A/N: Finally...
I'm so sorry this took so long. And the next part may take longer. It's midterms, what can I say? But they're over in two weeks, so then I'll be way faster. Wish me luck, I'm super stressed. *sob* Anyway, as for the plot: I actually have some. Besides that, the romance will be slow. I like to try to make is semi-realistic, so it has to be gradual. So as for now, it's balancing on friendship. Close friendship...Just bear with me.
Other then that, thanks for reviewing, please keep it up! That's why I did this part at all, I was gonna wait till my midterms were over. But everyone was all nice so I had to write more. By the way, my HTML coding is messed up and won't do italics. That's why I do // for thinking and dreams. Sorry if the formatting is confusing because of that.
Oh, and I'm not bothering with any warnings or disclaimer, you can see prior chapters if it's that enthralling to you.
He was not reaching for solace. Really, he just wanted to speak. For despite his endless prowess with a bow, he rarely said anything particularly worth while, and had yet to let a single tear fall in front of his companions. It was simple relief to have the ring far away from him. He could hide it better than the others, but it tempted him. He wanted it. Knew what he wanted to do with it. So it was relief that it was gone.
Something, though, was pulling at him. He aimed his bow and watched as it pierced the orc's skull, watched as the body crashed to the ground.
"Do you feel guilty?"
Legolas turned, aiming again, "Aragorn," he acknowledged. He did not answer the question. Why would he feel guilty? "How do you think Saruman managed to breed such an army? Such a massive wealth of destruction and chaos?" He shot the arrow, not even breaking a sweat.
"I know not," said Aragorn, just as lithe as Legolas in his fighting, but using far more effort. To him, it was not monotonous as it was for Legolas. It was skill. It was proof of strength.
"I have heard whispers from Lothlorien-" Legolas cut himself off, breathing in, "Ones you cannot hear. They are like breaths in my ears, and yet they scream to me."
Aragorn sheathed his sword, the last of the small herd of orcs falling under its blade. "Legolas." He touched the elf's hand, but Legolas pulled back abruptly.
"I do not need comfort," he snapped.
Aragorn cocked his head, running his finger over the hilt at his waist, "What do they tell you?"
"They speak only in verse. Of self-annihilation, of defeat, and of need," Legolas whispered, his dulcet voice almost cracking, "And I'm weary of it. They taunt me, speaking of man's ascension and the elves' fall from grace."
"What could they be?" Aragorn murmured, his voice level, barely above a whisper.
Legolas shook his head, "Who knows? But I can understand one thing they speak of. And that's names. Every once in a while, a name. Clear, as if someone was whispering in my ear. And all names of elves." He felt his hand trembling slightly, and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Lowered his voice so that if his friend was not listening carefully, he could confuse it with a breath of wind. "They tell me of their deaths, Aragorn."
Aragorn moved his lips as if he'd tasted something bitter, "Surely, Legolas...you realize that elves...cannot die..."
"What are you two speaking of, in such somber tones?" asked Gimli, wandering over and wiping his forehead. "We must hurry, we have to rescue the halflings."
Legolas shook himself. He needn't answer the question. He never did. His head snapped up and he cloaked himself in his eternal vale of perfection. "Of course, let's make haste."
With every person he met he grew more alone.
The night was blacker than it had ever seemed before. He'd stood watch, humming elven ballads to himself many a night, and yet none had ever seemed so incessantly black. And in some part of him, he felt scared. Almost 3000 years, and there was still so much he didn't know. Could the world really be so vast that infinity couldn't map its course?
Legolas prided himself on the absolute stealth with which he moved. He was a fluid melting the frost on the ground, not even cracking the thin layer of ice that knelt on the deepest drifts of snow.
He couldn't even hear his own breath, though his heart seemed to be pounding like thunder in is ears.
Suddenly, there was the inevitable sensation steel against his throat. The blade moved effortlessly across his pale skin. He felt it so faintly that it was almost pleasure, but the thin line of blood left behind reprimanded him.
"Going somewhere?"
Legolas realized he'd shut his eyes. He glared upwards, expecting a barrage or a dagger pointed at his chest. But all he saw was Aragorn, his face taut and unreadable. "I knew it was you," the elf quipped half-heartedly. His fingers darted to his throat, where Aragorn's sword had etched the skin and then shaded it with blood. It didn't anger him.
"I thought you would owe it to us to say something, Legolas. Gimli and I have been traveling with you for quite a time now. Yet I know you were not fleeing," the ranger murmured abstractly. Most would have read the tone as being almost remiss. But Legolas had always been attentive, always reading between the lines.
"My duty lies elsewhere now. I'm sorry," he avoided Aragorn's eyes. "Yours is with the halflings. I did not wish to awaken you." His words were tenuous before even leaving his lips.
"You were just going to leave? So that come tomorrow, we'd awake and you'd be gone. Never to cross paths again."
Legolas winced. "We would meet again. I had no doubt of that, or I'd not have left. But come, Aragorn, I must leave. I'll travel more swiftly by night." The meticulous words failed to sound as slack as he wished them to. And in that, the entire forest might as well have been penetrating his skin and bone, and ripping it all back for laughs. A part of his conscience tore from his mind, beseechingly asking, pointing, scoffing, //And what is to be seen? There is only emptiness. And that is nothing new.//
Legolas' eyes strayed to Aragorn's hand which was clasping a feather with a pointed tip. He arched an eyebrow in question and nodded to the man's clenched fingers.
Aragorn shrugged, "I was writing."
"I didn't know you wrote, Aragorn," said Legolas delicately.
"I write if duty ordains me to write." He took a step closer to Legolas. "I was leaving a letter for Gimli. An apology," he said, his voice strained.
Legolas bit his lip, unconsciously entwining his fingers with Aragorn's. The quill was still tipped in ink. His voice was tremulous, his words lingered in the air and then faded in wisps of darkness. "And what did it say?"
Aragorn raised Legolas' hand until it was inches from his face. Carefully, he moved the quill across Legolas' palm, barely scratching the skin. "It said that I trusted him with all of my soul, and knew he would deliver Merry and Pippin. That I would meet him again, and that I wasn't running." Legolas turned his hand over, reading the slanted script running over the plains of his palm, "I cannot leave you".
He looked up at Aragorn, unsure why such a benevolent act of friendship left him with such suffering within. Friendship. Such a narrow, vague term. But then, aren't all words? His mind continued to jog along its route. About why staring at this man whom he'd shared such bitterness and pain with was suddenly hurting more than any of the quests or cuts had, the slashes or scars. He meant to be biting in his reply, to make Aragorn realize he didn't want him, didn't need him. But his words came out sounding desperate, as if all they wished to do was choke him before the man could hear them. "You mustn't, Aragorn." The ranger made no move to leave, so Legolas switched tactics. "You cannot keep with my pace, and I am in a hurry."
"Then I will not sleep. I pledge my life to those who need me, and if Saruman is harming anyone to create those hideous minions of his, that too is my obligation."
"That's why you're coming? You're following me, walking on the very coals of hell, because I've some premonition? Some fatuous gut instinct that something's wrong?"
Aragorn nodded, "I will follow wherever you lead, Legolas. Elves are seldom wrong."
He fell from torment into guilt, from guilt into submission. "It is not so long a journey, and we shall not rest often. Take food, water, salve and your sword. We need nothing more."
"I do not think the fellowship has broken," Aragorn said roughly. "Only become more compact."
Legolas nodded in resignation. "We need nothing more," he repeated, stalwart. "Nothing more than friendship."
