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At first, the new development is lovely—Arod is a marvelous creature, strong and sure in Legolas’ grasp. He loves the silken feel of Arod’s mane between his fingers, the warmth between his thighs, and it’s no hardship to have Gimli pressed against him. Whatever nervousness Arod might feel from his Dwarven rider, Legolas soothes out in spades. He can feel Arod’s glee beneath him to be running wild across the plains. He matches Hasufel and Aragorn step for step, racing towards their goal.
And that swiftness is a blessing, one Legolas cherishes for the sake of their missing friends, until the realities of sharing a horse come rushing home to him. Though he’d occasionally ridden such creatures in his woods—his father’s elk, most notably—he never did with another man behind him. He knew Gimli was petrified of riding from the beginning, but he had no idea Gimli would hold him quite so tightly.
It doesn’t hurt, exactly, though it’s very warm, and the rushing wind can’t seem to do a thing against it. He can feel Gimli’s strong arms ever present at his sides, feel the way they squeeze ever so subtly when the ground is less than smooth. He can feel Gimli’s quickened breath against his back, even feel the steady beating of Gimli’s heart, loud in his ears. Gimli’s nose burrows between his shoulder blades, Gimli’s beard tickling his skin beneath his tunic.
But worst of all, he can feel the constant tug of his hair caught within Gimli’s grip. And at each flick of the wind, more seems to catch. When Gimli nuzzles against Legolas, it pulls his hair, makes his breath hitch and his cheeks flush, his body ever more aware of the pounding thrum beneath him. Gimli’s heavy body grinds him harder against their mount, Gimli’s legs spread wide and rammed against his own. It’s a ridiculous, shameful problem he’s never felt before, but nothing he can do seems to suppress it. He tries to think of other things, the sorrow of their company’s loss and the worry for the hobbits, but then Gimli will inadvertently tug another chunk of hair and Legolas’ thoughts will inevitably zoom back in to that savage sharpness. He feels suddenly as though Gimli isn’t riding with him at all, but he’s the one trapped in Gimli’s arms.
And Gimli’s arms are absurdly thick and powerful. Gimli’s stout legs are much the same. He can even feel Gimli’s crotch snug against his rear, nudging into his cheeks at every step. He feels almost as though he’s being ravished, and he imagines Gimli would do so with such intensity. Then one of Gimli’s hands, in clutching his chest for purchase, strays on another bundle of blond strands, and Legolas lets out a strangled wail.
Gimli grunts in surprise, and Legolas knows he can’t take this anymore. Until he can breach the subject with Gimli, make it clear that of all things done to him, his hair must not be pulled, he can’t be trusted to share a horse. He veers suddenly right, coming as close to Aragorn as he dares, and Aragorn glances over.
Comprehension instantly comes over his handsome features. It’s embarrassing to know that Aragorn can read him so easily, but then, they’ve known each other many years, and this isn’t the first time Aragorn has found him flushed and panting. He calls over the wind, “I cannot bear this any longer; will you take him?”
Gimli shouts a startled, “What?”
But Aragorn says, “Of course, my friend. We will halt—Gimli may ride with me.”
“But why?” Gimli exclaims, now clearly offended, but Legolas can say nothing to excuse himself. The fault is entirely his own, fanned by his vulgar imagination.
He slows Arod, and Hasufel stills beside him. As soon as they’ve come to a stop, Aragorn bids, “Climb on, master dwarf.” Gimli just splutters while Legolas tries not to tremble—Gimli has squeezed him all the tighter, and he’s become all too aware of the shapely form of Gimli’s exotic body. Aragorn explains for him, “I fear Legolas is feeling a tad ill, and he will need to ride ahead and feel the wind on his face—something that cannot be done with extra weight.”
Gimli harrumphs, but he does oblige, and as Aragorn helps him off Arod, he tells Legolas with clear concern, “May you recover swiftly, Elf. Hard times we’ve reached indeed if even you need rest!”
Legolas murmurs, “Thank you,” and hopes he doesn’t sound as husky as he feels. He bows his head to both his companions, deliberately avoiding their eyes, then hurries Arod on with his hair now flying free.