t entirely understand himself.

What he needed, Aragorn mused suddenly, was to speak to another Elf familiar with all these customs. A wood-elf, preferably, but he doubted he’d see one save Legolas for a very long time—and perhaps never at all, if this quest ended the way it seemed doomed to. They were surrounded by elves here in Lórien, but there was none he trusted enough to divulge something which appeared, at least given the way Legolas had not spoken of it since either, quite private.

Anything you’d like. The issue was that he did not know what he might like, for he did not know much about Elven braiding. And in truth, what he really wanted had little to do with braiding at all. “I would like—I would like for you to teach me,” he said finally. It was perhaps as close as he could come to what he truly wanted to say.

“Teach you?”

Legolas did not sound mocking as he repeated Aragorn’s words, merely curious; shame licked up his spine all the same, and he was suddenly glad Legolas was facing away from him.

“Yes. Show me how you—with your hands, how you do it.” He did not want to feel like a child, praised for his intention rather than his execution—did not want Legolas to feel as though he needed to wear Aragorn’s braids out of pity, or indulgence, as much as his friend would never admit to such a thing. “I would like to do you justice.”

“You already have. You always have, mellon. But if you wish to learn my style, I will show you.”

“Please.”

Legolas’s hands came up to his hair. He had long, sturdy fingers, built for archery and sword-fighting and survival—they looked not unlike Aragorn’s, a resemblance which filled Aragorn with an inordinate amount of possessive glee. They were alike, in this way.

“I prefer to fashion my main plait first,” Legolas began, parting his hair cleanly down the middle. “It is easiest to part the hair first, then gather even sections from both sides.” Legolas spoke in the calm, patient manner of a true teacher, demonstrating each step as he went. “Pull the hair so it lays flat, like so, and comb your fingers through to smooth any bumps.” When Legolas had perfectly gathered about a third of his hair at his nape, he suddenly released his fingers, letting the hair fall free. “That is how much I would gather. Now, your turn.”

Aragorn took to his task clumsily, attempting to emulate the motions Legolas’s hands had made with his own. Where Legolas’s fingers had been swift and sure, however, letting nary a strand slip out of place, Aragorn knew his own were slow and awkward, like a child play-acting the motions of his betters with no understanding of form or technique.

Proficiency requires practice, does it not? Those had been Legolas’s words to him in Imladris, and they rang in his ears now, a fitting reminder. He too had once been a child swinging a toy sword in a way that would’ve had him torn from limb to limb if he’d faced any true enemy, much as one might not think it now, when the sword felt as much a part of his body as the arm which wielded it. And practicing this particular art would not require the blood and bruises and grueling hours that sword-wielding had—indeed, spending time like this with his dear friend, his mind for once occupied with something other than weariness and despair, could better be described as pleasure.

With that thought, he finished his first attempt at parting and gathering Legolas’s hair, knowing even before he was told that it was not sufficient.

“Again, mellon.”

Any sharpness that could have been interpreted from the command was belied by the endearment, which spoke of fondness and patience and kindness, not of frustration or scorn. Yet another way in which learning this art would be infinitely more delightful, Aragorn decided, than his experiences learning the art of the sword. Softer words for softer arts.

Thrice more he worked through the beginning steps, each time corrected in this way and that by Legolas’s gentle voice—until, on his fourth attempt, Legolas deemed his work sufficient.

“Well done, mellon-nin.”

Warmth swelled in his belly like a gathering tide, and he allowed himself to bask in the feeling of it. Such a small task to accomplish and be praised for, but solace was rare to come by these days, and he was not fool enough to turn it away.

Legolas angled his head slightly, just enough so Aragorn could make out the upward curl of his lips. Another wave of warmth crashed over him at the reassurance that these trivial comforts were nonetheless a comfort to them both.

“Now on to the plait,” Legolas said, bringing his hands up to demonstrate, and Aragorn watched with rapt attention.

They passed the night with Aragorn’s fingers working away at the golden tapestry before him, guided by Legolas’s quiet words of tutelage. Elves did not need much sleep, and Aragorn found he needed less when he was around Legolas, buoyed with a strange, frenetic energy in his veins. The hours slipped by and he did not feel himself tire, or grow restless, merely more determined as the moon dipped lower and lower in the sky—Legolas would leave Lothlórien wearing braids worthy of him, and he wanted them to be fashioned by his hands alone.

Thoughts of Gandalf and the Ring and all the troubles waiting for him at the base of the tree lingered ever-present in his mind, for never would they disappear—but in those late hours they were merely a whisper in the background, quiet enough to be ignored.

[vamp-ress]

Fic: The Journey (1/7)

My story for @aralas-week will use all seven prompts and will post daily. You can read the story on AO3 and on DW. On the last day, there will be a bonus post - a "Making of" on DW. I hope you'll like what I've come up with, feel free to leave feedback either on AO3 or on DW (guest comments are always on in both places).

The creative juices are flowing this year and I'm so pleased to have something new to show you all. At the same time I'm looking forward to what everyone else is coming up for A/L this year.

Title: The Journey Author: Michelle Email: michelle [at] waking-vision.com Beta:WGR, thank you for your help! All remaining mistakes are my own. Summary: Legolas agrees to be part of the fellowship as a favour to the Evenstar. He gets more than he bargained for. Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas, background Aragorn/Arwen, past Legolas/Arwen Genre: Slash, (Movie)Gapfiller Rating: NC17 Disclaimer: Nothing in Middle Earth is mine, but the world is too tempting to be left alone. Author’s Note I: How Aragorn and Legolas met – the millionth reiteration of that trope. I alone have written at least three different versions so far. Since I was too lazy to research any of this (apart from checking the appendices for dates) and knowing full well that I’m contradicting the book in certain places (but not caring in the least), I call this movieverse (with my usual sprinkles of bookverse).Author’s Note II: This was written for Aralas Week 2024, a week-long event for all sorts of fanworks providing seven prompts. I decided to use all seven prompts – meaning that this will be one continuous story in seven parts. The prompt words are: Before the fellowship, Between Anduin and Rohan, To Lothlórien, Siege of Gondor, Coronation, After Journey, The Final.

Read Chapter 1: The Pact on AO3 || DW