Peculiar Secrets of Elvish Medicine - by Anonymous
Legolas, atremble and quavering, scurried to the camp fire and settled himself securely within its circle of warmth. Not directly in the flames, but close. His fair face was damp with obvious tears. Sitting on his rucksack, Aragorn roasted a spitted squirrel haunch and thoughtfully surveyed his friend.
“Dreams again?” he asked, after a while.
“Yes,” whispered Legolas, stretching his still-trembling fingers out to the flames.
“Yer mother again? And let me guess... orcs?”
“Right again,” Legolas sighed. “You know me too well.” He did not even attempt to deflect the insinuation of such words. This night, all velvet darkness and soft noises, fair bred insinuation.
“Such nightmares seem your doom, my friend, but if it’s any consolation, my own night has not been uneventful. Indeed, a particularly dastardly squirrel bit me on the thigh before I managed to kill it for our dinner.” Aragorn gestured to his torn and bloodied breeches.
Legolas’s eyes widened, and his quavering stopped instantly. He touched the pink tip of his tongue to his lips. Starlight reflected off his face, making it appear as if he shone.
“Shall I poultice it, in the elven way?” offered Legolas.
“Wouldn’t have it any other,” Aragorn replied, flashing a quick but toothy smile, almost predatory.
The warm-roasted squirrel meat all but forgotten, the two friends prepared themselves and each other for an ordeal. Legolas boiled water, sterilized his instruments, ripped various clothing pieces into narrow strips, and conjured strong Dorwinion to anaesthesize Aragorn for the duration. For his part, Aragorn managed a few dramatic groans and worked himself up to a nearly full-blown fever ... or was it overindulgence of the Dorwinion? Regardless, both Man and Elf assumed their respective positions beside the fire: Aragorn supine upon his cloak, with the rucksack for a pillow, and Legolas bending over him with knives and hot liquids.
Flexing his long fingers in anticipation, Legolas proceeded to strip Aragorn of the stout boots and supple leather breeches (letting his gaze -- and fingers -- linger overlong on his friend’s magnificent body, as they were wont to do in such moments). Aragorn, in turn, allowed himself to be stripped and pawed. (He was secure in the expectation that their roles would be reversed anon, as soon as they wandered across some orcs or crebain or or violent snapping turtles).
There in the moonlight, Legolas swiftly repaired Aragorn’s injury, applied a salve against infection (he kept a good store of such on his person at all times), and bound it all up with the aforementioned narrow cloth strips. Toward the end of the procedure, there was a tense moment or two when Aragorn succumbed to his fever and muttered all manner of inappropriate things. Legolas pretended not to hear, but in reality he nursed those secret confessions just as he nursed his patient: tenderly and with great feeling.
At last they sat, both breathing heavily – Legolas from exertion and desire; Aragorn from booze and lust – and pondered each other through the orange flames.
“I won’t keep you from your needed rest...” Aragorn began, breathlessly.
“Oh, but I...” panted Legolas.
“...unless you think that returning to slumber would produce similar dreams as that which woke you,” suggested Aragorn.
Legolas smiled, all sharp-toothed and sly, knowing without question that his friend returned his own deep feeling.
“It would indeed,” said Legolas, licking his lips. “So I were better to remain wakeful.”
“I can help with that,” growled Aragorn, scooting around to Legolas’s side of the fire.
#
Arwen awoke atremble and quavering. She passed one hand over her brow, to clear the sweat, but nothing would blot out the images from that dream. So clear! Indeed her night rail was soaked with perspiration other, er, wetness: a body’s natural reaction to such vivid dreams.
Beside her, Aragorn stirred.
“ ‘S-everything alright, m’love?” he slurred into the pillow.
Arwen gazed down at him, noting his skin bare above the linens and all the scars that marked his well-muscled chest. Had he really ...? Great stars! Her gaze drifted lower still, wondering at the scars yet hidden. And, oh look there: linens below his waist had tented, which of course was something she’d grown accustomed to in her randy and delicious husband.
“You are a man of much experience,” she said, her eyes devouring him.
“Eh?” he mumbled, struggling to come awake before he came elsewhere.
“Nevermind,” Arwen snapped, yanking down the linens so she could observe for herself. Aha! Just as she had suspected: a short, clean scar high on his right thigh. Clearly the result of specialized elvish healing technique.
“Do not tell me,” she growled. “I don’t want to know.” And then she descended upon her unwary – but thrilled just the same – husband.