Disclaimer: My doctors keep telling me I'm not Tolkien . . . but who
believes them?
Notes: This is the sequel to my other story 'The End of the Age', which is my AU version of Gandalf, Bilbo, and Frodo's departure for Valinor (also the Undying Lands). You don't need to read that to understand this, but you might want to know that the reason they're next to the ocean – and depressed – is because they were saying good-bye to their friends. (Of course, if you'd like to read it, I'm not going to stop you.) If you don't know this, I'll tell you now that Imladris is the elven word for Rivendell. (Not that important, but it might throw you off.) And, yes, this story does contain A/L slash. It's nothing graphic, but it is there. Enjoy! (I hope.)
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The wind tore fiercely at Legolas' body even as it bore his friends away, and twice the elf lost his balance in the churning waves. Once he almost gave up, letting the merciless sea carry him where it would. Then his eyes again found Aragorn, and – his face set in determination – he pressed on. Finally, shivering with a chill that had naught to do with the weather and thoroughly drenched in saltwater, Legolas reached Aragorn's side. Focused entirely on the king's worn face, he slipped an arm around the man's unyielding shoulders, as much to anchor himself as to provide comfort. Aragorn gave no indication that he was aware that there was someone beside him. His unblinking gaze never left the ship that bore two of the remaining Fellowship away, though the vessel would soon be indiscernible from the horizon.
Legolas' keen eyes flicked past the boat, falling on the white crests of the waves and the call of the sea. He could hear it, singing through his immortal veins, whispering of Valinor, of the Undying Lands. Even now, as he was grieving, it spoke to him, enticing him to follow. It promised so much, and the elf wanted nothing but to heed the siren's song. Everything else faded, until all he could hear were the gulls, and all he could see was the grey horizon, the endless waves. Then, before he had even realized that his hand had fallen away from his friend, King Elessar caught the Legolas tightly by the arm, his other hand tilting the elf's face up to meet his. The grey of a stormy horizon turned to the grey of a mortal's eyes, and the silent plea that they spoke to Legolas was no less strong than the pull of the sea. Acquiescing to that tempestuous gaze, Legolas looked away from the terrifying beauty of the ocean and rested his head on the king's broad chest. It rose and fell, pressing against Legolas' cheek, and the steady rhythm of a mortal heart drove away the last gull's cry. Aragorn drew his cloak around them both, though the action provided little warmth for the mantle was no less wet than the men. Holding firmly onto each other man and elf waded slowly back to shore. Legolas kept his head beneath Elessar's chin, and the king did not for an instant relax his grip on the slim elf. He would lose no one else to the ocean. Not today.
They made their way silently out of the cold sea, nearly buckling under the weight of their water logged clothes. Or was that the weight of grief? The men of Gondor had used the ship's platform to make a fire on the windswept beach, and anxiously demanded that their king come and warm himself by it. Aragorn silently obeyed, but would not release the blonde elf from his arms. The flames were high, but the king trembled beneath Legolas' cheek.
Seeing Gimli and Sam beside him, the elven archer stretched out a pale hand to grasp the hobbit's shoulder, then stared blankly at the limb as though uncertain what it was doing there. It took him a few moments to notice that it was not Sam shaking, but him. Gimli shot him a sympathetic glance, and Aragorn pulled him tightly into his arms, burying his face in the damp blonde hair and calming Legolas' shivers with gentle hands. If the king's men saw them, they said nothing. The fire was warm on Legolas' back, and soon he had woven his hands through Aragorn's dark hair, caressing the lines from his care worn face.
Gimli interrupted, stating in his own gruff way that he had better get Master Samwise on home before his pretty wife took to worrying. Sam was still staring forlornly into the ocean mist, tears slipping from his round cheeks. Legolas did not dare look that way again; for fear that the ocean's voice would be louder than the one beside him. Then Aragorn's stubbled cheek rubbed against Legolas' smooth one and the elf realized that there was no force strong enough to take him from this man. Gimli mounted the pony after Sam – firmly refusing any assistance – and the hobbit's face had brightened slightly at the mention of the Shire. Pippin and Merry were staying with his wife, and they would be glad to see him home. The Shire was where Sam belonged, and it would heal the new wound in his heart. Gimli would be off to visit his kin, toiling away his pain in the ancient halls of the dwarves. But what of the two that remained? What of them?
Slowly, gently, Legolas shifted so that Aragorn's face was no more than a breath from his, watching the ranger's eye fall closed as he leaned forward and their lips met in a jagged kiss. Large, battle roughened hands pressed against the elf's back, bringing them – if it was possible – even closer together than they had been. Pale skin glowed in the firelight as elven fingers tugged on tangled hair in a silent plea for the ranger to open his mouth. Aragorn readily agreed, and the two warriors dueled relentlessly with their tongues, neither pulling away until both elf and man were gasping for breath. Remembering where they were, Legolas looked anxiously for the men of Gondor only to discover that the royal guard had wisely decided to leave them alone for the night. Catching the path of the archer's light eyes, Aragorn knew immediately whom the elf had been searching for. A bitter laugh tore from his swollen lips, and Legolas could feel the man's chest convulse beneath his fingers. If he hadn't seen Aragorn's face, he might have thought the king was crying. Were not laughter and tears the same to them now?
"I have a kingdom to return to," Isildur's Heir intoned softly, his words ringing with the same resentment that tainted his face, "A people to care for. And yet, there is no one left to care for me." Legolas rubbed circles on the man's back, as though Aragorn had been sobbing instead of speaking. He gently kissed each trembling eyelid, and pressed his lips lightly to the ranger's lips before replying.
"I care for you," he whispered honestly, his voice steady, as it had not been when he had first admitted such a thing. Then the man did sob, his tears falling into Legolas' pale hair, his soul calmed by the archer's feathery touch on his face and back. Legolas said nothing, content to let Aragorn cry in his arms. It was the elf's grief, too, shared in the ranger's tears, and Aragorn wept because Legolas could not.
When the crying had ceased, the Dúnadan turned to gaze despairingly at the black ocean as it danced with the light of a thousand stars. But even the light of the stars could not find the image of a ship departed, nor of friends lost. "It is truly over, then," he said quietly, and Legolas understood, "And this is all that is left to us."
Moving so that he, too, face the ocean, Legolas leaned back into Aragorn and felt the man's strong arms wrap around his waist. "It couldn't last forever," he replied, his words washed away with the tide. Aragorn's hands clenched, and Legolas placed his own over them. Cold, pale fingers twined with callused, warm ones, hands fitting perfectly against each other.
"No," the king of Gondor reluctantly agreed, his chest tightening, "But I wanted it to." Legolas understood this, too, and remembered keeping watch one night in Moria. The hobbits slept in an impossibly tangled heap, distinguishable only when one of them began to mumble about second breakfast. Frodo – at Sam's insistence – was at the top of the pile, and his face was peaceful and made him appear even younger than he always seemed. Boromir lay stretched beside them, and Legolas' bright eyes saw the man's left hand being clutched by a young hobbit's, the other hand resting one his sword. Gandalf slept sitting up, his pointed hat pulled down over his eyes, his staff lying across his lap. His beard fluttered as he snored. Gimli also stayed near to the hobbits, loud snorts intermingled with vague ramblings on the ancestry of dwarves. "Náin, son of Grór . . . Kíli, nephew of Durin . . . who took down seven goblins with one axe blow." His own axe lay ready for use on his chest, stubby fingers gripping tightly onto the handle. He had watched them all and he had smiled, his heart lighter than he had thought possible so far underground, so far from the trees. Then a pair of lips pressed against his neck, and the elf willingly submitted to his lover's demanding mouth. He would have happily abandoned the forests forever, if they could have only stayed like that for just as long.
But the ocean draws Legolas out of his memories, reminding him that it has stolen his friends, it has destroyed that fragile dream. He is reminded that it wants to destroy him, too. "It calls you," Aragorn says softly, reading his mind with ease, "I can feel it." His dark head bows in defeat, for he does not believe himself strong enough to fight the lure of the ocean, powerful enough to silence its song.
"I won't leave you," Legolas replies, turning to face Aragorn and letting the love in those grey eyes drown him with its intensity. There could be a thousand oceans, he knows, and still their pull would be weaker than that of the man before him.
Aragorn can see this in his eyes, and his hand reaches up to gently cup the elf's smooth cheek. "I love you," he whispers earnestly, his voice as husky and sweet as when he first uttered the words, as they had stood together in the gardens of Imladris and let only the moon bear witness. Much has changed, since that beginning, so very long ago. Now the sea cries behind them, the fire before them, and the night air seeps into their skin and chills their souls. And Aragorn's beautiful heart beats unsteady and mortal beneath Legolas' hand.
"It will stop, someday," the elf says quietly, his voice so soft he can hardly his own words. But to Aragorn they are louder even than the roar of the ocean, but of the same design.
"And I will leave you," he states, his words hanging heavy in the silence. They both know it, for though Legolas may make promises of eternity; the curse of death rests ever on Aragorn's brow.
"What will I do then?" the elven prince wonders, sounding so lost that Aragorn draws the slender body to him, Legolas' trembling hand trapped between their chests.
"I will find a way back to you," the king declares, brushing his thumb over Legolas' full lips, "I swear." And it is a promise they both know he cannot keep, but Legolas lays his head upon the man's shoulder and allows himself to believe it, if only for the night. "Stay with me?" Aragorn asks, and Legolas can see the shadows in his stormy eyes, and hear the pleading of his soul. Even if he wanted to, he could not refuse this man.
"Always," he promises, the word catching only a little in his throat. The smile Aragorn gives him is one that none but Legolas have ever seen, his whole soul glowing through his eyes. "Stay with me?" Legolas echoes, tracing Aragorn's rough jaw with delicate fingertips. It is so rare to find him smiling, anymore.
"Always," replies the man fervently, his grey eyes glimmering with devotion and unshed tears. Someday those grey eyes will close and their light will dim – Legolas knows – but tonight they dance with love and promises, they burn with eternity.
"We can never return," he tells his lover, even as his tongue flicks out to lick the other's lips. Aragorn moans at the contact, pleasure suffusing his face as he stares steadily back at the exquisite elf before him. "It's enough," he declares solemnly, twining his hand with the one resting on his chest, "As long as you're here, it's enough." And Legolas believes him.
Notes: This is the sequel to my other story 'The End of the Age', which is my AU version of Gandalf, Bilbo, and Frodo's departure for Valinor (also the Undying Lands). You don't need to read that to understand this, but you might want to know that the reason they're next to the ocean – and depressed – is because they were saying good-bye to their friends. (Of course, if you'd like to read it, I'm not going to stop you.) If you don't know this, I'll tell you now that Imladris is the elven word for Rivendell. (Not that important, but it might throw you off.) And, yes, this story does contain A/L slash. It's nothing graphic, but it is there. Enjoy! (I hope.)
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The wind tore fiercely at Legolas' body even as it bore his friends away, and twice the elf lost his balance in the churning waves. Once he almost gave up, letting the merciless sea carry him where it would. Then his eyes again found Aragorn, and – his face set in determination – he pressed on. Finally, shivering with a chill that had naught to do with the weather and thoroughly drenched in saltwater, Legolas reached Aragorn's side. Focused entirely on the king's worn face, he slipped an arm around the man's unyielding shoulders, as much to anchor himself as to provide comfort. Aragorn gave no indication that he was aware that there was someone beside him. His unblinking gaze never left the ship that bore two of the remaining Fellowship away, though the vessel would soon be indiscernible from the horizon.
Legolas' keen eyes flicked past the boat, falling on the white crests of the waves and the call of the sea. He could hear it, singing through his immortal veins, whispering of Valinor, of the Undying Lands. Even now, as he was grieving, it spoke to him, enticing him to follow. It promised so much, and the elf wanted nothing but to heed the siren's song. Everything else faded, until all he could hear were the gulls, and all he could see was the grey horizon, the endless waves. Then, before he had even realized that his hand had fallen away from his friend, King Elessar caught the Legolas tightly by the arm, his other hand tilting the elf's face up to meet his. The grey of a stormy horizon turned to the grey of a mortal's eyes, and the silent plea that they spoke to Legolas was no less strong than the pull of the sea. Acquiescing to that tempestuous gaze, Legolas looked away from the terrifying beauty of the ocean and rested his head on the king's broad chest. It rose and fell, pressing against Legolas' cheek, and the steady rhythm of a mortal heart drove away the last gull's cry. Aragorn drew his cloak around them both, though the action provided little warmth for the mantle was no less wet than the men. Holding firmly onto each other man and elf waded slowly back to shore. Legolas kept his head beneath Elessar's chin, and the king did not for an instant relax his grip on the slim elf. He would lose no one else to the ocean. Not today.
They made their way silently out of the cold sea, nearly buckling under the weight of their water logged clothes. Or was that the weight of grief? The men of Gondor had used the ship's platform to make a fire on the windswept beach, and anxiously demanded that their king come and warm himself by it. Aragorn silently obeyed, but would not release the blonde elf from his arms. The flames were high, but the king trembled beneath Legolas' cheek.
Seeing Gimli and Sam beside him, the elven archer stretched out a pale hand to grasp the hobbit's shoulder, then stared blankly at the limb as though uncertain what it was doing there. It took him a few moments to notice that it was not Sam shaking, but him. Gimli shot him a sympathetic glance, and Aragorn pulled him tightly into his arms, burying his face in the damp blonde hair and calming Legolas' shivers with gentle hands. If the king's men saw them, they said nothing. The fire was warm on Legolas' back, and soon he had woven his hands through Aragorn's dark hair, caressing the lines from his care worn face.
Gimli interrupted, stating in his own gruff way that he had better get Master Samwise on home before his pretty wife took to worrying. Sam was still staring forlornly into the ocean mist, tears slipping from his round cheeks. Legolas did not dare look that way again; for fear that the ocean's voice would be louder than the one beside him. Then Aragorn's stubbled cheek rubbed against Legolas' smooth one and the elf realized that there was no force strong enough to take him from this man. Gimli mounted the pony after Sam – firmly refusing any assistance – and the hobbit's face had brightened slightly at the mention of the Shire. Pippin and Merry were staying with his wife, and they would be glad to see him home. The Shire was where Sam belonged, and it would heal the new wound in his heart. Gimli would be off to visit his kin, toiling away his pain in the ancient halls of the dwarves. But what of the two that remained? What of them?
Slowly, gently, Legolas shifted so that Aragorn's face was no more than a breath from his, watching the ranger's eye fall closed as he leaned forward and their lips met in a jagged kiss. Large, battle roughened hands pressed against the elf's back, bringing them – if it was possible – even closer together than they had been. Pale skin glowed in the firelight as elven fingers tugged on tangled hair in a silent plea for the ranger to open his mouth. Aragorn readily agreed, and the two warriors dueled relentlessly with their tongues, neither pulling away until both elf and man were gasping for breath. Remembering where they were, Legolas looked anxiously for the men of Gondor only to discover that the royal guard had wisely decided to leave them alone for the night. Catching the path of the archer's light eyes, Aragorn knew immediately whom the elf had been searching for. A bitter laugh tore from his swollen lips, and Legolas could feel the man's chest convulse beneath his fingers. If he hadn't seen Aragorn's face, he might have thought the king was crying. Were not laughter and tears the same to them now?
"I have a kingdom to return to," Isildur's Heir intoned softly, his words ringing with the same resentment that tainted his face, "A people to care for. And yet, there is no one left to care for me." Legolas rubbed circles on the man's back, as though Aragorn had been sobbing instead of speaking. He gently kissed each trembling eyelid, and pressed his lips lightly to the ranger's lips before replying.
"I care for you," he whispered honestly, his voice steady, as it had not been when he had first admitted such a thing. Then the man did sob, his tears falling into Legolas' pale hair, his soul calmed by the archer's feathery touch on his face and back. Legolas said nothing, content to let Aragorn cry in his arms. It was the elf's grief, too, shared in the ranger's tears, and Aragorn wept because Legolas could not.
When the crying had ceased, the Dúnadan turned to gaze despairingly at the black ocean as it danced with the light of a thousand stars. But even the light of the stars could not find the image of a ship departed, nor of friends lost. "It is truly over, then," he said quietly, and Legolas understood, "And this is all that is left to us."
Moving so that he, too, face the ocean, Legolas leaned back into Aragorn and felt the man's strong arms wrap around his waist. "It couldn't last forever," he replied, his words washed away with the tide. Aragorn's hands clenched, and Legolas placed his own over them. Cold, pale fingers twined with callused, warm ones, hands fitting perfectly against each other.
"No," the king of Gondor reluctantly agreed, his chest tightening, "But I wanted it to." Legolas understood this, too, and remembered keeping watch one night in Moria. The hobbits slept in an impossibly tangled heap, distinguishable only when one of them began to mumble about second breakfast. Frodo – at Sam's insistence – was at the top of the pile, and his face was peaceful and made him appear even younger than he always seemed. Boromir lay stretched beside them, and Legolas' bright eyes saw the man's left hand being clutched by a young hobbit's, the other hand resting one his sword. Gandalf slept sitting up, his pointed hat pulled down over his eyes, his staff lying across his lap. His beard fluttered as he snored. Gimli also stayed near to the hobbits, loud snorts intermingled with vague ramblings on the ancestry of dwarves. "Náin, son of Grór . . . Kíli, nephew of Durin . . . who took down seven goblins with one axe blow." His own axe lay ready for use on his chest, stubby fingers gripping tightly onto the handle. He had watched them all and he had smiled, his heart lighter than he had thought possible so far underground, so far from the trees. Then a pair of lips pressed against his neck, and the elf willingly submitted to his lover's demanding mouth. He would have happily abandoned the forests forever, if they could have only stayed like that for just as long.
But the ocean draws Legolas out of his memories, reminding him that it has stolen his friends, it has destroyed that fragile dream. He is reminded that it wants to destroy him, too. "It calls you," Aragorn says softly, reading his mind with ease, "I can feel it." His dark head bows in defeat, for he does not believe himself strong enough to fight the lure of the ocean, powerful enough to silence its song.
"I won't leave you," Legolas replies, turning to face Aragorn and letting the love in those grey eyes drown him with its intensity. There could be a thousand oceans, he knows, and still their pull would be weaker than that of the man before him.
Aragorn can see this in his eyes, and his hand reaches up to gently cup the elf's smooth cheek. "I love you," he whispers earnestly, his voice as husky and sweet as when he first uttered the words, as they had stood together in the gardens of Imladris and let only the moon bear witness. Much has changed, since that beginning, so very long ago. Now the sea cries behind them, the fire before them, and the night air seeps into their skin and chills their souls. And Aragorn's beautiful heart beats unsteady and mortal beneath Legolas' hand.
"It will stop, someday," the elf says quietly, his voice so soft he can hardly his own words. But to Aragorn they are louder even than the roar of the ocean, but of the same design.
"And I will leave you," he states, his words hanging heavy in the silence. They both know it, for though Legolas may make promises of eternity; the curse of death rests ever on Aragorn's brow.
"What will I do then?" the elven prince wonders, sounding so lost that Aragorn draws the slender body to him, Legolas' trembling hand trapped between their chests.
"I will find a way back to you," the king declares, brushing his thumb over Legolas' full lips, "I swear." And it is a promise they both know he cannot keep, but Legolas lays his head upon the man's shoulder and allows himself to believe it, if only for the night. "Stay with me?" Aragorn asks, and Legolas can see the shadows in his stormy eyes, and hear the pleading of his soul. Even if he wanted to, he could not refuse this man.
"Always," he promises, the word catching only a little in his throat. The smile Aragorn gives him is one that none but Legolas have ever seen, his whole soul glowing through his eyes. "Stay with me?" Legolas echoes, tracing Aragorn's rough jaw with delicate fingertips. It is so rare to find him smiling, anymore.
"Always," replies the man fervently, his grey eyes glimmering with devotion and unshed tears. Someday those grey eyes will close and their light will dim – Legolas knows – but tonight they dance with love and promises, they burn with eternity.
"We can never return," he tells his lover, even as his tongue flicks out to lick the other's lips. Aragorn moans at the contact, pleasure suffusing his face as he stares steadily back at the exquisite elf before him. "It's enough," he declares solemnly, twining his hand with the one resting on his chest, "As long as you're here, it's enough." And Legolas believes him.