A gift fic for NelyafinweFeanorion.
This is an out-take from a story I am yet to write. Set after the story "Even the Darkest Night Will End."
It is after Legolas and Aragorn have been reunited in Arda Remade. You really have to have at least read my story "Fire" to understand this one.
Arda Remade
Aragorn
The child fascinates me.
In all my years of living. All that time in Imladris, and then in Gondor, next to the elves of Ithilien I never saw an elfling. Not a single one.
There had ceased to be such a thing in Arda long before I was born, in fact Legolas himself was the youngest elf I ever knew. He did seem young too, before life saddled him with endless burdens. Those early days with the fellowship he shone with the bright light of an enthusiastic child.
But I did not know him when he was this small . . . this delicate . . .or when he shone this brightly. Now I have found him again after so many years. At least for him it is the span of centuries since we last met—for me it sometimes seems the blink of an eye. We said farewell one moment and then he was back again. But he is not the same and he brings with him strangers. A grown son—a younger version of Legolas—who bears my name, and this . . . This elven child. A child who, Eldarion tells me, is not even his.
I go in search of him this evening, as I used to do so long ago in Minas Tirith after my endless days of meetings. When the sun began to set and I yearned for his company. And I find him, just as I used to, in our gardens . . . Well they are the beginnings of a garden—everything is new here.
He sits under a tree, leaning back against it, head tilted to the stars. It is a sight so familiar it takes my breath away. All is the same, just as it ever was . . . Except for the child.
He holds the child upon his lap, cradling him gently, hand smoothing its way through the dark hair and he sings a lullaby. One I have heard him sing all those years past to my own son.
He stops when he senses me.
We have been the best of friends he and I, closer almost than blood. I know he has longed for this . . . Our reunion. But now we are together he is different, so very different from the Legolas I used to know. I no longer know how to be with him.
"Aragorn."
He stops his song and nods his head towards me. I wish he would continue to sing. I would not have to find the right words to speak to him then. It could be as we were, as we used to be; as if things between us had not changed.
"Legolas."
I am awkward as I stand there.
"Join me." It is a command he gives me, not a request. That is different. I could analyse everything he says to me and find it all different.
I do as I am told but I remember a fiery, volatile young Legolas. I do not remember a Legolas who orders me around like a wayward child.
"Well this is familiar," he says when I am seated upon the grass beside him. "We have done this before I think."
"Familiar and yet not." I reply.
"How so?" He tilts his head in that way he has always had when things confuse him. Does he really not feel the difference?
It is too hard to explain all the things that feel odd and wrong between us so I do not even try. Instead I focus on the child.
"Him, for starters," I say waving a hand gently towards the sleeping boy. "Last time we sat in the gardens together you did not have a . . . "I trail off woefully for I realise I do not know how to refer to the boy. What is he? What does Legolas think he is?
Of course he challenges me on that.
"A what?" He is so unhelpful when he wants to be. That has not changed.
"A . . . Boy."
"Oh, a boy. That is indeed what he is . . A boy. My boy." There is a flash of fire in his eyes but I see it too late. I am out of practise at this game.
"Eldarion tells me he is not—" Too late my brain catches up with my mouth and tells me this is not the wisest way to phrase this. Too late because he jumps on it and instantly the air crackles with tension.
"He is not what?"
"He tells me he is Erynion's son." There, I have said it.
"He is." Legolas turns his face from mine to rest his cheek against the child's head. He looks soft and nurturing sitting there but that belies the simmering annoyance he radiates. "He is Erynion's son but he is still my boy. My boy to love and care for. Maewen's boy."
And there is silence between us as I attempt to salvage this, desperately searching for the right words.
"Forgive me", I say in the end. "It is just . . . Unusual . . .for us."
"Do you think less of him?" his words are yet another challenge, "for if you do I will take him away where he is safe. I will not allow you or your people to look upon him with disdain."
"Think less of him? No!" Why does he even think that? What have I ever done in all the years we knew each other that would make him think that? I decide I will ask him. He is not the only one who can be challenging. "Why would you think that, Legolas? Why? Have I ever given you reason to think I would treat a child like that?"
He looks away.
I have won.
"No." He murmurs, almost beneath his breath. "No you have never given me reason."
I think we should start again.
"Why do you have him here? Under the stars? Does Maewen not worry for his whereabouts?" For all I would never look down on this child still it seems strange he would sit here at night with a child not his own, with no mother in sight.
"Maewen needs some space." He says quietly. "Rhawion can be demanding when he is excited and he has been very excited today, and Erynion remains with our people. Who else do you think I should leave him with?"
"No one else." Of course there is no one else here he would trust with such a precious thing anyway . . Except perhaps Arwen and the boy does not know her.
I cannot take my eyes off the smallness of him, the intricate perfection. His small hand dangles off Legolas' lap next to me and I reach out and touch it; warm, soft, perfect.
"I have never seen . . " I tell him, "I have never before seen an elfling."
"It is well you have begun with such a special one." He replies.
But I have many questions, so very many and how do I ask them without offending?
"Explain it to me." I say in the end. "I know this annoys you but this is strange to me. It makes no sense. Explain so I can understand."
"What do you want to know? I do not know what to explain, Aragorn when I do not understand what it is you find strange at all."
He will force me to ask my questions. It is as if he wishes us to fight.
So be it.
"He is not your son . ." I say in the end, "Does that not bother you? Does it not feel wrong? I would be . . . I could not do this, at least I do not think I could."
"Did you not hear me? He is not my son but he is my boy. He is Maewen's and I love him."
"But he is not yours."
"He is mine. He is mine to love, and mine to protect. As Erynion has loved and protected my son, my daughter. Rhawion is no accident. We chose him. We did. All of us."
I have never understood the strange tangle of love he lives with. Erynion, Maewen, Elrohir. It confuses me.
And at that moment the boy opens his eyes, big brown elven eyes look up at me blinking the sleep away.
And he smiles.
"You are Aragorn-the-King," he says.
It makes me laugh.
"Yes, I am Aragorn the King."
He struggles in Legolas' arms, sits himself up, and reaches out a small hand to touch my face, eyes wide.
"What is this?" He looks astounded as he runs his fingers across my stubble. "Your hair is upside down!" He exclaims.
Even this testy, defensive Legolas laughs at that.
"It is a beard, small one!" He smiles, "Men grow hair on their faces. Did I never tell you that?"
"Well I do not know why they want to do that, Legolas." The child says. "It makes no sense." He turns to me, "Why do you?"
There is only one answer I can give him.
"I have no idea. Because it looks good?"
And this elfling child weighs me up carefully with his eyes.
"It does not look good," he says seriously in the end. "I do not like it. Legolas looks better." There is a very Legolas-like snigger from above him. And when I look up at my friend his eyes are dancing. I told you so, he mouths to me, for he has always been scathing about my beard. Quite unfairly if you ask me since he never said a word about Gimli's.
"I like you anyway." The child continues. "I like you even though your hair is upside-upside down."
"Well I have hair on my head as well," I point out. "But I am glad you like me."
"Legolas likes you." He says it as a statement of the most obvious fact. "So it does not matter if you have funny hair. I like you too."
So elflings are no different than small boys then. Cutting through the complications adults place upon the world to reach the very heart of it.
"And Legolas likes you." I say, "so it does not matter that you are small I like you too"
He giggles. The very sound of it makes me smile.
"I am small because I am a boy!"
"And I have a beard because I am a man."
"And I like you both because you are crazy!" Legolas chimes in.
This is the Legolas I used to know. This is more like it.
"I am the responsible leader of Men," I tell him. "Elessar Telcontor. I'll have you know I am not crazy."
He simply smiles and leans down to whisper in the child's ear,
"Do not believe him. He is crazy."
And before I can stop him the boy is scrambling out of Legolas' lap and across to mine. Before I can protest he is snuggling down within my arms. Warm, fine boned and beautiful, I realise I hold an elfling.
I never thought I would.
"Can I sleep here, Aragorn-the-King?" He asks me. I wonder why he calls me that? He says it as if it is all one word.
"Is that what you call me?" I ask Legolas. "It is most unusual."
"That is what Estel has always called you. He copies his brother."
His brother.
Legolas' son.
Maewen's children.
Legolas watches me as the boy snuggles himself down against me. Those green eyes take in every movement I make.
"You see," He says when the boy is finally still and the slow regular breathing of sleep has over taken him. "You see how beautiful he is. You see how it does not matter whose he is? A gift I have given Erynion and he has given me. You can share in him if you wish."
"You would allow that?" I dare not breathe it. So long has it been since a child has slept in my arms like this and never an elven child, although he feels so much like I remember Eldarion used to be.
"Who better?" He says. "Erynion would agree."
"But do you not need to ask him who will be important in his son's life? Is that not his decision?"
"We have already discussed it."
And in that moment, the boy between us, it is as if the centuries that separate us have melted away. It is as if we sit in Arwen's garden in Minas Tirith under the stars, all those years ago, Eldarion a child on my lap.
And we are simply Legolas and Aragorn, two of the Three Hunters, members of the Fellowship.
This boy is but a boy . . Legolas' boy . . . Erynion's boy . . . It matters not.
He brings us together.
That is all that counts.