A tavern was a tavern was a tavern.
This one was smaller than most, but just as dark and musty. Aragorn sat in the corner farthest from the door, his back to the wall. He would have enjoyed a smoke, but his supply of Shire pipeweed had run out a fortnight since, and what passed for leaf here-abouts turned his stomach. The place wasn’t crowded, for the first time in the month he’d made this table his usual spot, but the gale that blew outside had kept many indoors. He heard the wind howling, grateful for the sturdy walls and roof, wishing the hearth-fire were a bit more warming.
Two full fortnights he’d made himself a fixture in this village, too small to be called a port, but close enough to the trade route to be of interest. A pier extended into deep water, offering moorage for the small fleet of trawlers that plied the shoals just over the horizon. When the catch came in the entire village worked night and day to salt it down, ready to be traded to the next caravan. When there was no catch, or the weather kept the boats far to sea, there was little to do but sit in one of the taverns. Though some of the men gambled at dice or cards, or threw darts, Aragorn sat quietly in his corner. He hoped to recruit a local agent, one who could make note of comings and goings, reporting to the far-wandering Rangers.
A dark-eyed wench, probably the barman’s daughter, set a bowl of stew in front of him, still steaming from the pot. A round loaf of bread completed the meal, but the girl turned away before the Ranger could smile his thanks. Tearing the heel from the bread, he sopped it in the thick broth, and pushed a lump of what he thought was meat onto the point of his knife.
The wind gusted though the tavern as the door opened and was quickly slammed shut. A slender man, dark hair wild about his swarthy face under a bright bandana, leaned against the stout door, dripping copiously into a growing puddle on the stone-flagged floor. His eyes were lined in black, and a tooth glinted gold in the lamplight. He stepped up to the bar and propped one booted foot on the rail at its base, his wet trousers clinging tightly to the curves and planes of his lithe body. Casually he said, “A pint of your finest, my good man.”
“You have money?” the barman growled.
Leaning over the bar the newcomer confided, “That would be… uh… no, I’m afraid.” Deftly he ducked the barman’s backhanded slap. “How can you deny a man a pint on a night like this?” he wailed.
A coin landed on the bar between the two men. “Give him a pint,” Aragorn called, replacing his purse on his belt. The barman shrugged and drew a pint of ale before snatching up the coin. By the time he’d dropped it in the till, the newcomer had made his way to Aragorn’s table.
“I thank you, mate.” He stuck out his hand. “Jack Sparrow’s the name.”
Aragorn looked from the man’s face to his hand and back again, but didn’t offer his hand in response. He nodded at an empty chair and took another bite of his stew.
Sparrow took the seat with a wet, squishing sound and half-drained the pint of ale. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sighed. “Oh, I needed that.” Aragorn pushed the loaf of bread towards him and he tore off a hunk. “An’ you would be….”
The Ranger hesitated. Thorongil was known as the commander of the Gondorian guard; Aragorn was a name recognized as Númenorian, even here in Far Harad. “Strider. You can call me Strider.” He followed Sparrow’s eyes to the trencher of stew and slid it to the center of the table. “Help yourself.”
“Ah, thank you, friend Strider. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I ate a proper meal. Savvy?”
Strider had traveled the length and breadth of Middle-earth and had never heard the like of the newcomer’s accent, nor seen his style of dress. “You’re not from around here.”
“If I knew where here was, mate, I could tell you.” Sparrow swallowed another gulp of ale. “Last I remember, we was caught in one of them hurry-canes off the Carolinas. You don’t happen to know the Carolinas, now, do ye?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of them.”
“Anyways, we was hit with a monster wave, and the wind was howling like a banshee.” He rolled his eyes. “I thought the ship was going down for sure.” He stuffed another chunk of bread into his mouth.
“Then what?”
“When I came to,” he mumbled around the bread, “I was holding onto ship’s timber — flotsam, like. Then this great black ship pulled me out of the water. Corsairs, they said they was. They dumped me just off the cape. Took me near to a day just to swim ashore and find this… uh, fine establishment.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t just kill you.”
“Luck’s me middle name.” Sparrow proceeded to devour the remainder of Aragorn’s meal, and two more pints of ale besides.
“If you’re up to braving the storm for a short way, I’ve a place you can dry off. Maybe even some clothes that’ll fit you.” The two pairs of eyes met and held each other’s gaze for a long moment before Sparrow’s nod accepted the invitation.
The sun had not yet set, but the sky was dark under the storm’s clouds. The wind blew the rain nearly horizontal, stinging and cold as it forced its way under hoods and into cloaks. Strider and Sparrow leaned into the wind as the ranger led them away from the tavern, threading through muddy alleys and the cobbled streets already awash with water. He ducked into an alcove, the protected entryway to a chandler’s shop, opened the side door leading to a narrow flight of steps and climbed them quickly.
The stairs opened into a single room above the shop, lit by a single lamp. A bed and table flanked the shuttered window that overlooked the street, and a threadbare divan faced a cold hearth. Strider tossed a folded blanket to Sparrow. “Take off those wet clothes and I’ll get a fire going. This storm will blow all night.”
Hopping on one foot, Sparrow pulled off first one boot, then the other, pouring water from them to puddle on the wooden floor. “Sorry, mate,” he muttered, then continued to strip the soaking clothes from his body.
Strider paid no attention to the water on the floor, but busied himself with sparking flint and steel to the stacked logs on the grate. The wood caught, but would take some time to blaze up and warm the room. He turned back to Sparrow to find him wrapped in the blanket, the wet clothes piled on the floor. Removing his own cloak, he hung it on a ladder-backed chair, then pulled his boots off. His clothes weren’t as soaked as Sparrow’s, but he disrobed as well, knowing he’d never get warm if he wasn’t dry.
They sat perched on the divan, both wrapped in blankets, feet as close to the fire as they could stand without burning. A shudder wracked Sparrow from head to toe, and he clutched the blanket more tightly.
“Here,” Strider said, “sit closer. We’ll both get warmer.”
As a Ranger, Aragorn was well accustomed to spending time alone. He spent months at a time making his way from town to town, city to city, from Lindon in the far northwest to Dale in the east to Gondor and Andrast in the south, and now Harad, far to the southeast, past the bay of Umbar, near the farthest reaches of the known world. But still the company of another was desirable, the warmth of another body next to his in the chill of the night more than he could ask for.
Without hesitation Sparrow moved closer to the Ranger, sitting shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, the thin fleece of the blankets the only thing between them. “It were fine of ye to take me in, like,” Sparrow said, his teeth still chattering. “I could tell you was a man of quality.”
“We’re both strangers here,” Strider commented. “We should stick together.” He shifted to reach an arm along the back of the divan, angling his body to slide his chest behind Sparrow’s shoulder. Hoping his intent was clear, he lifted the corner of his blanket and spread it over Sparrow as well.
Sparrow craned his head to look into the ranger’s eyes again. “I think…” He cleared his throat. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”
Dipping his head, Strider pressed his lips against Sparrow’s, and immediately found his arms full of passionate, naked man. The blankets slipped aside, the two lean bodies meeting unimpeded. Folding his arms around Sparrow, Strider ran his hands along the strongly muscled shoulders and back, down to the firm, round ass that had so attracted him from the very first.
Sparrow pulled back from Strider’s kiss with a low moan. “I thought you had something like this in mind.”
“You seem to be a good judge of people.” Strider’s voice was low and rough with his wanting. He had been alone for months, not daring to encumber himself and his mission with either long-term or short-term relationships. This stranger, though, enticed him, and had little to do with his mission. They could share this night, or a fortnight, then go their separate ways.
“You have no idea.” Sparrow resumed the interrupted kiss, his arms finding their way around the Ranger’s body.
So entwined, the two men found themselves lying together on the divan, their nude bodies both becoming aroused as they continued to use their hands and mouths to learn of each other. They were both lean and well-muscled, fair skin weathered from lifetimes in the wilds. Strider’s shoulder length hair dried in waves around his face while Sparrow’s darker locks, weighted with odd ornaments, continued to drip down his back and between them.
Neither of them paid any notice to the occasional droplet as their kisses deepened and they opened to one another. Skin once cold to the touch rapidly heated under their caresses and kisses. Soon the divan proved too narrow for their explorations to proceed, and as one they rolled to the floor, the blankets that once warmed them cushioning the wooden planks. Each of them intuitively knew what the other liked, what he needed.
The light from the now-blazing fire danced over their fully aroused bodies, their erections pressed between them. Slowly Strider took his kissed from Sparrow’s delicious mouth, skimming down his throat to his paler chest, finding the dark trail to his groin. Gently he fondled the other man’s balls, relishing their firm weight in his hand as he touched the tip of his tongue to the cark crown of Sparrow’s cock.
Sparrow bucked beneath him, his hands grabbing at Strider’s shoulders. “I can’t reach you,” he mumbled. “Let me….”
Before Sparrow could go on, Strider spun his legs around, moaning in pleasure when his own cock was engulfed by Sparrow’s mouth. All reason fled his mind as Sparrow’s tongue lapped at the center of his being, and he felt his own balls cradled in a strong hand. Letting go of whatever inhibition remained, he returned kiss for kiss, caress for caress, until he no longer controlled his own body, but merely responded to Sparrow’s ministrations. The heat of his passion built in him, coiling deep in his belly. Again Sparrow bucked beneath him, and the first taste of seed brought on his own release. He greedily swallowed all Sparrow gave him, a part of him aware his own seed poured into Sparrow’s throat.
Both sated for the moment, they rolled away from each other, lying head to toe on the floor before the roaring fire. They each breathed in ragged gasps that eventually slowed to more regular breathing. Before he fell into the expected post-coital stupor, Strider turned again, bringing him face to face with Sparrow, and gathered him into his arms. Sparrow hummed deep in his throat and nuzzled into the hollow of Strider’s shoulder, molding his body to the Ranger’s. With his last grasp on consciousness, Strider pulled one of the blankets to cover the both of them, then drifted off, secure in the arms of his newest lover.