Work Text:
"One day, whether you are 14, 28 or 65, you will stumble upon someone who will start a fire in you that cannot die. However, the saddest, most awful truth you will ever come to find - is they are not always with whom we spend our lives.” - Beau Taplin, Hunting Season.
He's dead. Took a tumble off the cliff.
The words echo inside his head, but his heart refuses to understand them. He stares wide-eyed into the churning waters far below his feet, an unfamiliar swarm of dark feelings clawing and tearing its way up his throat even as he furiously tries to hold it at bay.
Legolas has lived through many centuries, has loved and lost friends and family to battle and grief in his time. Pain and loss he thought he'd come to understand, but now he reconsiders, for he has no words to describe the cold seeping into his very bones. He feels not the wind on his skin nor the wood of the bow in his hand, too great is the raw agony of his soul.
He looks down at his chest, surprised to find it intact, for surely he must be grievously wounded to suffer so. But his flesh is unharmed and his blood is not flowing; he has suffered a wound, yes, but not one he can see. He knows it is there only because of the hand that seems to have taken hold of his heart, the sharp tips of silver-edged claws piercing it and leaving him aching and bleeding more deeply than he would have thought possible. It makes him want to cut into his own chest and tear out the battered organ, to find relief from the agony, if only for a moment. But the wound has rend his soul, torn it to shreds and left it as nothing but a broken husk of pain and sorrow, and the grief is settled so deep into his core that nothing can touch it and nothing can ease it. There, he knows it will fester and spread, slowly sapping away his life until his body fails and his soul departs to the Halls of Mandos.
I am dying, he thinks in quiet disbelief. I am dying of grief. The thought should be concerning, but he finds himself unable to summon the will to care. His heart is breaking, shattering, the pieces disintegrating with every passing second that Aragorn is not at his side to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Legolas' hands tremble and he sways as a sudden panic knocks him off balance and threatens to overtake him completely; Aragorn cannot be gone. It simply cannot be.
He thinks wildly for a moment of jumping off the cliff after him, least they may carry Aragorn's body back with them to Helm's Deep, where Legolas may continue watching over him as he fades, and it is only the numbness of his shaking limbs that stops him from acting on his momentary lapse into madness. Instead, with centuries of habit to thank, his eyes automatically begin scanning the ground below for a safe path down to the river, while he considers distantly how far the current may have carried Aragorn's body. But Théoden's voice catches his attention.
"Get the wounded on horses. The wolves of Isengard will return. Leave the dead."
Legolas' eyes snap to Théoden's, flaring angrily at the suggestion. He wants to open his mouth, to scream that he refuses to leave without Aragorn, but his blackened heart has taken residence in his throat and he knows he would not be able to speak around its mass. He thinks Théoden must hear him anyway, because his eyes are filled with a sadness and sympathy that quells his anger but leaves him with nothing but his soul-rending sorrow.
Théoden places a hand on his shoulder, his grip gentle and kind, but the gesture is too familiar, too much like the ranger that has been at his side for so many years now, and the shock of despair feels like a whip tearing across his back, threatening to knock the elf to his knees. His grief conjures an image of Aragorn by the riverbank, skin ashen and eyes dull as birds and other scavengers pick at his remains; he would take a thousand whiplashes if only he could banish it from his mind's eye permanently.
"Come," Théoden says quietly, squeezing the elf's shoulder gently. Legolas looks away from the beginnings of pity blooming in the man's eyes, turning his gaze back to the river that is to be Aragorn's grave and trying to erase the images that his despair-ridden mind has begun to plague him with.
He deserves better than this, Legolas thinks bitterly, trying to summon back the anger he felt moments ago, if only to find the strength to remain on his feet. He clutches the Evenstar tightly in his grasp, the silver edges digging into his palm reminding him suddenly that his heart will not be the only one broken.
A humourless laugh leaves him in a punched out huff of air. All this time I have followed him, he thinks, throat so tight he can barely breathe, and yet I did not know that I loved him.
"Are you feeling alright, lad?"
Gimli's voice filters in through the white noise in Legolas' mind. The elf has not said a word to anyone since they resumed their journey, has kept his gaze firmly on the horizon, grief rendering him mute and insensitive to the words of sympathy and comfort from their company. They did not know Aragorn, not the way Legolas had come to know him, and care only that he is gone now because he will no longer be of help to them. They do not truly understand how great, how devastating, this loss is, how honourable and pure-hearted the man had been. They do not see that the world has become a much colder and crueler place with his absence; they do not feel the emptiness nor the void in their hearts that Legolas feels now.
But Gimli does, had come to know and respect Aragorn, and though their acquaintance had been rather short and hectic, a bond of friendship had quickly formed between the two. The elf can feel the misery radiating from the dwarf; Gimli is mourning as well, and Legolas has not the heart nor the desire to dismiss him while he is grieving.
"Do not worry, friend," he says, summoning his voice from some unknown depth with a smile he can only pray is somewhat convincing.
"You're looking a little pale," Gimli comments, eyeing him dubiously. "Well, paler than usual at least."
Legolas does not want to lie, but he cannot say the truth either. So he says nothing, only casting his eyes downward to escape Gimli's concerned ones.
"He could - he could still be alive, you know," Gimli continues after a heavy pause. "That bastard can be a right crafty one when he wants to be. There's simply no way something like a cliff or - or a river could get the best of him. That fool can fight hordes of orcs without so much as a scratch, surely he has found a way to -"
"No," Legolas says forcefully through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds. "No," he repeats more quietly with a slight shake of his head. "He is dead, Gimli. He is not coming back." He raises his head to meet Gimli's eyes, seeing some of his own sorrow reflected in them. "He is lost to us," he finishes, though the words leave him as barely more than a whisper.
Gimli holds his gaze with an almost pleading look for a few moments before his bottom lip quivers and he turns away and faces forward. Legolas returns his eyes to the horizon as they lapse into a mournful silence. A few minutes pass between them before the dwarf speaks again.
"I miss him," he says, though Legolas is not sure the words were meant for him, so quietly they were spoken.
As do I, he thinks, his voice once again trapped in his throat by the gnarled mess of torn flesh that are the remnants of his heart.
He is relieved when they finally arrive at Helm's Deep. Rarely in his life has he ever felt so weary, and he wants nothing more than to give in to the heaviness dragging at his limbs and weighing on his heart. He has no hope for sleep though, for his mind is rife with too many turbulent emotions for him to be at peace. Nevertheless, he desperately craves to be alone, if only for a moment. It is early still, the sun not having yet begun its descent over the horizon, but Legolas retires to the private chambers he is to share with Gimli in the guest wing, half-mumbled excuses that he cannot remember tumbling from his mouth.
The dwarf does not follow him, perhaps sensing his need for privacy, and Legolas is grateful for his friend's uncommon astuteness. He feels crushed under the weight of his emotions, drowning in them and desperately trying to keep his head afloat for as long as he can bear it. He does not want Gimli to be witness to his weakness, does not want him to know that he has been slain by the death of a man whom he'd not realized he'd come to love so fiercely.
He shuts the door quietly behind him when he crosses the threshold into the small chambers. He leans against the wood for a moment before his knees finally refuse to hold him any longer and he collapses to the floor with his back to the door. He tilts his head towards the ceiling, staring up with unseeing eyes. He blinks as his vision blurs and a warm wetness slides down his cheeks, confused for a moment before he realizes that he is crying.
He gives a short, wet laugh that comes out as more of a sob; he has failed in every respect. His father would be ashamed to see him now. He failed his duty to the Fellowship, failed to protect those in his charge, and now he is failing to save himself, collapsing under the weight of his grief. His fae is unbefitting of an elf of his station; he should be stronger than this. He should not be despairing over the loss of something he never really had. Aragorn was his friend, not his lover, but his heart does not seem to want to understand this fact.
He lays himself down onto his side slowly, eyes falling shut as he presses his cheek to the cold stone floor he cannot truly feel. Already he feels his fae cleaving itself from his rhaw. His tears continue to fall from his eyes and to the floor against his will, anguish heavy and unrelenting. He does not want to die, not really, but the hurt is so great he simply cannot bear it.
You are pathetic, he tells himself, though the voice sounds oddly like that of his father's.
A wave of anger hits him hard and fast, dizzying in its abruptness and intensity. He is on his feet in the blink of an eye, pacing as he yanks impatiently at the leather straps holding his long knife and quiver to his body, bow already abandoned by the door. He drops them to the floor once they come free, kicking them harshly out of his way. His knuckles ache from the strength with which his hands are clenched, fingernails biting into his skin hard enough to draw blood, but he is beyond noticing such trivial pains. His body trembles almost violently in the wake of his burning rage.
A great chasm is open in his spirit, all-consuming and pitch dark. His soul is collapsing on itself, his despair eating away at him. He abandons himself to the anger because it is easier to feel than the emptiness in his heart.
He kicks suddenly at a chair settled under the table in the center of the room as a feral half-scream of agony tears its way out of his throat, unbidden. Elvish strength sends it crashing into the wall, the wood splintering as it comes into contact with the stone. He stares at it absently for a moment, his breath coming in harsh pants as his whole body continues to shake with unrestrained anger. Then, he sweeps the candles and the books off the table before picking up the remaining chair and throwing it as hard as he is able to join the one in pieces on the floor at the far end of the room.
The anger fades almost as quickly as it had come, and Legolas is left bereft of strength. He drops to the edge of the bed heavily, elbows on his knees, pressing his palms into his eyes as he sobs uncontrollably. His mind is reeling, thoughts and emotions flashing by in a dizzying whirlwind that steals his breath and turns his stomach. A wave of panic so intense he feels almost nauseated by it rolls over him, his breathing turning ragged as the breaths come too quickly for his lungs to get their fill.
This is it, he thinks with an internal chuckle of disbelief. I will die choking on my own tears.
He barely notices the fingers curling around his wrists until the person to whom they belong begins gently tugging his hands away from his face. He has not the strength to resist, too focussed on regaining his breath before he loses consciousness, and ends up peering into Gimli's concerned eyes.
"Deep breaths, elf," he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
It takes a moment for the words to process in Legolas' panicked mind, but when they do, he nods his understanding and tries to slow his breathing, holding the air in his lungs for a few seconds before releasing it in a shaky huff.
Gimli gives him a tiny smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "There we go lad. Deep breaths."
Gimli sits beside him on the bed, repeating his instruction to breathe as Legolas gets himself back under control, mind gradually calming as his body does the same, the dwarf's unusually calm demeanour a grounding presence in the storm still raging, though now tempered, within him. They do not speak for several minutes, enough time for Legolas' breathing to return more or less to normal.
"You are fading, aren't you?" Gimli asks, cutting through the oppressive silence.
Legolas cannot bring himself to look at him, and stares at the stone floor instead. "Yes," he whispers, shame quieting his voice.
"But you - I mean - you and Aragorn - you were not - the Lady Arwen -" the dwarf stammers, clearly unsure how to phrase the question.
Legolas takes pity on him and answers what the dwarf does not know how to ask. "No, we were not," he says quietly, sorrow colouring his voice against his will. "Though it would seem to matter not."
"Is there nothing that can be done?" Gimli asks, but Legolas is shaking his head before he even finishes the question. "Could you not sail?"
"I would never make it to shore," the elf explains sadly. "No, the only place for me now is in Mandos' halls."
Silence settles over them once more, but Legolas senses that the dwarf has more to say, and so waits patiently for his friend to speak.
"How - how long before..." Gimli says, trailing off, and Legolas pretends not to hear the roughness in his voice.
"I do not know," he answers. "Not long," he adds with a sigh. "Already I feel my strength waning."
Gimli clears his throat before asking, "What will you do?"
Legolas shrugs, unsure how to answer. "There is nothing can be done."
He feels Gimli's eyes boring into the side of his face and tilts his head slightly to meet them just as the dwarf opens his mouth to speak. A knock on the door interrupts him before he can get a word out and a young servant girl shuffles in shyly, her eyes firmly on the floor as she delivers her message.
"Théoden King requests your presence in the Council Hall as soon as possible," she says.
Gimli swallows hard before answering. "Thank you. Tell him we will be there shortly."
The servant girl nods and bows before scurrying off like a frightened deer. Gimli stands and eyes the elf critically for a moment.
"You might want to clean yourself up a little first," he says with a tone of half-hearted teasing as he gestures towards Legolas' face and hands.
The elf looks down at the blood on his hands and grimaces when he realizes some of it is probably smeared onto his face. Gimli's familiar laugh is not enough to chase away the deadness in his heart, but he finds some comfort in it nonetheless.
A rumour has rippled through the people at Helm's Deep, whispers reaching even Legolas in seclusion. He tries not to believe it, but he cannot help the desperate hope creeping into his heart and his soul, Gimli's words from not two days past resounding in his mind.
He could still be alive, you know.
He walks swiftly toward the castle's main doors, barely able to breathe through the tightness in his chest, his heart having swelled to a size difficultly contained. He lets the Evenstar clutched in his palm ground him, give him the strength to keep his steps from faltering; he must see if it is true, though he fears the answer. He stands on a knife's edge; the truth could save him, and it could utterly destroy him.
Please, Valar, he prays with quiet desperation. Please grant me this reprieve.
His heart skips several beats as a familiar curtain of dark curls stalks towards him. Time seems to slow to a stop, every muscle in the elf's body threatening to give all at once as relief chases away the tension that had been holding him up, and it is only the sheer disbelief at the sight before him that keeps him from crashing to the stone floor. He does not move even as Aragorn very nearly crashes into him before staggering back and looking up. He looks surprised to see him there, although Legolas suspects this is because he truly did not expect anyone to stand in his way.
"Le abdollen," Legolas says, at a loss for words, his mind still reeling.
Aragorn's expression shifts to one of mild confusion, like he still has not processed the presence of the elf in his path. Legolas feels as though his own brain has ceased to function properly, his entire world having narrowed to the ranger miraculously standing in front of him. The only sound he hears is his blood rushing through his ears, beating to the rhythm of Aragorn's ragged breaths. He would find the ranger's confusion amusing under different circumstances, but all he feels now is a wave of peace and relief the likes of which he has never before experienced in his very long life.
His eyes roam of their own accord over the ranger, the elf still in shocked disbelief, taking in his injuries and his more-than-a-little dishevelled appearance. Frowning, he opens his mouth to ask if the man is alright, if he needs assistance or perhaps a healer, but his senses have not yet fully returned.
"You look terrible," is what falls out instead, to his dismay.
Aragorn looks stricken for a moment, but then his face cracks into a grin like the sunrise as his eyes light up with unbridled joy and a gentle chuckle escapes him. His hand comes up to grip the elf's shoulder tightly, and something shifts in Legolas' soul; the weight that had been crushing him is lifted, his fae realigning with his rhaw at the ranger's touch. The world seems to right itself, to make sense again, and the elf's next breath does not smell of death and despair, but of sunshine and spring, of the dew on an early summer morning and the damp after a fall rain; he inhales life and exhales time as eternity stretches before him once more, his soul rekindled with the spirit of Arda, anchored to the dust and the stone and the earth beneath his feet. He leans into the man's grip, reveling in its heat, sharing in his smile and basking in the stormy grey staring back at him.
He truly never thought to see him again. But Aragorn is here, standing before him now, perhaps a little worse for wear, but healthy and whole and alive. That he has come back is all that matters and Legolas thanks Eru and the Valar and whatever else may be watching for giving the ranger the strength to return against all odds.
It matters not to him that Aragorn holds his heart - though he may not yet know it - while Legolas does not hold his. It is enough to be his friend and to fight at his side, to share in his joy and his victories, to count the beats of his heart and follow the rhythm of his breath. His own heart is not heavy - it soars - when Aragorn tears his eyes away from the elf to look down as Legolas raises his hand to press the Evenstar gently into the ranger's palm, their fingers brushing softly as he pulls away. To return this precious gift is something he considers a privilege, for it means that Aragorn lives and that he is destined for happiness and fulfillment.
Aragorn looks at the jewel shinning in his hand in stark contrast to his dirtied and bloodied skin. His eyes then lift to meet Legolas' once more, and the elf's breath sticks in his throat at the look of amazement he finds there, like the ranger had not expected to ever have the Evenstar returned to him. Legolas cannot find his voice, but he feels a smile grace his face of its own accord, and he thinks that perhaps there are no words that need to be exchanged here.
"Hannon le," Aragorn breathes, relief and gratitude radiating from his being.
Legolas inclines his head in acknowledgement, unable to help the smile on his face at seeing his ranger alive and reunited with the reminder of Arwen's love. It is enough for him that Aragorn loves and is loved in return. It is enough to be by his side, and Legolas is content to be able to watch over him once more.
He does not let Aragorn out of his sight, and neither does Gimli. They follow as Aragorn and Théoden talk - argue - over their impending doom. They should run, for the battle they are faced with is not one they can win, and though Théoden says his keep is impregnable, Legolas can see it in his eyes that he does not truly believe it. But Aragorn is no coward, nor is he stupid, and Legolas knows that he will stay and fight to defend his people even if all that awaits him is a bloody death.
"A little bit ironic isn't it, that he should survive against impossible odds only to come riding into his doom," Gimli says, but Legolas hears it in his tone that he means it in jest.
"It is who he is," Legolas replies, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. "He would not be able to abandon these people any more than you would be able to jump across a gap more than five paces wide."
The elf glances down to see Gimli staring up at him with wide-eyed shock and is unable to suppress the mirthful smirk from gracing his lips.
"You - you -" Gimli sputters before his booming laugh echoes across the throne room, Aragorn and Théoden glancing up from their quiet but heated conversation to stare at him in puzzlement. The dwarf waves off their concern as he gets himself back under control and then turns to stare up at Legolas once more.
"It is good to see you smile, elf," he says, and Legolas' eyes soften at the sincerity of his tone.
They settle into a comfortable silence, Legolas automatically seeking out the measured sound of Aragorn's voice. He lets it soothe him for a while, not paying attention to the words being spoken as much as the cadence and stress pattern, as if he were listening to a song rather than a conversation.
Gimli clears his throat, drawing Legolas' focus back to the dwarf shifting nervously from foot to foot beside him. He rolls his eyes, already quite certain of what his friend wants to ask, but willing to let him stew for a while longer as he gathers the courage to do so.
"Will you tell him?" the dwarf finally says after a minute of increasingly tense silence. "Now that he is returned?"
Legolas sighs, resisting the temptation to feign ignorance. "It is not his burden to bear," he attempts to explain, though he knows Gimli will not understand.
He feels Gimli's eyes on him, but refuses to meet them, keeping his gaze firmly on Aragorn's tense shoulders and somber expression. "I am not certain anybody could consider such devotion a burden," the dwarf grumbles.
Legolas shakes his head with a wistful smile. "He should not have to carry the knowledge that a friend harbours love for him that he cannot return."
"Perhaps I am overstepping here," Gimli says carefully, his tone causing Legolas to turn his head and frown down at him. "But I would not be so certain that the sentiment is unreturned."
"Aragorn loves the Lady Arwen," Legolas says in a voice that leaves no room for argument, his eyes hardening.
Gimli does not back down, meeting Legolas' fierce stare with an amused one of his own. "Aye, that he does. Though I'd wager the Lady Arwen is not the only elf with which he is smitten."
"Gimli..." Legolas begins warningly, voice laced with steel as he squares his shoulders and turns fully toward the dwarf in order to tower more effectively over him.
Gimli's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Why don't you ask him yourself?" he says loudly, clapping Legolas on the arm and walking away just as Aragorn approaches them.
Legolas glares at the dwarf's back before sighing and turning to the ranger watching them curiously.
"Ask me what?" the man inquires with a small smile that makes Legolas' heart skip a beat uncomfortably.
"It is nothing, mellon nín," he says, forcing a smile to his face to mask his frustration. "What does Théoden King say?"
Aragorn gives him a look that clearly says he is not fooled, but allows the evasion nonetheless. "He is afraid, but he is wise and has fought many battles in his time. If anyone knows how best to defend this keep, it is Théoden." Aragorn pauses, eyes dropping to the ground, and bites his lip nervously, a gesture very unlike him that Legolas finds incredibly distracting. "It will have to be enough," he finishes with a sigh.
Legolas can see that the ranger is exhausted, though he is trying to hide it. It is no surprise; between the battle with the warg-riders, his near-death experience and his relentless ride back to Helm's Deep ahead of the army of Isengard, he doubts Aragorn has had a chance to rest.
"Come," the elf says, gesturing for the ranger to follow him. "There are still a few hours before nightfall, and you need rest." Aragorn opens his mouth to protest but Legolas continues heedlessly. "You will be of use to no one if you are too weary to lift your sword, Aragorn," he chides gently, with perhaps a hint of mockery that he does not fully manage to keep out of his voice.
For a moment, the ranger looks like he will argue, but then relents with a sigh and motions the elf to lead the way. Legolas smiles and strides out of the throne room towards his and Gimli's chambers. His thoughts wander idly between the coming battle and the sound of Aragorn's footsteps following behind, and it is only when he opens the door to the room that he remembers the mess neither he nor Gimli has bothered to clean up since the day they first arrived in Helm's Deep.
Aragorn comes to a stop beside the elf, eyes taking in the obvious mess of broken chairs, books and candles scattered on the floor. He glances sideways at Legolas, and the archer can see the questions forming in the ranger's eyes. He attempts to dismiss himself before they can be asked.
"I will wake you when it is time," he says quickly, stepping back.
Aragorn catches his arm, and though Legolas could easily break his hold and leave, he knows how stubborn the ranger can be and he has no doubt Aragorn would follow and harass him until he obtained the answers he wanted, wasting what precious little time he has to rest. So it is with a tired sort of resignation that the elf meets the man's gaze.
"What happened here?" Aragorn asks gently. "Who did this?"
Legolas cannot help the hints of irritation creeping into his voice. "Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?"
"Why do you answer my question with a question?" the ranger replies steadily.
Legolas huffs out a frustrated sigh, realizing Aragorn is not likely to let this one go no matter how much he tries to evade. "My emotions momentarily overwhelmed me and I... reacted poorly. Think nothing of it." He prays that his answer will be satisfactory.
His prayer goes unanswered as Aragorn's expression settles into one of unease, his perceptive eyes scrutinizing him too closely for the elf's comfort. "Legolas -"
"Aragorn, please," the archer pleads, cutting him off before he can say more. He closes his eyes, unable to bear the intensity of the man's gaze pining him in place and peering into his soul any longer.
Aragorn does not heed his plea, but his voice is soft and quiet when he speaks. "Théoden tells me you fell ill. Upon your arrival here in Helm's Deep."
Legolas is not surprised that Théoden had come to that conclusion. Legolas had not been able to eat nor sleep when they'd arrived, had been irritable and lethargic, sequestered in the guest wing, and his skin and eyes had grown pale and dull. Sickness would have been a sensible conclusion, if it were possible for the Firstborn to be ill. Théoden may not know enough about elves to realize Legolas is immune to all illnesses and diseases, but Aragorn does.
Legolas swallows thickly and refuses to meet the ranger's eyes, staring intently at the floor. "Think nothing of it," he repeats through the tightness of his throat.
"Legolas, look at me," Aragorn commands, and the steel in his voice is what compels the elf to obey. The ranger narrows his eyes in suspicion. "You had begun to fade." It is not a question.
"Yes," Legolas answers anyway. He sees no purpose in evasion; Aragorn seems to have guessed the truth even if Legolas refuses to speak it.
"Because of me."
"Yes."
Emotions flicker in Aragorn's eyes too quickly for Legolas to identify them all, but his expression settles into one of concern. "Are you fading still?"
"No," the elf assures him quickly. "My grief has passed with your return. You need not worry."
It is Aragorn who looks away this time, turning to stare at the wall and dropping his hand from where it had been clutching Legolas' forearm, though he does not step away. Legolas waits for him to speak, growing increasingly worried as the silence stretches between them.
He had not expected to hide his feelings from Aragorn forever, though neither did he expect to have him know so soon, with an unwinnable battle hanging above their heads like a guillotine. He would not have thought Aragorn would welcome his affections, but nor did he think it would be cause for him to revoke their friendship. But as the silence grows more oppressive, Legolas feels the beginnings of doubt stirring in the pit of his stomach and twisting it until he can bear it no more.
"It is of no consequence, Aragorn. It changes nothing," he says, struggling to keep the desperation out of his voice.
"How long?" the ranger asks, his voice impassive as guarded eyes turn to finally meet the elf's once more.
"I do not know," Legolas answers uncertainly, his inability to read the man's emotions putting him on edge. "It has only come to my attention recently."
Aragorn nods, but his expression remains unchanged and Legolas feels unsteady, as if he were trying to swim to shore without knowing which way to go. He would have taken Aragorn's anger over this calm and dismissive affected nonchalance.
"It changes nothing," he insists with quiet pleading. "I am your friend, Aragorn, and I will stay by your side and follow you as I always have. You have my loyalty and trust; there is nothing could change that."
Legolas breathes a quiet sigh of relief when a smile, small but sincere, pulls at the corners of Aragorn's mouth, his eyes warming at the elf's words. "Of this I have no doubt, my friend," he says, reaching up to grip his shoulder in a gesture so familiar Legolas cannot help but sag a little in relief. "You have always been loyal to me."
Legolas returns the smile and places his own hand on the ranger's shoulder. "And I will always remain so," he says without an ounce of doubt. He then grabs Aragorn's other shoulder as well, spins him around and marches him forward before forcing him to sit on the bed as he says, "Now rest. I will wake you when you are needed."
Without waiting for an answer, he spins on his heels, cloak snapping behind him as he strides out of the room. Aragorn's breath is deep and even before Legolas even shuts the door.
Though Legolas had not held much hope for their victory before, as the battle looms closer and he can truly see that they are doomed, the nervous energy surrounding him begins to grate on his nerves, igniting his temper and feeding his fears. The weapons at their disposal are weak, their soldiers weaker still; they are an army only in the loosest sense of the word. Before the night is over, it is likely that he will be lying cold on the ground with Aragorn and Gimli. Death in battle does not scare him, as he has faced it many times, and though he has faith in his friends' skill and courage, the three of them alone cannot take on an army of ten thousand.
Legolas' attention is drawn to Aragorn when the man tosses a dull blade onto the table before making his way closer to the elf and the dwarf as he surveys the crowd. "Farmers, farriers, stableboys," he says, shaking his head once with a resigned line to his mouth. "These are no soldiers."
"Most have seen too many winters," Gimli says, leaning forward slightly.
"Or too few," Legolas replies with a frown, noticing, not for the first time, that some of their so-called soldiers cannot be more than fourteen in years.
Aragorn's eyes flick between them, but he only nods slightly in agreement, as there is nothing else to say, and the worry in his gaze only feeds into Legolas' doubts.
"Look at them," the elf continues. He knows he should keep his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself, but the frustration and hopelessness that has been building beneath his skin for the past few hours can no longer be contained. "They're frightened. I can see it in their eyes."
The crowd quiets suddenly as they turn to look at him, some in anger, others in guilt, all in fear. Legolas barely notices them, the rest of the world dropping away as his full attention is directed towards Aragorn, whose expression rests somewhere between anger and disbelief. He turns his back for a moment, trying to regain some measure of control, before facing the man again.
"Boe a hyn," he says harshly, in a tongue only they can understand as an attempt to shield the others from his own misgivings. "Neled herain... dan caer menig?" he practically spits.
Aragorn's expression shifts to one of helplessness that makes Legolas' mouth taste like acid and his stomach twist itself into knots. "Si beriathar hyn ammaeg na ned Edoras," he says, but the words lack his usual conviction.
"Aragorn," Legolas nearly growls, the words falling out of his mouth with all his pent-up anger before he can hold them back. "Nedin dagor hen ú-'erir ortheri. Natha daged dhaer!"
He knows he has gone too far when Aragorn's eyes harden with a fiery rage and he stalks towards the elf, shouting in his face, "Then I shall die as one of them!"
They hold each other's gazes for a moment, and Legolas' anger is quickly replaced with guilt and regret. He knows Aragorn is not a stupid man, has realized the hopelessness of this battle, and has tried to remain strong in spite of it. Legolas has let fear and despair best him once more, only this time it is Aragorn who will suffer the price. Never has he felt more unworthy of the friendship Aragorn has given him, and he clenches his fists against the curl of shame twisting in his guts.
Aragorn releases a breath, eyes dropping to the floor as he calms slightly. His eyes flick up once more to Legolas, a hint of apology the elf doesn't deserve in them, before he turns and stalks out of the room. Legolas makes to follow, desperate to apologize and beg forgiveness, to make the man understand that it his own weakness feeding his doubts and not a lack of faith in Aragorn himself, but Gimli's voice stops him.
"Let him go lad."
With a final, heavily inebriated jab at Legolas, Gimli's eyes go slightly cross-eyed as he topples backwards out of his chair and goes crashing to the floor. Legolas watches him in smug amusement, still mildly surprised to feel a tingle in his fingers brought on by the ale he has consumed.
He turns to Éomer and says, perhaps a little cheekily, "Game over."
Éomer grins widely at him, his eyes sparkling with amusement. His eyes flick over Legolas appreciatively in a very unsubtle manner as he gives the elf a broad wink. Legolas finds himself appraising the young man despite himself, noting the breadth of his shoulders and the line of his jaw, the way his smile reaches his eyes and makes them sparkle in the din.
"I daresay you have won by a landslide," the man says, his eyes glancing pointedly to the passed out dwarf.
"Yes, I would say that is a fair statement," Legolas replies with a quiet chuckle.
The elf notes that Éomer's answering laugh is quite pleasing, sincere yet not overly loud. "Since drunkenness seems out of the question," he says then, leaning forward on his arms over the table separating him from the elf, "what does an elf do to celebrate victory?"
Éomer's eyes, pupils blown in the muted light of the room and the first hints of desire, bore into Legolas' with the kind of intensity that Legolas likes to refer to as "bedroom eyes". Kind and brave, pleasing to the eyes and unafraid of expressing his interest, Legolas would normally not hesitate to reciprocate, but tonight he finds his thoughts straying to a certain ranger in spite of the reasonably attractive man in front of him.
With a sigh, Legolas steps away from the table, giving the man an apologetic smile. "Our celebrations are much like this," he says, "only with perhaps Dorwinion wine rather than ale."
Éomer does not try to hide his disappointment, but he smiles and inclines his head nonetheless. "If you decide to give the ale a second chance," he says as he straightens, winking once more, "you know where to find me."
Legolas gives him a short bow and a final smile before turning to take his leave. He spots Aragorn leaning on a pillar not far from him, the ranger's eyes watching the elf through narrowed eyes. He looks away with a frown when Legolas meets his gaze, a hard line to his mouth. Legolas has always thought Aragorn to be a handsome man in his own rugged way, but here, in the dark of the room and wearing a light tunic rather than unflattering chainmail, he is breathtaking, despite the unhappiness of his expression. He banishes the thoughts from his mind, chastising himself and wondering if perhaps the ale has sunk some of his decorum.
"That is not the look a man should have after a victory such as ours," the elf teases with a smile when he reaches the ranger.
The corners of Aragorn's lips lift for a moment, but the smile he was trying to force drops as he hangs his head. "Many lives were lost in the name of this victory." His voice is quiet and subdued.
Legolas sighs fondly, inclining his head to try and capture the ranger's gaze. "And yet many more were saved because of it," he counters gently.
Aragorn lifts his head, eyes dark in the din of the room. A smile, genuine but small, spreads over the ranger's face as he considers the elf's words. "Aye, you are correct, my friend," he agrees.
Legolas' mood sobers instantly as he notices the still conflicted look in the man's eyes. "This is a time to rejoice," he says carefully, "but this is not all that troubles you."
Aragorn holds his gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes to the floor, almost as if in shame, and Legolas' concern grows. "I would speak with you," the ranger says almost too quietly to hear. "Privately," he adds with a surreptitious glance at the crowd surrounding them.
Legolas nods his understanding, frowning slightly as he surveys the room, searching for a quiet place in which they may speak. He spots an alcove in the very back of the room, hidden by shadows and away from prying eyes and ears where the sounds of drunken cheer will not bother them. Aragorn follows the elf's gaze and nods before they both carve a path through the crowd of bodies, chairs and tables. They reach the alcove, but Aragorn does not speak right away, instead picking at a hangnail with a nervous energy about him that Legolas has not often seen in the man.
"Aragorn, what has happened?" the elf asks, well and truly alarmed now.
With a sigh that seems to cause his entire body to sag, Aragorn runs a hand through his hair as he leans against the wall behind him, eyes to the floor. "Arwen has passed into the Undying Lands," the man says quietly, though he sounds more resigned than distraught.
Legolas is not sure what to say nor how to react, as Aragorn seems remarkably composed despite how devastating the news should be, but his heart aches for the ranger nonetheless. "I am sor-"
Aragorn cuts him off before he can finish offering his condolences. "I am the one who asked her to leave."
Legolas shifts from foot to foot uncertainly. "She would have gladly stayed here to be with you," he says haltingly, afraid of overstepping the bounds of their friendship. "This I am sure she has told you more than once before."
Aragorn is shaking his head before the elf is finished talking. "I know. It was not - that was not -" He sighs again, this time with frustration as he clearly struggles to make his meaning plain. "I could not ask her to give up everything for me when I could not do the same in return."
Aragorn is looking at him in earnest now, clearly expecting Legolas to have understood what he meant, but the elf is confused and out of his element. "I am afraid I do not understand, my friend," he says with a sheepish smile.
Aragorn takes a deep breath before pushing himself from the wall to stand in front of the elf, close enough that Legolas can smell sweat and evaporated ale still clinging to his skin, as well as the scent of windswept plains and damp forests that is uniquely Aragorn. The ranger takes Legolas' hands in both of his and the elf looks up at the man in surprise and confusion, but Aragorn does not return his gaze.
"I could not ask for her heart when I could not give her all of mine," he says, voice softer than Legolas has ever heard it, the ranger's thumbs brushing over the backs of his hands. He then raises their joined palms, lips pressing feather-light kisses to the elf's knuckles as his eyes lift to lock their gazes. Legolas feels as if all the air in the room has suddenly vanished, robbed by the intensity of the storm in the ranger's eyes. "I did not love her enough to stop loving you, Legolas."
His breath catches and his eyes widen, heart swelling with a wild hope. "You cannot mean that," Legolas says, disbelief colouring his voice.
Aragorn smiles fondly as he releases the elf's hands to tuck stray blond locks of hair behind pointed ears before gently cupping the other's face, thumbs brushing over pale cheekbones in a gesture so tender Legolas' heart aches with it. "It is no secret to me that I have loved you for many years," he whispers. "I was surprised to find it to be a secret to you."
Legolas searches his face for any signs of insincerity or deceit or inebriation, but finds only love and tenderness in the ranger's eyes. His heart hammers wildly in his chest, the sound of his rushing blood nearly deafening even as he feels unsteady and lightheaded. He sways closer to the ranger, hands lifting to clutch at the front of the man's tunic and mind still reeling. His eyes stay locked with Aragorn's, unable to tear himself away from the sheer adoration in them that threatens to quite literally knock him off his feet.
Some small part of him thinks that he must be dreaming, that he has been mortally wounded and is lying among the corpses of orcs, elves and men in the rubble of the walls of Helm's Deep as his blood seeps into the ground.
If this is what it means to die, he thinks, then I welcome it gladly.
Legolas slides his hands up and over Aragorn's shoulders before winding his arms tightly around the man's neck, drawing him closer as he tilts his head back. Aragorn leans forward to close the remaining distance between them, dropping one hand to the elf's lithe waist and pressing the other into the small of his back.
Aragorn pauses with his lips only a breath away from the elf's, eyes burning and pupils blown. "May I kiss you?" he murmurs, and Legolas shivers as the words seem to slide over his skin.
"Yes, please," the elf nearly pants, tension thrumming through his body.
Sparks seem to fly when the rangers lips press against his, molten lava coursing through his veins and heating his body from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Aragorn's hands feel like flames burning through his clothes; the texture of his cheeks and chin, a contrast with Legolas' own that makes him shiver despite the fire in his blood. The elf tilts his head to fit their mouths together more comfortably, a soft moan parting his lips and providing access for the ranger's tongue to slip inside. They press together more closely, trying to eliminate all the empty spaces between their bodies, hands tightening their holds and mouths moving in perfect rhythm. Legolas' head spins with the dizzying heat of Aragorn's hands and lips and tongue as he tangles his fingers in the other's dark mess of curls, reveling in the feel of it sliding over his skin.
Aragorn tastes of ale and sun fire and lust, of joy and eternity and ashen dirt; Legolas is drunk on it, on the inferno consuming his heart and his soul, and he does not know why he thought he could ever live without this. Somehow, he feels as though his entire existence has revolved around this very moment, like they stand together in a heated embrace at the very center of the universe, like the stars have hung in the sky and the sun has risen every day for the sole purpose of allowing this to come to pass. He feels infinite and cosmic, the past and the future colliding in the present, and he can taste destiny on his tongue, hear it in Aragorn's heartbeat, smell it rising from their skin.
They break apart when the need for oxygen becomes too great, Aragorn pressing his forehead against the elf's, breathing deeply. Legolas opens his eyes to meet the ranger's searching gaze, seeing his own look of amazement reflected in them as the whole of time stretches in the storm of grey contained within.
"I feel the Music of the Ainur," Legolas breathes in sheer disbelief.
Aragorn's answering smile outshines the moon and the sand and the ocean, brighter than an eclipse and more blinding than the light of day. The kiss he presses to the elf's forehead feels like a benediction, and the words whispered against his skin, like a promise.
"We are bound by fate, meleth nín. Always."