Chapter Text
---
Their camp just outside the forest was empty for once, Aragorn able to sit on the cool floor and let his thoughts wander freely, grey eyes moving across the forest, slow, as if too quick a movement would scatter his thoughts. For they were delicate, not so easily pulled to the front of his mind. It had been pressing at the back of his head, looming, and he hadn’t a moment’s peace to unleash it upon himself until they stopped for the night.
The scene replayed for him again and again, the pound of his heart, the heavy thuds on the ground before him. He had not gone into the fight with the Uruks who laid siege upon them with fear, and yet, he left it with more fear than all his battles before him. The skirmish had been almost too simple, rather easy for his party, except for one moment. All save for that one moment, when Aragorn flew back from the captain’s charge, his sword escaping him, and time had slowed. The screams of the Uruk-Hai were distant as if they were miles away and not mere paces away, the familiar sound of Gimili’s axe thudding and Legolas’ ever precise arrows cutting through the air, and still, on the ground without weapon Aragorn lay. The air was dense, hot with sweat and blood, and he had been there countless times before. He had twisted, fingers a breath from finding his sword, when a fallen Uruk-Hai pierced by an arrow slumped onto his outstretched arm, crushing it, and the first tendrils of panic spread throughout his body. Turning, Aragorn watched the approaching enemy, his arm frantically pulling at his sword, and he tried to ready his body to react should his enemy thrust forward. For all his strength, it was too painful an angle, and he grit his teeth, readying his body for the spear. The Uruk-Hai hissed excitedly, knowing how pinned Aragorn was, and as his enemy pulled the spear back to throw, Aragorn heard Legolas’ desperate cry.
It was almost odd, or eerie, really, to hear such a tortured cry fall from Legolas’ lips, so much so that Aragorn briefly turned in surprise, watching Legolas push through the Uruk-Hai faster than Arargon had yet to ever see him move. He was moving as if flames licked at his back, as if every step he was away from Aragorn caused him pain worse than death. Ducking through the crowd, quick hands lodging daggers into skulls like a simple afterthought. Gone was the graceful movements Aragorn so closely associated with the elf, for he looked wrought with savage movements, his limbs hard and lashing. His face, normally calm and smooth, was pulled back in such raw anguish, blue eyes blazing and golden hair thrown in the air like some bright halo, looking more desperate than Aragorn had ever thought to be possible. Aragorn shifted back to watch his enemy, time falling slower and slower, when suddenly three arrows pierced its skull, hot blood splattering on Aragorn’s face. An instant later, Legolas was at Aragorn’s side, fighting off the thinning circle of enemies and allowing Aragorn to reclaim his sword and stand once more. But it was of little matter; Legolas had killed almost all of them before Aragorn had even brandished his sword again. He had never seen Legolas fight with so much fury, so much rash urgency. It was not long after until the last Uruk-Hai fell, and they regrouped with Gimli a few paces away. The trio had resumed their run through the fields without talking, leaving the black mass of bodies behind, with Aragorn’s mind replaying Legolas’ face again and again.
A familiar step sounded behind him, and Aragorn recognized it was a courtesy more than anything; Legolas was silent on his feet unless he chose not to be. Aragorn tilted his head, catching the elf pass him in his peripheral, making his way to sit opposite of the ranger.
“Anything?” Aragorn asked quietly, bringing his eyes up to meet the elf’s blue ones.
“I do not believe so. I’d hope we did not need to linger, but I fear our companion is more affected by today than he would care to tell. Our timing matters little if we arrive half dead,” Legolas said softly, his eyes looking at Aragorn’s drumming fingers.
Aragorn focused his gaze, recognizing the smallest telling tilt of the elf’s voice. “I do not normally hear such falsehoods from your mouth. Gimli is not injured. Nor I.”
If Aragorn hadn’t known Legolas so well, he would’ve missed the barest flush of his cheeks. “I do not offer falsehoods,” he finally said.
“Perhaps not pointedly. You think I need to rest, and so you weave such words to beckon me to let my guard down,” Aragorn stated, and Legolas considered him, his gaze ever piercing.
“Yes, I do.”
“I do not need to. I am fine,” Aragorn insisted, the prickliness of defensiveness curling in his gut. Too frequently was he reminded of his mortality, always falling short into weakness, always when he could afford none.
At that, Legolas sprang up, and slivers of the moon filtering from the trees shining on his pale face. “You haven’t slept in days. It only takes shy of one moment of misjudgement. You were almost lost to... us today,” Legolas snapped, his normally quiet voice loud and cutting. As soon as the words left his mouth, he stepped back, face pulled back in apology. “Forgive me, I have -”
Aragorn straightened, his thoughts of earlier calling loudly in the forefront of his mind, begging him to push, to understand, to clarify what he surely must not have seen. “You saved my life. It is to you whom I owe an apology,” Aragorn asserted. “Thank you, Legolas.”
Legolas nodded, but the air felt thick, like the conversation was cut too short too quickly. It felt like he owed him more than a thank you, but he couldn’t articulate exactly why easily. The more seconds passed, the more his “thank you” felt too great of an understatement; they had saved each others’ lives countless times before, but this time was the first time Aragorn had felt as if the memory begged him to look deeper, to find more meaning, before it flitted away.
Frowning, Argarn struggled to think about what else to say, because he knew he wanted to keep Legolas’ attention still. How could he say what he thought it may be, when the effect of voicing it could lead them towards unknown parameters? The notion of it did not bother Aragorn in the slightest, it left him...it changed him, pulled and prodded at him, but he knew not yet for what. It was peculiar, for he was used to attracting affections, had seen that look many a time, but he hadn’t ever thought to look so close in his circle. “I wanted to -” Aragorn started, not noticing the way blue eyes watched every word formed by chapped lips.
“You’d think there’d be a little more to collect here in a damn forest. Aye, I’ve not found anything!” Gimli’s rough voice startled Aragorn from his thoughts, and he pulled away quickly. Looking back, Legolas looked just as calm as ever, his mask slid back on, and Aragorn felt oddly breathless.
“Nothing is found so easily in these lands. It matters not. We must continue,” Aragorn finally said, turning to grab his sword, wondering why his eyes burned to follow Legolas’ figure so closely.
---
It had taken ahold of Aragorn, seemingly far out of proportions, to dwell on something that happened in barely three seconds. Now he actively looked for any wandering eyes, of blue eyes that stayed on his face too long, or watching him while he knew not. But he did not see them. Rather, it was cool grey eyes that found themselves pulled to the elf most moments, curious if they would look back, and then dwelling, desiring to spend their focus completely. Whether it be lingering on the way Legolas sprung from rock to rock, lithe muscles tightening under his garb, the way his fair hair never seemed to truly fall out of place, as if it was just on a brief sail through the air to return to the golden halo, or the way he seemed to bask in the sun when no one was looking, his perfect face tilted above, Aragorn’s eyes felt bound to him.
It was as if Legolas knew every time he saw, because not once did blue eyes look back. Or perhaps he did not care, nor did he mean to save Aragorn with anything more than a friend’s loyalty. The longer Aragorn thought of it, the more he decided he must have been mistaken, and the more he felt foolish. Legolas never looked at him too long, never longer than Gimli would have, and Aragorn watched constantly, his eyes sharp for any sign. He knew not what he would’ve even done had he found it; it did not pain him, but felt...so underneath his gasp he need only close his hands around it and decide what it meant. But it did not show, and Aragorn knew he was unfounded. Beyond misguided to have riddled the elf with such unwanted stares, after he saved his very life, but Aragorn still could not pull his gaze for fear of missing it.
What he did not know was that pale blue eyes watched him at night, drinking in his presence unadulterated, knowing that when the daytime came, and grey eyes opened, he must assume Legolas Greenleaf, Aragorn’s friend, and nothing more. He had accepted his fate, had known it for years. But it grew more difficult, especially under the heady gaze of his hawkish grey eyes, knowing he could not risk looking back and revealing his heart.
---
It was so foreign a feeling, feeling safe, his immediate mission secured, that Aragorn hadn’t known what to do when Gandalf had encouraged him to take what he could from the day before they rode for Edoras. In Fangorn forest, Aragorn set out to find some chance of deep water, washing himself an appealing thought during such a rare respite.
He had found a small pool, not too deep, and the brush around was so dense Aragorn thought easy to rid himself of all his clothes in privacy. It was a beautiful feeling, the exit of sweat and blood and dirt from his skin, leaving his weary skin cool and less rough. Dunking his head, he had pressed dirty and grime off, swimming slowly until his fill was taken. Pushing himself up onto the bank, Aragorn stood up, back muscles rippling with the movement, and quiet feet stepped on the moss.
The smallest movement of a bush behind him made the ranger turn defensively, fingers on their way to grabbing his sword near his feet.
Blonde hair signalled Legolas before the rest of his form, and Aragorn relaxed, dropping his sword. Blue eyes quickly found him, widening at his state of undress, and Legolas looked at a moment, lost for words.
“You have found me, although I am sure not in the state you were hoping,” Aragorn smiled, amused, thinking Legolas’ surprise would be short-lived. His clothes lay damp on the branches, and Aragorn resigned himself to waiting a little longer to put them back on. “Do you bring news?” Aragorn asked over his shoulder. Silence answered him, and he turned in confusion.
“Legolas?”
Aragorn stared openly at Legolas, who had a slight flush on his high cheekbones, his eyes averted. Aragorn frowned. “Is there something amiss?”
“No,” Legolas said softly, and blue eyes briefly met grey ones.
“This might be our only chance to bathe in freshwater. You’d do well to take advantage,” Aragorn said casually, the words come unbidden to his tongue, and he briefly wondered where they came from. Legolas blinked, watching Aragorn closely, before nodding.
Aragorn set to sit on the moss, pulling out his pipe. Legolas’ slow undressing in his peripheral was oddly pulling, more obviously enticing than his normal eye wanderings, and Aragorn struggled to find something of greater interest elsewhere. He had seen Legolas in very minimal states of undress before, though rarely - it seemed as if the elf never really changed in front of company. The more Aragorn thought of it, he felt stunned that the elf hadn’t dismissed his offer, and was undressing right in front of him. As soon as Aragorn noticed Legolas twist to put his garb on the bank, he chanced a look, curiosity getting the best of him.
Legolas had always been beautiful, that was simple to see, being an elf, but he was further considered one of the most fair of even his kind, and Aragorn had always known this, but it resided in his mind more like a fact than anything else. He was eternally beautiful, the sight so obvious in front of him making Aragorn’s thoughts turn to the first few times he had seen the prince’s beauty. Aragorn remembered when he had first met him, just a child, turning eyes in awe after the Prince of Mirkwood. He often forgot how powerful the elf truly was, of such high rank, and yet, he was so soft-spoken, so loyal to Aragorn, that he acted as if it was normal to defer the man. Undeserved was the word, rattling in Aragorn’s head, because long lean legs shifted with the smallest movement, white skin pulling over strong muscles, bright blonde hair falling perfectly over shoulders... Beautiful. As soon as he let his eyes take full hold, they drank in the sight, and Aragorn traced lean shoulders down to a narrow waist, and the only word Aragorn could think of was ethereal. Because he knew how powerful the being in front of him was, could tell by every movement that he needed only a moment to attack with deadly precision, and yet he looked so perfect, not worn by any battles or wars or age. Aragorn inhaled incorrectly, the smoke pushing insistently at his lungs, but he waited until Legolas waded into the water completely to cough loudly, hoping the elf wouldn’t notice his gaze.
The water broke, and Legolas’ fair head poked out, eyes unblinking, his cryptic gaze pinning on Aragorn. The silence felt strangely comforting, or perhaps Aragorn just didn’t want to break such a moment with foolish words, and so he just met the elf’s gaze, wondering how disarming the elf could possibly be when only the tip of head was out of the water. Legolas rose further, pale shoulders breaking the water, and Aragorn watched as water droplets slid down the perfect expanse of skin, and he felt hungry suddenly, like he wanted to touch, if only to see how soft it was.
Aragorn made to get up, not to touch, he was careful to hide that impulse, but to come closer, because he could feel his heart being tugged forward forcefully, and he almost forgot he was without clothes.
“I know who you think you saw,” Legolas said softly, blonde hair floating on the water surface. “It is not fair to your heart to play such images.”
Aragorn faltered, the words stilling him. “Who I saw?” Aragorn echoed, the silence broken, and the wash of embarrassment of misguided interest made his stomach turn in shame.
Legolas turned, blue eyes following the treetops, water droplets running down his sharp jaw down to the water. “I imagine you see her everywhere. In everything you see or do. Heavy is the heart that loves true.”
Oh. Aragorn frowned, mouth open, and then his heart sank, because the words cut into him. He hadn’t spared a single thought of Arwen, that felt very distant, as if it was being blocked temporarily. The air felt tense, and Aragorn knew he should say so, but it felt wrong, to lie to his friend, and the appeal of honesty was overwhelmingly disarming, as if he could impress upon him his unfaltering loyalty with such an admission. “There is not a veil over my eyes, that would undo what is in front of me,” Aragorn said finally, and as if he had been struck, he turned to gather his clothes, hoping that his arousal was hidden in the shadow of the treetops.
Legolas watched after him, frozen in the water. Aragorn pulled on his boots, shoving his pipe under his belt, and he risked a last look. The elf looked back at him, concern pulling at his features. That made Aragorn feel worse, his guilt making his skin crawl, for even when Aragorn felt shame, did Legolas think the best of him.
“It seems not everywhere,” Aragorn whispered, barely audible, and he walked into the brush quickly before he had to dwell on the weight of the revelation.
---
Aragorn rounded the corner, exhaustion pulling his limbs down, but he kept his gait normal, as to not draw any more attention. His chest burned, his hands raw, but his mind was alight with purpose. The hall was warm, many soldiers ahead, and he knew he was close to the great hall. Suddenly, Legolas stepped in front of him, materializing from the shadows. Aragorn hesitated, not realizing how much he missed seeing the elf until he was right in front of him, and grey eyes searched the perfect face in front of him for any change. There was none. He felt breathless, like all the air had flown from his lungs when he needed it most, and the silence was long.
“You’re late.” Elvish fell from Legolas’ lips, and Aragorn focused, the welcome tongue washing over him.
Legolas looked entirely too collected, his golden strands lying at his shoulders, braids pulled back, his sharp face showing no sign of wear or tiredness. Each second in passing Aragorn felt exceedingly more aware of the effect the elf seemed to have on him, and he was too grateful to see him unharmed to dwell on it.
Blue eyes dropped down to take in Aragorn’s state, ripped garb giving way to bleeding wounds. “You look terrible,” Legolas finally said.
They stared at each other, Legolas meeting Aragorn’s fervent gaze, until the ranger grinned, earning a smile from the prince. Aragorn clasped Legolas’ shoulder, squeezing him, hoping that he would feel the gratefulness Aragorn hadn’t the heart or wit to tell him of yet.
Legolas moved his hand slowly in between them, Aragorn’s gaze following, and he caught sight of the Evenstar, his heart clenching. The elf’s slim hand opened wide, and he placed it into Aragorn’s palm. Aragorn stared down at it, his heart tightening, his chest feeling torn. He had just felt Arwen’s kiss on his lips on the river bank, her love flooding his body and breathing life back into him. He did love her, he knew that. But it felt wrong coming from Legolas, as if it was misplaced for him to have to carry, and Aragorn exhaled sharply, thankful at least that he had been given the gift back. Aragorn looked back up to Legolas, hoping for some break in his mask to show Aragorn what the interaction meant to him, and he almost felt disappointed to find the prince smiling kindly back at him.
“Thank you,” Aragorn said quietly, for the Evenstar, and with the pressing knowledge that Legolas had always been there for him when he had fallen, ever faithful at his side, and with not anything to ask when he deserved everything Aragorn had to give.
The news he carried hummed in the back of his mind, and Aragorn scolded himself for hoping Legolas would say something else, anything to keep the conversation continued, but the elf just looked at him softly. Aragorn brushed by him with an appreciative nod, seeking Theoden, and the noise of the hall continued on after the ranger left.
As soon as he heard Aragorn’s steps in the next hall, Legolas blinked quickly, desperate to stave off his mounting emotions that had threatened to spill out the second he saw Aragorn alive again. Slender fingers gripped his belt tightly; Legolas tried to ground himself. Now that those grey eyes weren’t looking at him, the need to guard his desires had fallen, and the elf turned to find refuge in the crisp air outside. Weary was the heart that hung so heavy alone, but harder was to carry it under the veil of simple friendship. How unfair it was, to stand in front of the man whose very name was on his lips every night, to not fall at his feet in relief or embrace him as he so wanted to. How unfair it was to return Arwen’s love back to him, when the man had never realized Legolas had given him his heart every day, every second on the battlefield, every moment for countless years had loving blue eyes watched his form. Legolas grit his teeth angrily, his strides quickening, needing to be around the trees, not so vulnerable in the open fields of Rohan, to find his nerve again. It was too difficult to be tormented by such a torrent of emotions from that man, because every time he left the elf behind.
---
Women and children ran past Aragorn, too many that every face melted into the other, every baby’s cry the same, and Aragorn watched, the poison of fear and panic festering in the air. He stood in the armory of Helm’s Deep, watching too many old men and too many young boys gearing up, their terror plain on their faces.
“Farmers, farriers, stable boys. These are no soldiers,” Aragorn muttered, grey eyes narrowing.
“Most have seen too many winters,” Gimli said gruffly, leaning against his axe. Not one to show nervousness, Gimli placed a hand over restless fingers drumming, hiding them from view.
“Or too few,” Legolas stepped in front of Aragorn, his face tight with barely concealed anger. Aragorn stared at him, knowing he too, understood the odds before them, the impossibilities asked of them under the banner of good and righteousness. But Legolas’ blue eyes looked hurt behind the anger, his mouth pulled back in a sneer. He looked around, hands outstretched dismissively. “Look at them. They’re frightened. I can see it in their eyes.”
The men fell silent, all eyes locked on the elf prince. Aragorn tensed his jaw; the observation was clear, but he would not say it, would not strip what courage they still had by revelation of the fear that tore through them.
“And they should be...three hundred against ten thousand!” Legolas hissed, the normally pretty elvish sounding too sharp, too cutting, coming from Legolas’ gentle mouth.
Aragorn stepped closer, tilting his head, begging the elf to recognize the needlessness of such a truth, to let such words fall on his ears rather than these makeshift soldiers rank with fear. “They have more hope of defending themselves here than at Edoras,” Aragorn pointed out, his frustration pushing up into his throat. What would the prince have him do? Tell all in front of them that were to die? That they were no soldiers, that they faced such a cruel evil that knew no mercy, that revelled in the chance to torture the weakest of men? No, surely not. Legolas seemed incited by something else still, something else that had burned him, that had sent him with blazing blue eyes to cut into Aragorn.
“Aragorn, we are warriors. They cannot win this fight. They are all going to die!” Legolas snapped, blonde hair whipping around, his beautiful face sharp and unforgiving.
Aragorn felt his patience snap, a wicked helplessness buoyed by stubbornness, because there was nothing else to do, he was paralyzed, waiting for what surely looked like death to come. Rage, that they could ask so much of Rohan’s men, who looked as if they had never seen war before, and reduce them to their greatest fears, rather than search for the courage of men. Seeing Legolas so furious and not knowing entirely why the elf had been so incensed to reveal such premonitions, made Aragorn feel cornered, as if he had lost the undying loyalty of his dearest friend, and the worst part was that he was right.
“Then I shall die as one of them!” Aragorn thundered, and the ripple of renewed silence that spread throughout the men made Aragorn clench his fists. He turned, knowing that he would lose his temper further if he dwelled, and the sharp piercing of Legolas’ despair made all the muscles on Aragorn’s body strain, as if they were leaping off his very bones.
Legolas stared after him, his throat closed, and he immediately sought to follow Aragorn, to right his wrong. Because then the hurt that had built up so unfairly, the feeling of anguish that had splintered his heart to return the Evenstar back, the bitter knowledge that he carried Arwen’s heart only to dutifully return it back to Aragorn’s chest had burned too great this time, making his breath come short, his usually resigned mind alight with envy. Great sorrow spread through his veins, regret making them plead for action, and Legolas stepped forward quickly, intent on begging for forgiveness.
Gimli’s axe prevented him from proceeding, the dwarf’s heavy hand pulling the elf back. “Let him go, lad. Let him be.”
Legolas watched the open doorway, mind replaying the exit of the holder of his heart, knowing Aragorn well enough to know that his temper was fiery but brief, and forgiveness should be found after. He owed it to the ranger to offer it immediately, but selfishly, the prince desired so dearly Aragorn’s kind eyes once more, if only to continue the endless dance with Legolas’ very heart, and so he would catch Aragorn later to better such chances.
---
Aragorn shifted, the beat of the thousands of Uruks thrumming in his head. They were trapped there until all hell broke loos come nightfall. He stood still, tightening his garb, knuckles white with anxiety, grey eyes unseeing. The certainty of dying seemed impossibly high, as Legolas had pointed out earlier, but his mind was silent, numb.
“I was looking for you,” Legolas’ soft voice sounded from behind him, and Aragorn felt his chest loosen. He turned, catching Legolas’ heavy gaze, his mouth twitching up.
“You needn’t worry, I do not stray far.”
Legolas watched him, blue eyes soft and repentant. He extended Aragorn’s sword, his slender white fingers a stark difference to the dried orc blood that covered the blade. “We have trusted you this far. You have not led us astray. Forgive me.” Legolas bent his head, offering the blade. “I was wrong to despair,” the elf said quietly, but fervently, and Aragorn knew that the elf had considered his words much before coming to find him.
“There is nothing to forgive, Legolas,” Aragorn affirmed, his hand falling on Legolas’ shoulder, his eyes warm. Legolas smiled gently, his hand coming up to hold tightly at Aragorn’s shoulder, and Aragorn quieted the voice in his head that urged to hold him closer. Aragorn dropped his hand, attaching his sword to his belt. Like a wave, repose seeped through Aragorn’s body, realigned with his dearest friend. His breath slowed, and he closed his eyes, thoughts dragged back to the threat that loomed ahead. He felt less numb to have Legolas’ words playing in his mind, easing his tense frame, but the knowledge that it would be short-lived was less than appealing.
“Your eyes do not see in front of you. To where have you gone in your mind?” Legolas asked, and Aragorn missed the way the elf’s fingers stretched to touch the man again, only to fall when Aragorn looked back at him.
Aragorn considered him, wishing he could read Legolas more like he used to, wishing the elf’s careful eyes would show more, but since before they had reached Fangorn Forest, he had been very difficult to read. The prince did not indulge in his own thoughts or opinions often, but there were years and years they had known each other, and yet Aragorn felt like something had made Legolas choose what he revealed with greater care now.
“No. I am here. It has held me tightly by the heart, I dare not leave.” Aragorn paused, eyes landing on the prince in front of him, who looked as if he was wholly there in the moment with Aragorn, as if he had no thought about the impossible battle ahead. “What goes on in your mind? Before such a horror?”
“Do you mean to ask what I draw strength from?” Legolas asked slowly, unsure. Aragorn had never asked them such a thing before.
“What brings strength to the great Legolas Greenleaf, my trusted friend through everything. What grants you the calm nerve that never wavers when the calls of war sound?”
Legolas shifted minutely, his eyes falling briefly. “Why? I can offer no advice for the love that aches your soul. I fare no better than you.”
At that, Aragorn tilted his head, unsure of the implications. Was that to speak in such generalities of love, of which Legolas had seen endless times in all the years he had already, the way it works and roots in one’s soul, or to speak of some love that Legolas bear? Aragorn had never even considered Legolas might know such a love, for his focus and loyalty to Aragorn has remained too true to allow any room for hopes of another in some distant land. But it felt...like more. He loathed the thought that Legolas did not feel comfortable to share any thoughts himself, when Aragorn knew that such thoughts were wise and well sought out.
“I have always wanted your counsel. Your thoughts, your desires, should you wish something, you are most deserving of it. I have long cared for the words from your mouth. Long have I held you in the highest regard.” Aragron said honestly, and it felt so true to say, so freeing, his chest burning with intensity. Long had he held him so dearly indeed, though not long in the span of the elf’s life. Aragorn’s mind took off again to days at Rivendell, when the sun was high, and the Prince of Mirkwood would visit with his father, always kind to Aragorn’s awed gaze, always willing to converse elvish with the boy, when all other elves of Mirkwood paid him no mind. “Since I was but a boy.”
Legolas smiled warmly. “Estel. I keep such memories close.”
Aragorn had not worn that name for many years, but the soft way Legolas spoke it made him wish of simpler days, before the damning line of kings dawned upon him, before such a dark path laid out in front of him. Usually, Legolas wouldn’t continue, being short with words, but something pulled the prince’s head up, staring at Aragorn more openly. “I knew not exactly your path, nor did I realize I laid eyes upon the Lost King of Gondor. But since you were young, I have no cause to not think you are the finest man I have met. Fit of kings.”
Aragorn shook his head, his heart hammering with the praise spoken so impassioned from the archer. “You speak too highly of me. I am undeserving. Long have I been told that I should care about such a large realm of Men, how great must I be to earn their fealty. But tonight, my friend, that is not what I think of. Tonight I bask in the gratitude to have walked beside you.” Aragorn grabbed Legolas’ shoulder, his fingers firm, and he resisted the immediate desire to touch the golden strands underneath. His tanned dirty hands looked so wrong next to the elf’s pristine brightness, but it was so soft under his touch, that Aragorn’s chest tightened with yearning to fist his hand in the golden strands, to mine the softness from the beautiful elf in front of him.
“I did not choose my earlier rash words correctly, friend. I do not care about the odds. It would be an honor to die beside you,” Legolas promised, and Aragorn’s heart skipped, his palms sweating, wanting to see the elf closer, wanting to hear the words again from his lips, wanting to feel him on his skin. He felt addicted to this bright light that came to save his brooding, and a defiant fire tore through his chest. We will not die.
“There is still hope. There is always hope,” Aragorn said firmly, desperate to dissuade any other notion from coming into existence. You will not die.
Aragorn stood, extending a hand to pull Legolas up, and he was always surprised at how truly light the elf was. They stood not a breath apart, very close in height, and Aragorn felt a stirring in his chest, his heart beating powerfully, the overwhelming tide of emotion drowning him before the elf. The looming threat walking upon them, the great battle that lay ahead of him...Aragorn knew that caused his emotions to fall harder, to run with any semblance of thought and come back with untold secrets of himself. He had not felt such disarming force since...since he had met Arwen, and even then, though that love thrummed true, though he had always found ease in loving her, this was so very different. This felt wild, unabridged, as if his heart begged him to cast off the stables of his ribs, open his chest and present himself to the prince. The realization was devastating, ever on the brink of coherent thought but now it had flung past into consciousness with a vengeance. His lungs seized, breath stuttering out, and every second that passed his thoughts hunted farther, desperate to know it wasn’t true, it was a passing affection, but each second passed and farther did he delve, deeper than he thought possible, and he knew it to be true. He looked down at Legolas’ perfect face, smooth white plains of skin over high cheekbones and sharp features, blazing blue eyes that promised everything and asked for nothing.
Aragorn’s breath came out labored, his heart betraying him, the very Evenstar on his chest feeling as if it was burning, and he met Legolas’ concerned eyes. Slowly, Aragorn placed his hand on Legolas’ shoulder, trailing up to the elf’s sharp jaw, and even though every strand of hair on his fair head was perfectly in place, Aragorn pushed the front ones back, tucking them behind a pointed ear. The moment felt perilous, in that it was so quick and yet a forever, where Aragorn watched Legolas’ questioning gaze, and his heart fluttered - so true was Legolas in everything, so completely loyal. What would you say? Would you stay? Would you stay, even if your heart carries you beyond my reach? Even if my heart has betrayed me, to grow anew stronger in your presence? Could I ever hope you could pledge the same?
Aragorn let his thumb trail Legolas’ chin, slowly landing on his bottom lip, and from the way he knew Legolas must hear his heartbeat, he wondered if the elf could know already.
But before Aragorn could say anything, the elf looked back at him with a smile, but Aragorn saw the brief window of pain flash across his eyes, and now that he looked at the elf, all his smiles felt as if they were forged only to make Aragorn feel good and prevent him from seeing the elf’s sadness, and Aragorn searched his face, desperate for something, anything. The moment felt lost, and Aragorn withdrew his hand, hoping that Legolas was not so thoroughly discomforted by his act of selfishness that he could afford to place the same loyalty to Aragorn still.
Legolas bent his head, his eyes stilling on Aragorn’s open face, before he noticed Eomer watching, and he broke their gaze, heading towards the other room quickly. Aragorn felt a cold flush take through him, the loss of Legolas’ endless warmth within those kind eyes already missed. Noticing the warrior behind him, Aragorn turned on his heel, nodding to Eomer irritably, stalking off to the royal hall, barely missing the elf prince tucked away in the next room’s corner, his breathing fast and his heart racing painfully, as if to cleave his chest in two.
“I would be her to you, would let you wear that veil as you took me, would let lust filled eyes soften with a love distant and of my very kin, while you dwell in the depths of my soul. I would give you all that I may have, even if it was a fool’s hope. If only you should want it, I would give it until the end of time.” The muted elvish tore out of the prince, his eyes shut in pain, heart thundering with want, knuckles white, but his devotion was met with silence; Aragorn had gone already.
---