A New Year's Tradition
“Where are we going?” Elrohir reached up to tug his blindfold, but his hand was caught firmly.
“Patience! You’ll see.” Legolas’ voice was husky with sensual promise; Elrohir felt his pulse speed up in response.
They walked on in silence. Unable to see, Elrohir found his other senses were heightened. All around him he could hear the dry creaking of branches burdened by snow, and the faint twittering of the birds as they awoke to the first dawn of the year. Underfoot, thick snow crunched. A chilly breeze whipped around him, nipping the tips of his ears and fingers. But above all, he was aware of Legolas’ hand pressing around his waist, every now and again slipping down to caress his hip.
The dawn chorus had started in earnest by the time they came to a halt. Deft fingers removed his blindfold. Blinking, Elrohir looked about him and saw that they were standing in a clearing above an icy pool.
“Now strip,” breathed Legolas, his hands unfastening his own garments.
Elrohir obeyed eagerly. “What now?” He asked when they were both naked.
Legolas stepped closer.
“This,” whispered Legolas, their lips almost touching.
Then dragging Elrohir with him, he leapt into the pool. The thin ice shattered upon impact and they plunged into freezing water. If Elrohir could have yelled he would have done, but the icy cold had stolen his breath. Next to him, Legolas surfaced, his kingfisher blue eyes glinting with merriment.
“What was that for?” gasped Elrohir when he could finally speak.
“A Lasgalen New Year’s tradition,” grinned Legolas.
Elrohir floundered to the bank, muttering about mad Wood-elves, and pulled himself out.
Legolas followed and in one fluid movement straddled Elrohir’s thighs. “And this is how we warm up afterwards,” he murmured, spreading himself atop his lover’s body.