Winter's Breath
When Aragorn opened his eyes, it was to a sky that was dark and overcast, bellies of clouds swollen with the first snowflakes of winter. Quietly, he slipped out from his bed, leaving behind the cloying warmth of his covers and a still-slumbering Arwen. An affectionate smile twitched at the corner of his lips as he looked back upon his wife. Time had changed the world, streaked his brow with grey, and etched lines across his face, but the same warmth, born under the thundering song of waterfalls, still filled him when he thought of her.
He could almost taste the mist-scented air.
Aragorn moved to the window, resting callused palms on the cold stone of the sill, and the King of Gondor gazed out over his realm. Minas Tirith was bone-white under the moonlight, shadows clinging to the sharp angles of its towers. Absently, he recalled the pinpricks of lantern-light that burned night and day, in a land of people who had little need for sleep. A slight chill ran through him; he shivered.
Aragorn was already turning when he caught a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye. It was so familiar, that glint of gold, because it was chiseled into too many of his memories. In those fond ones still tinged with the warmth of youth and lazy trust, and in the ones lit by the cold gleam of steel, perfumed by blood and sweat. A presence that was carved into his very bones.
And so he hurried silently down the arching corridors, and out the front steps, to the lone figure that stood waiting by the White Tree.
Time may have changed the world, may have changed Aragorn, but they did not, in the slightest, change Legolas. Tonight he stood tall and proud as ever, unbowed by the weight of the years.
"I did not expect to see you return from Dol Amroth so soon," Aragorn said, by way of greeting. He grinned at his old friend. "You never fail to make me feel young."
A glint of playfulness darted through the depths of Legolas' eyes. "Foolish man. I notice that age has not in any way lessened your impudence. It is most unbecoming of a king," he teased. Aragorn noted that the weary pallor that the sea-longing had brought to his face was gone. He looked hale, his skin lit, as it should be, with soft radiance in the moonlight.
Gladness welled up within him. "That is why I have you, is it not? To advise me on the proper conduct for royalty?"
He thought of the last time he had seen Legolas, just a month ago, and could not repress a shudder. The elf had been leaning feebly against a tall stack of goose-down cushions, a heavy cloak wrapped around him, while Gimli stalked angrily before his bed. Legolas, who had never feared the cold, nor ever had need of repose, had then looked singularly breakable.
And so Aragorn added, with true pleasure, "You look well tonight."
Gently, Legolas shook out his wide sleeves, folding his hands under the white silk, and inclined his golden head. "Fool," he repeated softly. His eyes were serene, still and deep as a bottomless well, reflecting only the light of the stars above. Yet when he looked at Aragorn, there was love in his gaze too, gentle and sweet and infinitely sad.
Like the last touch of summer's breath on autumn's dawn.
Aragorn shook his head, amused and just the slightest bit uneasy. Still concerned, Aragorn ignored Legolas' mild protests and settled his heavy furred cloak around the elf's slender shoulders. He took Legolas' hand, pulling him out from under the shadow of the White Tree, and wordlessly they sat down together on one of the stone benches in the courtyard.
Legolas was not, by any stretch of imagination, what one would consider a talkative companion. Despite the bright gold of his hair, he could fade into the background of any tableau effortlessly. What most people failed to realise, however, was that it was not because he had nothing of value to add to the conversation. He was the crown prince of an elven realm, with a fiercely clever mind, and the centuries spent immersed in courtly politics had only sharpened his wit and tongue.
Nevertheless, he was always content to let others fill any silence, because, as he had once pointed out to a naive, youthfully arrogant Aragorn, blather was usually empty of actual usefulness. Legolas liked listening, and was very good at it.
But tonight he talked, his mellow, tenor voice spilling into the night like water from a pitcher. He led Aragorn back through the labyrinth of memory, to those old memories frayed and worn by years of reminiscence, and began to shade them in with painstaking care.
Aragorn remembered. He remembered the elf who let a human child run inquisitive hands through the bright gold of his hair, watching, all the while, with bright amusement. He remembered the friend who had nudged and corrected the grip of his bow arm with such intentness, because:
"If you should die on the battlefield, it will not be because of poor archery. I will make sure of that."
He remembered the youth who had regarded the soaring mallorns with such quiet, open-hearted awe; who had, not too long after, added his voice to the lament for lost friends under a sky speckled with stars. He remembered the prince, and the warrior, and the brother-in-arms.
He remembered them all.
In his mind's eye, these many images of Legolas, laughing, weeping, smiling, furious, flickered and swayed like the flames of so many candles, before folding together into one. They settled into the Legolas before him, grey eyes tranquil in the moonlight, like pieces of sea-glass, smoothened and worn by the waves.
It was nearly sunrise before Legolas fell silent. They sat in silence that stretched on, like honey from a comb, comfortable and languid.
Legolas said, quietly, "Watch the sunrise with me, Estel."
They had already spent a night in the wind and the cold, and Legolas was hardly the picture of good health. But logic and reasoning had long since vanished this night, and his words struck an old chord in Aragorn's heart. He nodded.
"All right."
But as the first sliver of burning orange crested the eastern horizon, Aragorn was alone in admiring the sky. He watched intently the way the purple and blue bled into the clouds, the way they were limned with gold. And Legolas watched him, with all the intensity of the Eldar.
As if he were burning this Man into his memory.
When the colour faded from the sky, Aragorn turned back to Legolas, and found himself reflected in the elf's eyes. For a moment he thought he saw grief in those enigmatic grey depths, sharp and raw, but when Legolas blinked, his gaze was serene once more. Peaceful, even.
"I have never seen a more beautiful sunrise," Legolas said, softly, solemnly, almost to himself. He rose, and Aragorn stood up after him, a sudden heaviness resting on his chest.
"Estel… I think I have led a most blessed life. " Legolas closed his eyes briefly, and smiled. Snowflakes began to pour from the sky, dancing lightly through the air. A gust of wind blew, and they swirled around the elf's slender frame. Legolas' voice came as if from a distance, speaking in a faded mimicry of words said long ago.
"But now Winter is here, and I go now to find the Spring. Farewell, Estel."
His voice was warm, a ghost of a smile still on his face, but Aragorn could see the tears glimmering silently on his cheeks.
"Wait!" Aragorn shouted, and he could hear the audible snapping of something deep inside. He lunged forwards, half-crazed, but his hands closed on nothing but wind and snow and blinding sunlight.
"Farewell!" The wind whispered, and Aragorn's eyes flew open. He jerked upright, panting hard, cold sweat sticking his nightgown to his back. He pressed his palms to his eyes, forcing his staccato breathing into a more manageable pattern. Arwen's gentle voice filled the room, and he felt the weight of a small hand rest on his shoulder.
Before his breathing could even out, a sharp rapping came at the door.
"What is it?" Arwen called out.
"A courtier from Prince Imrahil, Your Majesty." A servant answered. He fell silent for a beat. "Lord Legolas Thranduilion passed away last night, Your Majesty."
Was it thunder that was ringing in his ears? Was it possible, for a heart to break twice? His world grew muted, dim, silent, save for the pounding of his heart, and he saw nothing but that pale, beautiful face, serene and wise, aged yet young.
Dead? He thought dizzily, drunkenly. Legolas couldn't be dead. Legolas, who stood strong and steady as one of great pines of his forest, who remained noble and valiant and unchanging as the centuries slid past, who should have outlived them all …
"Legolas," Aragorn whispered hoarsely, his head swimming. A sharp, helpless burst of laughter forced its way through suddenly dry lips.
"You said you would wait," he shut his eyes. "You liar."
Tears wet his cheeks.