Title: The Next Best Thing to Forever
Author: Surreysmum
Rating: PG
Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn
Warning: canon character death (alluded to, not described)
A/N: This story was triggered by an interview I heard on radio, with tattooist Kat von D, who mentioned the prevalence of memorial tattoos in her work, and how she often found herself acting as an untrained therapist as she was executing her work.

The Next Best Thing to Forever

The terraces of Minas Tirith were heavy with silence, and the black drapes from the King's funeral day served anew to express the people's grief at the news of Queen Arwen's passing. No-one had the heart to open a shop and pretend that life went on as usual, though the new King had not forbidden it.

One solitary customer in hood and cloak strode down the street and rapped at a door. It opened immediately; this customer was expected.

"My Lord," said the man, hastily wiping his ink-stained hands so that he might not soil the tall Elf's cloak as he hung it up.

"Nay, Martin. Call me by my name; I am only Legolas these days. And I am much obliged to you for accommodating me."

"It is no trouble, my L… Legolas," replied the man. "You are a welcome professional challenge for me, in fact." He smiled, a little shyly. "I have never tattooed an Elf before."

Legolas cocked his head in slight surprise, before answering, "Nay, it is not a common thing amongst my people. I suppose it is because we know, alas, that the ink will likely fade before we do."

"I have mixed my most enduring inks, as you requested," responded Martin eagerly. "Haply when they fade, you will find someone who can renew the design."

"Perhaps," agreed Legolas. "Although, where I am going…" He stared absently for a few seconds, and did not finish his sentence.

Martin had lived long amongst the ever-diminishing race of Elves in Minas Tirith. He was no fool. He settled Legolas carefully into his most comfortable chair before asking quietly, "You are sailing, my Lord?"

"This day fortnight."

"Fair winds and good speed to you, then," Martin replied in the traditional phrase, but the good wishes were sincere for all that the words sounded cold and inadequate. Legolas smiled his thanks as he reached into the top of his tunic and withdrew a small framed portrait.

"Here is the design," he said.

Martin nodded in admiration. "It is a fine likeness." He frowned a little. "This is detailed work, my… I mean, Legolas. It will take considerable time."

"I have time," said Legolas. Bleakly he added under his breath, "I have nothing but time."

"Where do you wish to place it?"

Legolas pulled apart the top of his tunic. "Over my heart."

"Are you sure? Would you not rather have it where you can look at it - on a forearm, perhaps?"

"Nay. I do not need to see the picture, for I see that face always. I merely need …" Legolas' hand clutched convulsively where it rested on his chest, and he was unable to finish his sentence.

"I understand." Martin proceeded mercifully to business. "We will do better with the tunic all the way off, I think. Thank you." His impersonal fingertips sketched out a rectangle on the Elf's chest. "Here? And about this big?"

"Aye, that will be well."

Martin pulled out a cold metal rule and carefully marked out the border of his work in charcoal. Then, consulting the portrait in his other hand, he sketched in some lines to guide himself. He drew his tray of inks and needles near, and set to work.

At the first quick, sure applications of Martin's needle, Legolas took a sudden breath, consciously stilling himself immediately. "You will tell me when the sting becomes too aggravating, Legolas?" requested Martin. "Though a warrior like yourself recks little of pain, yet it can be wearing, and both of us will need a pause now and then."

Legolas signified acquiescence with a curt nod, annoyed with himself for having betrayed his discomfort. He remained tense and silent, and eventually Martin decided that it would aid his operations were the Elf to have the relaxation of conversation.

"Tell me about him when he was a young man," he asked. "I have heard so many stories, but you actually knew him in those days…"

"I did not know him in his youth," replied Legolas, "more is the pity. When I first met him, he was in the full flower of manhood, nay perhaps even old by most human standards."

"Was that when he was still a Ranger?"

"Aye, and never was there one so silent, and so adept at disappearing while he was still in the room. He listened to all around him, but pulling a tooth would have been easier than extracting an opinion from him. He would just find the darkest corner and puff, puff, puff away on that pipe of his until he had decided what to do. And then, swiftly and without fanfare, he would do it, be it killing some foul demon or returning a fallen baby bird to its nest."

"Or helping his friends," suggested Martin.

"Aye, there was much of that too," replied Legolas. "It is difficult now to remember how divided Middle Earth was in those days - how little the different races knew or trusted each other. Why, no Elf would ever think of praising a Dwarf, and the Dwarves despised us just as much. But this Ranger - he was different. He understood others, and aided them without prejudice - and yet he never abated one whit what he truly was, a Man."

The words were flowing gently and freely now and Martin was glad of it, for Legolas' clenched fists had relaxed at his sides. "And such a Man he was, so full of contradiction," went on the Elf, lost in memory. "Never have I known so skilled a warrior to hate violence so much. Never have I known so shy a Man to inspire his fellows so skilfully with words when the need arose. And for a Man so pure of mind on the field and in the Hall, he was remar…; well, no call to speak of that."

Martin repressed his look of avid speculation as quickly as he could (for like all of Gondor, he had heard the rumours), but it was not quickly enough.

Legolas smiled briefly. "Nay, you need not ask. I will not tell you." And indeed, since Legolas was the last one living who could tell truth on the matter, it was destined to remain a mystery until the name of Aragorn was forgotten in the world.

In his disappointment, Martin's hand slipped slightly, though fortunately it did not injure the skilful work of art he was creating.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked quickly.

"Nay, my friend," replied Legolas. "The pain lies far beneath. You are not hurting me." And he fell silent again for a long time.

Eventually Martin, after one last long consultation of the small painting in comparison with his work, put his needles and ink aside and gave Legolas a glass so he could look at the result.

Legolas caught his lip between his teeth. "It is wonderful," he said eventually. "It is better than the portrait. It seems almost to breathe."

Martin did not insult Legolas by pointing out that the breathing was Legolas' own. The Elf knew that. Let him take his comfort where he could.

Martin carefully placed a bandage across the swollen, reddened flesh, protecting it for the time being. As he secured it, he said regretfully, "I wish I could make this last forever for you."

"You have given me the next best thing," replied the Elf. "It is all that can be asked for in this imperfect world." He gave the Human a generous pouch of gold, and shook his hand vigorously in the Human manner.

Martin watched at the door as the tall Elf, golden head held high, strode firmly away into the dark, grieving town.

finis