that moment when you go back to a story six years later. just goes to show I won't abandon any of my bbs ;-; (also, I love these two)
this chapter was actually 90% finished almost two months ago but life got crazy right before I could finish it and well...I think it was for the better.
oOo
His skin remains warm even after Aragorn has pulled away.
The grip on Legolas' wrist loosens and that same hand instead inches very slowly to his hair. With two fingers Aragorn traces the length of a single strand. Careful, as if the tress were to tear with mishandling, before tucking the hair behind a sharp ear. Skin brushes skin. He lowers his hand, it quakes as it settles beside him. There is a dark and unreachable distance in Aragorn's eyes, a strong shadow cast from the tangled branches above.
Legolas watches, waiting, then tilts his head to the side in light curiosity.
"Aragorn?"
A frail moment passes. The stars flicker under the passing weight of the clouds.
"Forgive me," says Aragorn, and it is labored with guilt.
He steps back, as if snapped from a trance, and gathers the wood in a hurry. Twigs crunch as he bustles from sight, leaving Legolas to retrace the warmth of his cheek with the tips of his fingers at the border of a dry and undisclosed forest.
oOo
They arise from rest at first light to the cover of fog. The horizon is still but the trilling of bugs and the croaking of toads remain a consistent companion. The air is a chill that could seep to the bone if left disregarded. And though Legolas does not feel its teeth through his clothes, he sees that Gimli shivers beneath his metals and furs. They stay moving. His friends garner speed and no longer quiver, though the journey comes to a vigilant halt by the time they've marched beyond the flat and lenient plains of the Rohirrim and into a more irriguous landscape.
"There will be a marsh soon," Aragorn says. His fingers examine the earth; his attention hawks to the south. "We cut through the mud or we circle around with twice the distance to cover by nightfall."
"We cut through the marsh!" shouts Gimli as he stumbles and nears from behind. "There is no bog these boots will not cross!"
But Gimli's boots are very heavy and their journey thus far rests on a delicate thread. The uruks do not often stop for the sake of fatigue and will instead march while his friends flounder in muck and debris.
"We need think twice," Legolas quietly says. "The sun has not shone upon that lagoon in several decades. Tricks lurk amidst the trees."
"Then we challenge the trick," Aragorn says, "and we slay it."
He wipes the dirt from his fingers and does not accept Legolas' hand as he stands and walks past, steering the way towards the murmuring mire.
oOo
The swamp border thins at their backs with the distance they make the longer they tread across the dark and muculent soil. The air is dank here, leaves sag from the languishing trees, overtaxed at the trunk by the very wetness that has kept them so green. For Gimli, each step is a risk that sinks him too quickly. Legolas allows himself to fall behind him on purpose, keen and aware of every sound that should happen around them.
Aragorn leads at the front. His long legs spare him the threat of lingering a moment too long in one place, his familiarity of the land rivaling Legolas' own recollection of the dozens of scriptures and maps he had committed to memory while still an inquisitive elfling in his father's nonpublic book rooms. He wonders now, if perhaps his father walks those very rooms as he strides here, in this bog, watching Aragorn's hair stick and unstick from his neck, damp with sweat and humid air and all the grit that keeps him away from lethargy. And men should tire, and so easy, yet Legolas does not think he has seen Aragorn tire yet.
Perhaps it is Legolas who has learned to tire. To tire of not understanding why his friend does the things he does and pretends that he does not do them…
A foul smell stirs amid the heat. Faint, indiscernible had he not been overcautious. He slows and peers between the boscage, above into the chasms of the canopy, till at last he is turning with suspicion to his left.
"Orcs," he mutters softly. "Less than twenty."
Aragorn halts. Gimli does the same. He hoists his axe, guarded, understanding without asking as Aragorn begins to press his back against the nearest tree.
"How far?" asks Aragorn.
"Not very." Legolas sees that Aragorn has begun to curl his fingers around the handle of his sword. It is an erroneous resort. There is little room for combat and the vines are thick with poison. "We should keep from sight," reasons Legolas.
"We shan't hide from filth." His tone is harsh. It reinspires Gimli from his hiding spot. Legolas' brow furrows on its own.
"There is no goodness in this bog, Aragorn. Our movements are against us, we should flank them—"
But Aragorn has already taken up his blade, casting long and open shadows on the soil.
"You are not yourself," hisses Legolas. "Do you not see that the earth quaffs beneath our feet? All our trials, to be chanced upon a pack of orcs?"
Gimli looks between them, no longer as decisive. Moments more and they will all be seen. It's with a rigid jaw and whitened knuckles that Aragorn sheaths his sword back into its scabbard.
"Do as he says, Master Gimli."
Legolas cannot make sense of it. Even so, Gimli does as he is told, a disappointed grumble as he settles down his axe. They create a triune behind the larger trees and wait, with Legolas nearest to the middle. The jangling of metal nears. Without a sound Legolas begins to tread closer to the threat, dagger held firm and gleaming in his hand. His stride is soft enough upon the mire that the dirt itself struggles to catch onto his clothing. He watches closely, able to descry all the rents and weaknesses within the armor of the first orc that marches by. They wear more leather than they do steel, shorter and thinner in stature than their mace-wielding counterparts. A band of lookouts, maybe scouts, expectant and timorous enough to have been sent here from a main pack, lest hunters or spies trail after their leader and their valuable captives—Merry and Pippin.
In all, there are a dozen-and-two. Legolas waits until the last of the line has stomped on (with the ostracized runt straying behind), then moves, darting like daylight would dart to the first throat that his dagger slits open. He lowers the body into the mud, then goes to the next when the distance is perfect, then the next, till there are four on the floor and the next two have started to wonder why they are receiving no gripes for their insults, barely just missing as Legolas hides to the right, crowning them both with an arrow in each of their heads. The thud of pierced skulls alerts half of the pack. They turn, crooked weapons at ready, panic crescendoing seconds before Gimli and Aragorn leap from the trees, slaying most of the orc with only a smatter of swings.
It isn't a fight, merely a slaughter. Gimli counts the last kill for himself and his shout is so merry that it pulls a one-sided smile from Legolas' lip. He leans, plucking his arrows from still-bleeding limbs, but catches no merriment on Aragorn's face when he stands to allot the arrows back in their quiver.
"If there are more, they will be here soon." It's all Aragorn says. He dislodges his blade from the chest of the captain and continues their trek to the south. There will be no more. It is an excuse, and the excuse keeps a labor of distance between them until the light of the sun begins to decline over the rifts of the mire.
They are an hour's push from the world outside the wetland.
The breeze is cleaner, cooler, and the gush of leaves fresher when they pause for air near a neighboring lakelet. The surrounding trees are taller and less plentiful here, allowing the colors of twilight to seep onto the pliable soil. They are far enough away from the heart of the swamp that Gimli can no longer feign the way his legs slide him longingly down to the ground. He pants for breath, and so does Aragorn, palm braced onto a tree to keep him steady. The heat has tuckered his friends in a way that the natural season would not. The very dew of the bog was no doubt enchanted, slipping and sinking into their skin like a venomous draught.
"Let us rest," says Legolas. "So that we may stay nourished and make use of the lake. We are nothing to the little ones as we are now."
"And forsake them?" huffs Aragorn, aggressive albeit hoarse with exhaustion. "They may be killed, tortured for all that we know—"
"They will not. Our findings tell a story of disunity. They number many and Isengard is far. We will outrace them if we are clever in all the ways that they are not."
Aragorn says nothing. He looks to the sky with shut eyes, beads of sweat mixing with the grime on his brow. His chest heaves. His grit may be as unfettered as always, as steadfast as always, but his body is mannish and his limits are real.
Gimli rouses, attempting to stand. "Bah, the daintiness of elves, already I feel the spring coming back to these bones—"
"No. He is right, Master Gimli." Aragorn's back is to them now, his tone so odd and so distant that Legolas feels his heart ache for a reason he cannot discern. "I...will bring some trout. Warm a fire, friend. A dwarf's stomach does not lie."
Gimli grumbles, abashed as he settles back onto the grass.
oOo
Of the three, Gimli's ability to kindle a fire remains unsurpassed. With a small assortment of wood, and only a few flickings of stone the initials of orange will show, and the flame lifted with a nurturing exhale.
Legolas watches as Gimli riles a hearth out of minimal means, as he sits back comfortably and envelopes himself in his cloak, yawning.
"A dwarf deep in stone would need to know all the ways to warmness," muses Legolas, "lest he freeze within his home."
Gimli eyes him up suspiciously. "Do not take us for ingle gnomes, elf," he shoots, though a second yawn tempers his brass. "Metals do not melt themselves, and there is no equal to the great blaze of a dwarven forge."
"Ah. But I do not doubt that," smiles Legolas. "There is much to learn from Aulë's children."
Gimli cozies deeper in his trappings, looking very pleased as his eyes begin to flutter shut despite his hard-fought efforts. Legolas leaps from his spot in the branches, feeding the fire an array of sprigs and dry leaves.
"Rest, Master Dwarf. I shall wake you when our feast is cooked and ready."
Gimli half-nods, murmuring a drowsy defiance before beginning to snore. The moon visits brightly this night. The stars peek through the delicate clouds, blinking away the black of the hour. Legolas stands and winnows his way through the spindly treeline. The scent of the lake lies just beyond it, where the sod meets with the beginnings of shingle.
He sees him there, looming in the shallow water. His boots rest aside what he's already caught, two trout, fairly full but of no large size. For a long moment Aragorn does not move. Legolas steps nearer, yet within the trees until it is at last too difficult to simply watch him from a distance, there where Aragorn is something tall and lone and finite in a soundless place so flat and cold and changeless. The sight fills Legolas' heart with a similar pang from earlier, with the same silence and confusion from the night before, how these strange songs he's never sung begin to disentangle in his throat as if he were meant to sing them or be doomed to hurt.
He lets his stride crunch against the pebble, alerting Aragorn with the way his back and shoulders straighten. He unsheathes his dagger, piercing the noiseless space with the sharp chime of elvish steel. Aragorn must know that he approaches, that he will soon join him in the water, yet he does not turn nor say a word to him. Wetness seeps to Legolas' shins. His weight creates furrows in the lake. The water is so clear. He looks below. Fishlife thrives, small, but always in the process of outgrowing those lurking in the deep.
With a nimble movement and a whiplash of his hair, Legolas sinks his dagger into the gliding shadows underneath. A meaty trout arises, flapping in fright, pierced neatly through its belly.
"My father does not like fish," says Legolas. "Though he will of course taste anything with a glass of wine." He smiles. "And a barrel of mead beside him."
Aragorn turns only enough to peer through the spaces of his hair.
"I cannot fault you for thinking of home. You are a long way from it."
It carries through the air. The words are a comfort Legolas has never wished for. Warmth flowers in his chest. It spreads, veering his gaze to the side in a moment of what feels like vulnerability. He wades closer, the urge to lessen the distance between them a vast and intolerable instinct.
"I do not know if I should ever return to it."
"You will return to it," Aragorn tells him. "And you will see your father again."
"The stars do not shine as before." The words press on his throat as Legolas speaks them. "I tell myself I do not notice, but it becomes more difficult with time." He pauses. "There is so much I do not know. And so much of it I have begun to realize that my father may not know, as well. It is..." He looks back, to the the timeworn wisdom of his father, his star-dimmed rule, the cavernous fortress of their home which has darkened with the decade. "Unclear. It is far away from me."
Aragorn is silent for a moment. Then the water moves, the breeze warmer with his nearness.
"Do not despair, mellon nin. You walk a good path. You will find your answer, and the light that you bring back to your home will brighten Taur-nu-Fuin again."
Legolas looks to him. Aragorn's sharp places are soft in this light. He cannot be mortal. When Aragorn turns, the light closes with him. Legolas' wrist settles beside him. The fish has died on the blade of his knife.
oOo
There is time untouched within the waveless lake. An age untold sleeps beneath its depth. To disturb it would be ill-fated. They keep to the edge and return to the bank with damp clothing, bundling into a sheepskin enough trout for a comfortable feast.
Aragorn's fingers are gentle with the string of the leather. He tightens the knot and something sharp and sudden does not allow Legolas to let him take his hands from the bundle. He reaches forward. He cannot permit Aragorn to stand as he is planning to stand, to leave and pretend as he has pretended, that his lips had not met Legolas' skin not two nights ago and that he had lingered upon it. He lays his hands atop Aragorn's, halting his actions. Aragorn's fingers are rough beneath his, cold in collation, still shaking from the chill of the duplicitous lake.
It does little to stop him. Aragorn flinches, already sliding his fingers away.
"You repel at my touch…" He looks at Aragorn, his voice dry with affliction. "Always you seek distance from me. Why?"
Aragorn swallows. Legolas sees it with the way his throat strains, how his chest swells with an unsteady intake of breath, how he wrestles with it.
"You would...not understand," It is a whisper, almost a plea. "Please let go, Legolas."
Legolas searches his eyes, not caring for once for the way that Aragorn attempts to avert him.
"No. I do not want to."
"You know not what you say—"
"I know what I say. I am no child—"
"I would never presume that you were, nor would I insult you in such a way—"
"Then why," Legolas presses. "I touch your hands and seek your air yet you flinch as if I were a thing to be cautious of—"
"Legolas, stop this now—"
"I will not stop." He brings Aragorn's hand to his hair, urging it to touch as it had touched before.
"Do not do this…"
The words are hushed. Weaker, lower. Aragorn's gaze is upon him, reluctant yet unable to jilt him. His fingers stir. They caress Legolas' hair, the pale braids that adorn it, before slowly pulling away.
"It is an insult to you," croaks Aragorn, "I am, what I have done, there is no—there is nothing I can do to erase it—"
Legolas moves in. Gentle, swift, decisive. His lips press against Aragorn's. They linger there, eyes shut, breath dormant. It feels like eternity, like the same song from before is returning—this yearning. It is a warm place, a world of two, as all else dissolves beneath the water. It is selfish, but it is lovely, a loss so dark and unexpressed when Legolas must separate himself for air. Aragorn's breath trembles on his cheek, thin and uncontrolled. It sparks something in him, in a deep place so hidden that he cannot stop himself from gathering both of Aragorn's hands, guiding them to his heartbeat.
"You are no insult to me," Legolas tells him. "You are Elessar, Dúnedain, a king to many and my friend, and I…"
He leans. The shingle shifts beneath his weight. He feels Aragorn's eyes follow his movement, how he lifts his hand to the laces of his doublet, and pulls. It loosens, the cotton and suede opens gently. Two of Aragorn's fingers rest against his naked skin, then four. The fabric bunches to the side. Legolas guides Aragorn's fingers lower, firmer and slower, till at last they graze his breast and Legolas is unable to contain the dizzied sigh that leaves him.
All shifts. Aragorn rips his hand away. He forces his gaze to the ground, breathing jagged.
"I cannot…" He swallows, shaking his head. "I cannot."
He stands, messily gathering the bundle of fish in his arms. Legolas says nothing. There is only the trample of pebble and sand, the distant rustle of leaves, then silence.
He stares ahead from his spot in the shale, to the stars and to the motionless lake, and endures the throb in his throat, the hurt in his chest. It feels like a cut. Slow and raw, and he thinks he does not want it.
oOo