Summary: When the time has come and all is done, there is only one more thing to say.
Warnings: Angst. Mild slash (A/L). Not a happy ending.
Disclaimer: All of Middle-earth and all its inhabitants belong to Mr. Tolkien.
A/N: Because I had not yet written my own version.
Midsummer Memorial
Because it hurts.
Because the golden sunlight banged on the Great Gates ere the birds flung their first shrill chords towards the cerulean sky. It has been said that he is a perfect image of that sun, sailing high above. So it would be the most natural thing in the world to rise when she does.
Because narrowed eyes follow wherever he treads and map his trail, remember it and leave it to quick tongues to do with what they wish.
Because of this, it is time; and because of that he is seeking the end.
:~:
The bastion casts it shadow upon Rath Dínen and here it is easier to hide. But he never was a creature of shadow, never did he dwell where the sun did not shine; he fled from his father's halls and out into the green embrace as soon as his feet learned to carry him.
That was a long time ago, but he has not changed much.
If he concentrates, really focuses all of his attention and ignores the constant chatter of the Man-made world around him, he can recall his mother's laughter, his father's badly designed reprimands which were unconvincing enough to be immediately swallowed up by the shushing of the trees.
:~:
He has seen men wander idly in the Hallows. This suffocating display of the dead, clad in heavy shrouds of stone, their forms at last truly immortal, awakens fear in him though he will not admit it aloud. In this respect, he is not envious of her – she who will have to visit him there when he has given up his breath and lifeless lies on display before the world. Her pale fingers will trace the dark veins in the white marble, will stumble over the folds in his cold, unyielding robes, will tremble as determination crumbles beneath the weight of her heart as tears fall... fall endlessly...
Tomorrow, rose petals will flood the hill, hiding the stone beneath a sea of silken white. But yet, the sunlight has access to cracks and crevices. The cruel war wounds are far from healed and sunlight maps the marks of axes, swords, and the truly evil devices, wrought by foul hands in the deepest pits of Mordor. Tomorrow, no one will notice.
Tomorrow, the rejoicing will wrap itself around the Houses of Healing, momentarily chasing away any pain in its guests. But few will stay within the confining walls for everyone is curious, and Men belong to a hungry race.
:~:
Passing through the tunnel is not the worst part of the journey. It is not long and it is lamp-lit. The seventh gate looms before you, then, in all its allure and hostility. No one not worthy the King's attention should have come this far. Ever-present guards who leave all but name and sense of duty at home shift their blades in the morning light; it is easy to miss but the flicker of a silvery promise of death sharpens your mind and pushes your shoulders back but your chin down.
He slips between them. His face is a well-known one by now. Were he a mind-reader he would know exactly what they think. As it is, he can only suspect, but that is easily done. He has learnt how to decipher the wry grins, clumsily hidden behind too-slowly lifted hands, and snorts, badly drenched in a sudden fit of coughing. In a city where peace rules, Men are always hungry for more.
Anor is mirroring herself in the splashing waters of the fountain. The dance of the water is the only thing heard in the Court. Now it is quiet here. He cannot say when it will be so again, in a foreseeable future.
:~:
Had he been given a choice, he would never have entered the Tower. It reminds him too much of other towers, and he vows yet again that will he ever come in possession of a piece of land he shall never adorn it with a tower.
'Open your eyes.'
He does, he throws open his eyes that were so hard to close. Who would ever want to miss a single moment of the glorious world?
His father's hand on his shoulder had guided him forward as the ground rose before his feet and his restless senses were not entirely in control of the situation. 'Fatheeeer...' he had complained when the journey never seemed to end. 'How much further?'
Now he could see, and he did. The Wood lay outstretched at his feet, the greenery spreading out in every direction. Branches and boughs swayed softly in the breeze and the clear blue sky was a canopy above; everything else was sunlight. In awe he drew a tiny breath, as if anything deeper might disturb the peace, but the gentle push of air down his lungs turned into a giggle that he could not quench. It bubbled forth and as his heart soared towards the heavens, he felt light as a feather. He wondered if that was how the eagles felt.
He sees now, too, but the world has brutally changed. Behind him looms the Tower that is not a natural hill, inconceivably high and wondrous to an elfing's eyes, and before him lie the King's Houses. What spreads out around him now is not a living, swaying wood, but a sculptured, tamed sea of stone that does not breathe. He wonders how she will cope.
:~:
The corridors weave around themselves like snakes chasing their own tails in a pit. He can find his way through them with his eyes closed. This time, however, he is not making for the King's private chambers even though keen eyes will assume he is. That is what they know him as: the Elf the King enjoys until the other Elf arrives. And in a way, he concedes, it is true.
Every room is empty. Not of furniture or textiles, but of other things: compassion and gentleness. Children will be a blessing to this place and somehow he knows they will have many. Sacred, precious blood will run in the veins of the fruits of their love – a love that is already renowned and made eternal through song and poetry.
:~:
The doors are closed. They are heavy doors with elaborate carvings. Double doors, though they lead not to a grand hall but to a small sitting-room, shoved into a distant part of the House where council can be held in secrecy and privacy. He can hear the hum of voices drifting through them but not the actual words, but that does not matter. He has not come to partake in the preparations, only to say his part and be done.
Even so, his knuckles will not meet the wood. He made a vow unto himself that morning, promising his heart that he would not touch. Now that promise must be compromised lest he shall be left standing around until someone exits. So before it is too late, he tells himself, before hearts are joined in a rain of white petals, and before flesh is shrouded in marble, before it is too late, he must speak.
The door opens slowly to silence. The voices are gone, breath holding still in throats and lungs. But curious eyes are fixed on what is revealed in the hallway. Someone once said he was like the Sun.
"Legolas?"
He looks up because he must. Because it hurts, but because it will hurt more if he refuses.
Aragorn has not shaved.
Too easily his body recalls how the stubbly cheeks feel against his own smooth skin. It was only yesterday he was reminded of it.
Against his intentions, he drinks his fill of Aragorn. His fingertips burn with the memory of dark, tangled tresses; his arms tremble as they relive many a night when strength was a faltering notion as bodies came together and breathing was shallow and quick. Every sound he has ever made in Aragorn's arms, and every one that has fallen from Aragorn's lips tear through his mind until it is made certain beyond doubt that he shall never forget them.
Aragorn closes the door behind him but does not come any closer. There is a hint of worry in his clear, grey gaze but apart from that he looks well. Indeed, he has never looked healthier.
"Legolas?" he asks again and his voice is steady but low. "What brings you here?"
It is the perfect question.
"I have come to say goodbye."
A deep furrow appears on Aragorn's brow. He is momentarily at loss in a muddle of words that he did not expect. "But you are not leaving..?"
"No." He is not. Not yet. Not before he has stood tall by his friends' sides and smiled into the sunlight with darkness descending upon his heart. "But I have come to say goodbye."
The King is no fool and this is yet one more reason to love him. And he knows the ways of many, not least those of the one he has been giving himself to for almost a year. But he will not be deceived and nor will he be discarded so easily.
But he knows also that an end must come, he has always known it, and he stands before it now.
He opens his mouth to speak but all apologies are already age-old and worn out.
So instead it is the Elf who speaks, when all of the human's words are used up.
"She is no monster," he says. "She is no demon."
She will make him happy. And he will let him go because he loves him. And Legolas will let him go because he too loves her – he always has. And that is what makes this fate so cruel and twisted. Because you must love Undómiel from the moment she turns her eyes to you and sweetly pours her light into your soul.
In death their souls will be reunited. This, he envies them. For he is bound to an eternity wherein the King has no place. Aragorn will ever be bound to the light of the Evenstar.
The King takes a step forward. Restrained by no vows he is free to touch and his hand cups Legolas' cheek, and his eyes shine with unshed tears.
With panic rising, he knows he needs to step away. He made his plans for one reason only: because he has no strength with which to withstand the power of the King. He shakes his head, begging silently, his cheek rubbing against the palm holding it. A well-known hand that has touched him in places far more intimate than it does now.
Aragorn means to kiss him and he must surrender. But he fights it for as long as he can, and he steels his heart and prays that it – for once – will feel nothing. But he knows when Aragorn brings him closer that it will remain an unheeded prayer.
There, at last, is the final, explosive dance of torment in Aragorn's eyes. Through many months both of them managed to pretend that no future would come, and that was easy while Evil lasted.
He fights the desperation rising in the grey, just like he has fought so much else, but this is too new to him. He never fought Aragorn.
"Melaurë..."
The name that is now a plea is his doom and he falls against a broad chest and presses his lips to Aragorn's. They are ever-soft, his temporary gift, bestowed upon him when he needed it the most, but now to be taken from him in a swirl of sunlight and roses.
He kisses feverishly, forcing his tongue inside Aragorn's mouth while clawing at his robes. Anger he thought he was done with but it proves to not be so. He is wrath in Aragorn's arms, seeing nothing and everything as images of camps, tents, caves, groves rush into his mind: Aragorn's bare skin under the stars, his own hardness caressed in some, make-shift, damned, shabby shelter no one should be naked in. His own fear in the face of death, or even worse, in the face of Evil where death is the wish of all, but the release few are granted.
They say the Orcs were once Elves.
His fears rising...
His fear of being alone. He kisses Aragorn so hard he thinks he shall shatter. But even if he did – even if he would force his own knife into his breast, his fëa would forever remain alone.
His love for Arwen. The sweetest one he has ever met. He plunders Aragorn's mouth so thoroughly and does not even find it within himself to hope that she will detect his presence there.
For stone. He kisses the man who will one day be no more but a memory and a name held in reverence. He pushes himself against the body that will spend eternity in a tomb, slowly crumbling into nothingness. These arms, now wrapped around his fury will one day be no more that dust. He struggles against his bonds and his fists collide with the chest and his feet meet a shinbone. All of it, the kiss survives.
A hand is stroking his hair when he breathes once more.
He disentangles himself slowly and Aragorn's arms fall away, as they must.
The King's face is lined with glistening streaks and it is a small blessing to discover that he is too affected to return to council; he could not go back inside now, looking like this.
:~:
Because of the sunlight he backs away, finally. Because tomorrow Anor will triumph in the sky and the summer will peak.
Aragorn stands crestfallen in the corridor; his hands hang useless at his sides even though he is not clad in stone yet.
:~:
The brilliance of the white courtyard came with a price: one elven heart for the future of Men.
'Your light gives me strength to go on... Melaurë...'
A memory: a flash of grey eyes and a smile.
'My sun.'
The tunnel is not the worst part of the journey.
End
:~:
Anor - the Sun
fëa - soul
Aragorn's nickname for Legolas is a play on the words mel- (love) and laurë (Quenya för golden, as in the colour, not the metal.)