Previous stories "Fire Dancing Upon Our Souls" and "Beware the Starless Midnight" both referenced here.

Legolas

I do not tell them I am there immediately. I stand and look, at the end of the path. across to where Elrohir and Aragorn sit. I watch as Elrohir throws his arm around Aragorn, pulling him close as I would do to Estel if he needed comfort, and I am pleased to see it. For I think Aragorn does need that. Seldom, if ever, have I heard him speak as plainly about things that weigh upon him, that I know are a problem for him, as he did to us before.

I imagine Elrohir has never heard any of that.

"Can you give us a moment, Elrohir?"

He spins around in surprise when I call it out, the expression on his face so startled it almost makes me laugh.

"Legolas!"

Then he struggles to his feet as if he has something to say, but I see Aragorn's hand upon his arm. I hear the murmured Not now, Elrohir.

Not now what? What is it Aragorn tries to prevent him saying?

Whatever it is, in a most unElrohir way he acquiesces.

"Of course, I will give you all the time you need."

Who is he? Where is the Elrohir who would not leave us alone, who insisted he had to hold my hand through every step of this conversation?

He turns. He walks down the beach, and he does not once turn around.

It confuses me.

Aragorn too watches him walk away before his eyes turn to me.

"Will you join me?" he asks, "or shall I come to you?"

It is enough to propel me forward. Suddenly I am unaccountably nervous. I should not be nervous when I speak to him.

"Come and sit," he says. "Show me what you have drawn."

While I have done this before for him—drawn out my thoughts when I could not locate the words—it is difficult. How do I translate my reaction to the pain he presented me earlier into a picture on paper? That was what he wanted an answer to, after all.

Wordlessly I hand him, first his writing pouch, then my art. My nerves have crept in surreptitiously and stolen all my language away.

Carefully he smoothes it out to look at.

And all is silence.

I have drawn my unhappiness at our distance. I have tried to explain all those long, long years of waiting. I sit in the dark and the dark is heavy, it is never-ending, it smothers me. Opposite is Aragorn and the light. Dancing, shining, joyous light. The light of my soul at our reunion. And between us? A wall. As high as the page itself, unbreakable rock, it is insurmountable.

"I need you to explain this to me," he says, but I cannot. I do not know where to start. As he always used to, Aragorn, careful and quiet, leads me there.

"What is this?" he asks, hand hovering above the barrier between us.

"A wall."

He frowns at that but I do not know why as it is obvious.

"Why is there, Legolas?"

"I built it."

"You built it?

"With my stupidity."

He sighs but moves on.

"I do not like this, Legolas, this darkness." He concentrates on my side of the paper. "Where has it come from?"

"I do not like it either."

I do not know why I say that. It is not what he asked.

And he hand rests over the figure that is me.

"Tell me about it. Is it here? Or in Valinor?"

He has broken the hugeness of the whole into something lesser I can speak of.

"Here, Valinor, everywhere I have been. It has crept into all my joyous moments and smothered them. It steals my joy. I have tried to look forward as I promised you but always it sneaks up on me and drains my light away."

"And the light I stand in?"

Ah that is easy.

"How I felt the moment I saw you again."

And he smiles. The smallest, tiniest glimpse of a smile.

"How I felt also."

It gives me the courage to go on.

"Now I have ruined it. I have waited so long . . . And by my own actions I have shut out the light you brought me so I sit, once again, here in the dark, and I have no idea how to scale this wall. I do not want to be trapped here."

"I do not want you trapped there either."

The two of us sit and look at my picture, in silence, Aragorn's fingers tapping on the side filled with that soul crushing dark.

"I need to know," he says in the end, "what it was that kept you from telling me of Eldarion. Was it something I did . . . to you? To others? . . . That resulted in you feeling that was information I could not be trusted with."

"It was nothing you did. I always thought you could be trusted. I had no doubt you would do the right thing for him."

"And yet you did not tell me."

"Because foolishly I had promised Eldarion I would not. He was so angry with me when I put a stop to that dalliance, furious, as I have never, before or since, seen him. It frightened me. I knew I could not let it continue. For so many reasons it was wrong for him. But it seemed as if by doing what needed to be done and stopping it I had damaged things between us forever. I loved him so, Aragorn. He was so important to me. I could not bear the thought of losing that. And so, when he asked me never to tell you I agreed. Even though it went against all my instincts. Anything, anything to make sure he still loved me."

"Legolas," he sighs, "He will always love you."

"Well I know that now. Now I have raised my own boy and faced his fury, his declarations he hated me when I did not do let him do what he wished to. I have had Estel tell me he wished Elrohir was his father. I will not pretend that did not hurt. Yet still we endure, and he loves me. But I did not know that back then, in Ithilien, no son of my own, having never seen a elfling, being youngest of our people. I did not know Eldarion's rage would eventually ebb and our love would survive."

"I always forget," he says quietly, "how young you really were."

"When I arrived in Minas Tirith to discover Eldarion enamoured with Lord Aderthron, when I was there less than a day and rocks were flying through my windows, when Eldarion stood in front of me and his mother and denied his Elven heritage, when he told me Elrohir and I corrupted you all, I was going to tell you then. I was determined to speak to Arwen that very day. But I was furious with him. I needed to calm myself down before speaking with her so I took myself off to the stables. You know what happened next. They surprised me, tied me up, beat me, my words were lost and I had no chance to tell anybody anything at all. And after that, when I was recovered and things had settled?

"It is hard to explain, Aragorn, but I am an elf, and I had made a promise. We find them hard to break. Even though they may lead us to our doom. I always swore I would never do it. I grew up learning of the folly of the Sons of Feanor and how my people suffered for their vow. Yet still, I made the same mistake, promised foolishly and found myself trapped within it while those I loved paid the price."

"Why," he asks, "did you decide to speak to Arwen and not me?"

I wish he had not asked that.

"I felt you and Eldarion were not in good place then. You insisted on confronting him, you were struggling to find the boy behind those hurtful words he spouted—I understand why," I add quickly, "but Arwen seemed a better option, and . . . " I hesitate.

"And?"

"I must admit your reaction when you first discovered Elrohir and I was burned into my mind. I was afraid of that."

"Ah." He drops his head to stare at his hands. "Not my finest moment. I will say in my defence I was suffering the after-effects of our return from Mandos myself then, though I had not acknowledged that. That is not who I am. It was a complete surprise and I was worried for you."

"I know it is not who you are. But things between you and Eldarion were tense. I did not wish to risk making them worse. And . . . Though I understood it, I found it hard to forget."

I am relieved when he moves the subject on, relieved we do not have to delve any further into that.

"To think all those years I have withstood your complaining about foolish Noldor and their vows and you became entangled in one yourself. I have to admit, despite being on the receiving end I find that quite amusing."

He is not wrong. I have spent many years complaining of the Feanorion's despite knowing Elrond, who he sees as a father figure, has ties to them.

"I am sorry for that," I tell him.

"I am sorry," he says in return, "for unloading that nonsense about my lost heritage upon you just now. It is not your fault and I was wrong to throw it as your feet."

"On the contrary, I needed reminding of it, and the fact the hurt I have done you magnified that upsets me. I would rather you tell me than not. And—" I add in as an afterthought. "I think it did Elrohir good to hear it. Did it not feel good to say it?"

He looks across at me with a grin.

"Come to think of it, it did feel good."

"You do not think on these things enough, Aragorn. And you do your brothers a disservice not discussing it with them."

"There has never been time to think on them. I had a role to play. Always there was something more important that needed doing. I had no time to sit back and muse on the things that might make me unhappy. The boy Estel that I used to be had to be put aside to make room for Elessar. And as for Elrohir and Elladan? After Arwen I felt I could say nothing to them at all. I stole their sister from them, how churlish of me to resent anything from them after that."

"You fell in love with Arwen," I correct him. "You did not steal her. I have always imagined Arwen would not allow herself to be stolen. It is as incongruous as the idea your wild Tinu would ever let that happen."

He laughs out loud at that ridiculous imagining.

"Perhaps you are right but to them it felt like a theft and a betrayal."

"Then they were wrong. And anyway now she has returned to them. The wrong—if indeed it ever was a wrong—is righted. Now you can sit and think on your rootlessness, on their part in that, if any, and talk about it Aragorn. You should speak on it with Eldarion as well."

"Eldarion does not need to know about struggles long ago in my childhood."

"Eldarion has found it hard living in the shadow of Elessar and it would do him good to know something about the child who came before."

"Hmm . . ." I do not think he takes me seriously. Instead he moves back to Elrohir. "It could be you are right about my brothers. I have been so long estranged from Elrohir that the closeness between us just now seemed odd. I have grown unused to it. I did not even realise . . ."

"Well that is rubbish!" I exclaim. "You are not estranged from him. He has walked beside you every step of your journey. He has grieved for you alongside me. What do you mean?"

"You are right. He has been beside me all the way, because he is good and honourable and would not desert me, but Arwen has lain between us unspoken all this time, causing words to have an edge they should not have, tempers to be shorter, patience to be lacking. Even before Arwen . . . Elrohir used to be the rock at the centre of my world. He has just reminded me. When I was small I would live for the days he returned to Imladris. They were the highlight of my life. And he would saunter in, cancel my lessons and sweep me off on adventures. We were close, far closer than Elladan and I ever were.

"But then I grew, and Elrond steered me away from the schoolroom into the halls of healing and I loved it there. It was then Elladan took me under his wing. He would spend hours with me teaching me his skill. Elrohir never ventured there. I barely saw him. Even when I was not required to be there I would seek Elladan out with new ideas I had, to question and discuss, for I loved healing with a passion. It consumed me and left no space for Elrohir at all. I still went riding with him, with both my brothers, but the closeness was not the same. I had almost forgotten it all together until today."

Oh my poor Elrohir. I know how much pain those halls of healing held for him. Losing the small boy who loved him to them and his brother would have cut so deeply.

I will not tell Aragorn that.

But I will discuss it with Elrohir.

"Can you forgive me?" I ask instead.

He is silent for far to long than is comfortable, until my nerves begin to edge themselves back into my consciousness.

"I will forgive you," he says at last, "but I am not sure if I am quite there yet. It still hurts. But I will not stop until I can say yes, to that question. Can you promise to give me the time I need?"

"Can you promise to tell Eldarion of that small, lonely boy in Imladris for me?" I counter.

"Alright!" He smiles. "You win. I will tell him. Give me this."

He takes my picture off my knees where it sits and rests it across his own.

"I apologise for this," he says with a shrug while I stare in confusion. "I have many talents but as you know art is not among them." Then he opens his pouch and begins to draw. Watching him, bent over the paper, biting his tongue, face screwed up in concentration it is all I can do not to laugh. Aragorn has so many gifts it is funny to see him struggle.

"Well, I have made a mess of that," he smiles as he hands it back to me, "but it could not stay as it was."

Across the impenetrable wall I have drawn he has laced a myriad of cracks. From tiny to large they weave their way across it so it looks as if one touch and it will fall. All its strength has drained away.

"Together we will pull this down, leaving only rubble to remind us so we never make the error of repeating it." He says. "You are trapped no longer."

In the midst of the wall is now a gap, through the largest of his cracks the light streams through, falling upon my head.

In the middle of my darkness his light resurrects me.

As it has always been.