I feel so bad for upsetting all you guys! I hope an update might make up for my deplorable lack of manners.
once again, it is a blessing and an honour to have you all as my reviewers, it is certainly your kind words and praise that have compelled me to spend today writing this chapter. x
Aragorn sat as though alone, face impassive lest he betray the rawness of his heart, limbs tense and strained, aching from the constant urge to run that had plagued him these last few weeks. He could not stop the chill of nausea from sweeping through him no matter how hard he tried, every moment, every second of every day spent in grief that radiated from him without him knowing, unsettling all who must counsel with him.
Even now his thoughts strayed, sitting at the head of the long table, the council convened to discuss matters of border security, their stories of renegade bands of orcs and trolls and goblins falling upon deaf ears as Aragorn sat staring wistfully out of the window, fingertips tracing his lips as he recalled once again the last feel of soft lips upon his own.
He had been left as half a man, and his guilt of knowing that even now he let his people down could not overcome the desperate longing he felt to be far from here, to go back to when there were no crowns, no duties, no orders but their own to follow.
He could not recall how it was he got through the rest of that day, after watching Legolas vanish into the sunlight, enveloped in the blinding light and leaving them behind in the chilling darkness, no words spoken amongst themselves, unwilling to break the fragile silence. He had attended the feasts, and watched the parade, accepted pledges and oaths with an indifferent ear, held fast only by the murmured words of comfort from Gimli and Gandalf.
He had already sent out riders, twelve in all, sent out one after the other with all haste despite the gentle warning and reminder that no man would be able to catch a creature who required no sleep, no rest, bent only on fulfilling a summons from his King. But Aragorn cared not, needed to feel as though he were doing something, anything other than sitting idly by, unwilling to accept this sudden stark decision. None had yet returned with any word, unable to catch Legolas and ask of the choice that he had made, neither of which would see him returned to his side.
There were moments when he was full of hate, anger tearing at his chest and making him clench his fists, nails digging into his flesh and leaving crimson marks. He hated the crown he wore for keeping him here, he hated the averted pity he saw in his friends eyes, hated even more the Prince's birthright, that he could be taken from his side with no more than a simple piece of paper, a written word from leagues away. He held a particular dislike for Thranduil.
At times he wondered at the depths of his despair, how it had come that he could be so overwhelmed by such anguish and desolation, how their few short days together could have revealed and released within him such an all consuming love that without the elf by his side he felt his loss as a physical agony, a pressing weight about his shoulders that bore him down, crushing him.
He was brought back to himself as a map was pushed in front of him, metal rings placed atop to highlight where Faramir suggested setting up new garrisons, the steward's hand still lingering on the edge of the paper, peering at Aragorn with a slowly comprehending look that he had heard nothing they had said. Faramir sighed softly, pouring out a cup of wine and pushing it along the table for Aragorn to curl his hand around, relishing the distraction and the delay. "Do you wish for a break my Lord?" Faramir asked softly.
Aragorn was sorely tempted, heart heavy and in need to lighten the load on his shoulders, to walk out in the sunlight, to maybe spend a little time with the Hobbits who still remained, taking their time to enjoy the sights and fully recover. But he shook his head, mutely resolving to pay more attention, to let his mind become weary with the news of his realm, absorbing useless facts and pretending to know what was best for his people.
"There is little more to discuss." Garrett leaned forward on Aragorn's left, a general of the armies, the only one left from the war, a hearty sturdy man with a gruffness to his expression that belied his genuine nature. Aragorn appreciated his gesture, a small smile of gratitude lifting his lips as he inclined his head, his thanks replaced by an irritated look by whispers and murmurs further down the table, Aragorn's eyes narrowing as he looked at Marteen snickering and whispering with the man beside him, blood boiling all of a sudden as he tensed his jaw. "I wasn't aware that threats to our borders were such an amusing issue." He ground out, drawing the pinched grey gaze.
"Apologies my Lord," Marteen purred, "It was not the roving bands that amused me." He smirked.
Aragorn straightened, fire behind his eyes as he held the challenging gaze and he was peripherally aware of both steward and general tensing beside him. "Well, by all means, let us all in on the joke, I'm sure we could use the levity." He waved his hand to gesture those gathered.
"Oh, tis nothing my Lord." He smiled, "Just posturing that it might be wise to set up a garrison at the borders of Mirkwood since you seem intent to send all of our riders there."
Aragorn bristled, hand fisting on the table top despite the gentle touch to his wrist by Faramir, a low murmur of censure in his ear even as Aragorn leaned forward, grinding his teeth to keep from spitting out a curse. He held the contemptuous stare, thoughts of running the man off the battlements filling his mind. He swallowed roughly, ideas of standing and walking away a very real temptation, but the vague notion of pride still welled within his chest and he growled lowly, "Leave."
There was a ripple of misunderstanding along the table, the council members glancing askew at each other, "All of you, now."
One by one the seats were pushed back, muttered words of confusion as they looked about themselves, eyes lingering on Faramir's lowered gaze and Marteen's smug grin. Though known by some now, Aragorn's affair with the Mirkwood Prince was little known about outside those who had been privy to Aragorn's confession first hand. "Aragorn?" Faramir's voice was soft and low as maps were rolled up and tied, tucked under arms amid the clatter and many footsteps. The man shook his head, waving off his concern as he saw a figure stir in the shadowed corner, white robes fluttering as Gandalf stood and waited for everyone else to leave.
At length Faramir left, his concern for the King great, having spent so many days by his side and watched as the weight of his duties added to the heaviness upon him, compounding his misery, trying with all his power to ease the burden and lessen the load. But Aragorn seemed to embrace his unhappiness, as though by holding onto the pain of his loss meant that he could preserve the memory of the happiness he had felt, that he only felt the pain because he had felt the joy beforehand. The steward walked away with barely a nod to the wizard that approached from the shadows, his own face grave as he drew back a chair and settled down at Aragorn's side.
Aragorn let out his breath and with it his shoulders dropped, slumping back in his chair as his fingers drew idle patterns upon the table top. "You are wallowing Aragorn." Gandalf said slowly, laying his hands calmly on the table.
Aragorn could have laughed at the obvious statement. "What else can I do?" he replied bitterly, sounding like a petulant child but unable to care.
"Your behaviour is unbecoming of someone with your status." Gandalf pointed out needlessly, watching Aragorn with a careful eye, noticing the stubborn set of the man's jaw, the way his eyes darkened mulishly, before sighing and trying a different tack. "You think Legolas would be proud to see you thusly?"
It seemed to work, eliciting a reaction other than obstinate self pitying, Aragorn's hand suddenly curling into a fist at the mention of the Elf's name, feeling a stab at his heart that never failed to strip the breath from his lungs. "He left," Aragorn muttered, "He does not see." He shook his head.
Gandalf grumbled something under his breath at Aragorn's denial, leaning forward, arms folded. "All the years that you loved Arwen, the months that you left her side, you did not saddle yourself with this grief." The wizard pointed out, drawing Aragorn's gaze.
"She was never this much a part of me." He whispered in return, unable to do little more than breathe the words. "And always I knew that we would meet again."
Gandalf sighed, wanting to refute the King but finding himself unable to do so, he had already heard vague whisperings on the wind, of Elves leaving the shores in great droves, the forests emptying with only a few to remain. It would be well to advise Aragorn that maybe Legolas would choose to take the crown, but from what the leaves and wind told him, there would be very little to rule over, if anything at all, and without a Kingdom left behind Gandalf knew that Mirkwood's mercurial King would be compelled to keep what little remained of his family close, to walk the last path together.
In truth the wizard feared that it was a distinct possibility that the Prince would leave these shores without a chance to see the borders of Gondor, let alone walk into the White City and embrace their King one last time. "It has only been some weeks now Aragorn." He said placatingly, "Mirkwood is as far from here as one can get."
"And knowing how he rides, he would have reached the border more than a week ago." Aragorn sighed. He had given up on watching the fields, spending the evenings by his window as he watched for a rider, for any sign of movement that carried indication of any news from the north. He had spent too many hours listening to the whistles, horns and bells that the city used to communicate between the levels, deciphering their meaning and interpreting when his heart should race and when his spirit should fall, his hope making him mishear on more than one occasion, making him burst from his rooms, feet pounding as he ran to the battlements, watching for the approach of a rider, but being ultimately left bereft, the sinking of his heart almost overcoming him. Even now he could hear them in the distance, short messages that told of the changing of the guard, of the first shift called to dinner, if he listened hard enough, if he hoped hard enough he could imagine he heard the long low drone of the horn which told of riders coming home.
"I am tired Gandalf, tired of this ache and of feeling so cold all the time, but I would not give it up," He leant his head back against the chair. "For to give it up would be to deny that I love him."
"No one could ever deny that you love him." Gandalf said softly, placing his hand over Aragorn's and pressing gently.
Aragorn swallowed roughly, closing his eyes, both dismayed and overjoyed at the clarity of the wonderful sights that always played behind closed lids, recalling the soft smile that played on Legolas' face when he was content, the way he would turn his face to the sun, eyes closed and relaxed.
The chamber door opened, a low groan of aged hinges jerking Aragorn from his reverie, the soft shuffle of footsteps just inside the door making him turn in his chair, frowning lightly at the dishevelled man in the doorway, hair windswept and face flushed as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands clasped in front of him, fingers gently holding a neat square of folded paper. Aragorn stood, an odd tightness in his throat as he realised that he had not imagined the horn, that his ears had not deceived him with his foolish hope. "You have brought word?" he breathed, anxiety clawing up inside him.
"Yes my Lord," The man bowed as Aragorn approached, "I was met by a messenger riding south from the forest and he bid me bring this to you with all haste." He held out the letter for Aragorn to take, not even flinching at the speed with which it was taken.
Aragorn's fingers shook as he slid one beneath the seal, breaking it in a shower of shards as he unfolded the page, terrified and eager at the sight of the familiar handwriting, neat and flowing across the paper, eyes hungry, lips dry as he read, his heart feeling like a sinking weight within his chest.
'My dear Estel,
I have arrived safely, my first action being to tell you so for I knew that you would worry. The forest has changed, the war affected our lands far greater than I could have thought, the armies are near depleted and I am grieved to learn that my brother's son perished in one of the many attacks on our lands.
Father has plans to raze Dol Guldor in the hopes that with its absence it will hurry away the shadow that it once cast over the land. This will be the last act he shall achieve on these shores for he wishes to leave for the west as soon as this is done, his heart has grown heavy with the destruction of our once beautiful home.
It dismays me to give you word that it is not just news of our victory that had reached these halls, it seems that the return of your once betrothed through Imladris prompted the reason for her departure to be carried here. He knows now of my love for you, of my desire to return to the White City, and I am in agony my love, for he has refused and bids me leave these shores with him. But still, i will talk with him, and I shall continue to hope, for what else can ease the pain in my heart other than the hope that I shall once again be able to look upon your face.
I regret all the more now our parting, that I did not allow us another night as you so wished, but I know in my heart that I would not have made it past the walls before I became broken, that knowledge of our parting would have pained me even more than your touch would have been able to soothe, such wounds must be swift sometimes. For this I am sorry.
I promise you my love, that I shall not leave these shores without a word, and know that I love you with all I have to give.
Your Prince."
Aragorn felt sick, reading over the short letter once again, tracing his fingers over the words and seeing now the washed stain of fallen tears upon the page, his heart breaking to know that his beautiful Prince had cried as he had written to him, the letter short and concise to no doubt lessen his pain.
He was hollow, empty and wasted as he fought for breath, chest tight as held the letter tightly, Gandalf's hand resting on his shoulder as he leant in to read the neat script.
"My Lord, I bid the other men to stay upon the road as a relay, should you need to, with a fresh horse I could leave this evening and any missive will reach the forest on the seventh day, God's willing." The messenger bowed before him, waiting for his response.
"Your efforts are most appreciated." Gandalf spoke for him, seeing Aragorn's crippling despair in the tightness of his face. "You have deserved a good meal and a restful night." The messenger smiled up at the wizard, bowing shortly and backing out the door.
"He is leaving." Aragorn whispered, voice lacking colour as he raised his stricken face to meet the wizards kindly concern. "Gandalf, he is leaving." He could feel himself shake, disbelief colouring his words, unable to comprehend how it could have come to this.
"It does not say that for sure." Gandalf countered urgently, taking the letter from Aragorn's hand before it fell from his fingers.
"I must go." Aragorn turned to the door but was stopped, a hand tight on his arm.
"Don't be hasty." Gandalf admonished, drawing him back and leading him to the table, one hand on his shoulder forcing him to sit back in his chair as the wizard settled himself neatly across from him, laying the letter between them. "It is just a short missive to let you know of his arrival." Gandalf stressed, laying his spread fingers over the page. "No doubt written the day he arrived; give him time, he says he will speak with his father." He held Aragorn's eyes with his grave regard.
"And should the King demand he leave...?" Aragorn gasped, unwilling to bear the thought, seeing Legolas standing on the shore in his mind's eye.
Gandalf smiled softly, incongruent with the conversation as he leant forward, eyes kind and voice soft as he whispered, "Trust him."
Aragorn held his breath, unable to tear his eyes away from his beloved's words written before him. "I do trust him." He breathed, "It's his father I do not trust."
Gandalf still smiled, inclining his head to concede Aragorn's point. "Despite all you know of Thranduil, he loves his son very much." He said, gravity weighting his words as he fixed Aragorn with a peculiar stare that unsettled Aragorn, turning away from the wizard's gaze, fingertips reaching out to trace the pattern of tears that had smudged the words, wishing with every fibre of his being that he could have been there to wipe them away, and wondering if there would ever be a time when he would be given the grace to so.