A/N: This part has definite slash. That's your warning, because there hasn't been much until now. If you want more romance please tell me. I don't know if people are reading this because of the plot, or the L/A more. So let me know, 'kay? Secondly, this part is bizarre and leaves a lot of open ends and questions. They'll all be answered later on, promise. Enjoy, and as always review to keep it going!
The grove was shaded and cool, even with the sun beating down mercilessly on everything else. It existed as a separate realm, undeterred by what coincidentally was occurring in reality. Galadriel filled her jug with water, then emptied it. Full, now empty. Pour in, pour out. Full, empty. Full, empty. Full...
She let it drop, floating on the fountain's surface, then slowing sinking as the liquid seeped into it.
"Lady Galadriel?"
She turned, very slowly, as she always did when she was taken off guard. It was too predictable to whirl on her heels. "Legolas. I was not expecting you tonight. I'm rather tired."
The elf nodded, taking another step, apologetically wetting his lips. "I couldn't sleep. Would it be possible to talk now?"
For a moment, Galadriel stood still, her face pensive and masked. Despite her gentle demeanor, Legolas felt hunted and appraised. She stalked him. His emotions. Everything. And then, quite naturally, "I don't see why not. Where is your companion?"
"I did not wish him to be here," Legolas said, tight-lipped. "He doesn't understand anything. As a mortal, he's shallow."
"Indeed?" asked Galadriel. "He did not seem it to me."
Legolas brushed this aside, reaching into his tunic and pulling out the phial. Galadriel arched a single eyebrow, almost skeptic, but said nothing. "I found this strung on the neck of an orc, broken as you see it now. But when I tried to break it, nothing happened."
She beckoned him closer, then gently slid the vial from his grip. "And why have you come to me?"
"In it...in it...there were traces...traces of your water. Your mirror," said Legolas. The night felt cooler and more brisk, like the wind had finally penetrated the thick curtain of leaves above them.
"Have you ever looked in my fountain?"
Legolas cocked his head. Galadriel's thoughts were so cryptic at times that he could hardly follow from one word to the next. Her thoughts breeched the gap from her mind to her lips, but left open the chasms of the conversations about her. Slowly, he murmured, "No. Should I?"
"Everyone should gaze in the mirror, if the chance presents itself." She took his hand, leading him to the pool. She reached in and pulled out the silvern jug, the droplets catching on its metallic service even with no light to reflect them. Vaguely, Legolas was aware of the fact that she was still clutching his other hand in hers; a mix of desperation and uncertainty in the grip.
Suddenly, she jerked on his hand, plunging it into the water. Legolas didn't make a sound as his voice worked to express the bizarre immersion he was feeling. It felt almost gelatinous to the touch, cold and smooth. If it were a symphony it would play legato, if it were a drink it would be the sweetest wine, with the most bitter aftertaste. Galadriel let go of his hand, stepping backwards, her face a mask.
Legolas stumbled backwards. His hand felt clammy and sweaty and sticky and dry and wet and dirty and cleansed and...
Everything. All at once. A wave of nausea passed over him. He was sad and mournful and enthusiastic and furious and happy and cool and lustful and...
His hand hurt. That sort of dull ache from walking in the dead of winter and rolling snowballs with your bare hands.
Galadriel turned to him, deliberately slow. She had a golden chain dangling from the tip of one finger, a vial on the end of it. She unscrewed the top of the tube, then dipped it under the waterfall, filling it. Moments passed as the water ran into the vial, all the time bubbling over the sides and more filled it. Galadriel took it away and put the cork back on. A lucid, thick liquid filled it, looking like molten silver, scintillescent as it caught off the darkness.
Voice shaky, Legolas murmured, "How did you repair...?" He felt drained and naked. The cove was fluctuating, its peace warped. The elf sank to his knees, trembling.
"I repaired nothing. That vial was of no use to me, smashed as it was. A broken bottle holds nothing but air."
"But...why would you have...another of...?" He felt so cold, and yet so passionate. Everything he was feeling was being placed under a lens and magnified.
Galadriel smiled, her eyes holding none of their usual light. Legolas wondered how she could seem so dimmed yet so sharpened at the same time. She began to walk, circling him, scrutinizing him. "Sometimes, I feel regret for what was done to our people so long ago. That they were mutilated. That they fell. And became those...creatures. Does it not hurt you, that you are slaughtering your people, Legolas? In essence, murdering your ancestors, as revolting as they may be, in cold blood?"
"I must. They are...not..." he panted, his voice husky, "Not who...they were. They are not elves. They are..."
"I have seen it. How single arrow flies, killing them so quickly. How hundreds fall beneath your lethal blade. Have you no pity?"
Legolas winced, clutching his stomach, "I...have no need for...it." But suddenly, he did. Much more now than ever before.
"You have an advantage. You...you have immortality. It is not fair. It's not right! Always..." her hand trembled as she clutched the chain of the vial. "Always, we fight with honor. Above all else, it is revered."
He looked up at her, his breath still heavy and choked, "Galadriel...you..."
And she wasn't Galadriel. She was not noble. She was not fair. She was not resigned and aesthetic. He let out a dry sob, "Avarice. I see it...in your eyes..."
"You see nothing that was not there, Legolas," she whispered, tossing her head. "I was blinded by ideals. I was blinded by mere complexions. And for that I must atone. So many orcs, dead. So many elves, in that, dead." She smirked, calculating and cold. "It is not enough for them to feed on the flesh of men. They need something with substance, to keep them as alien as they are. And that is why they must drink of elfin immortality. So that their power never wanes, and their strength never dies."
Legolas felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him like water. Galdriel shook her head, patronizing him like a child. "My water. One must never touch it..." she sighed, stopping her leisurely pacing.
"I have heard names..." Legolas said imploringly, still slouched over the ground.
Galadriel knelt over him, tipping his face up to hers. "And tonight, you will hear your own, my prince." She fastened the ampule about her neck so that it dangled above her breasts. "I thank you for your life's essence. It will go to one who has suffered far more pain than you, I promise."
"Galdriel!" he gasped. "You...you can't...you were..."
"Flawless?"
He shook his head, "No one is. But you...were as close as one comes..."
"Yes," she whispered, "I was."
He was so cold. So hungry. So tired. And so bitter.
"Legolas?"
The elf looked up with a start. He wrapped his arms more tightly around himself, shielding himself from Aragorn. No. Don't look. You don't know...
"Leave me alone," he breathed. And he was scared.
Aragorn knelt next to him, "Where is Lady Galadriel? Why did you leave without telling me?"
"Shut up," Legolas whispered, no vehemence in his harsh words, "You dare...you dare...to live this way? How can you...can you..."
If he was not so weak, he'd have cried.
Aragorn put one hand on his shoulder, "Legolas, what is this? Tell me. If you found no answers, we'll go to Rivendell next, if you wish. We'll..."
"Rivendell?" Legolas echoed. The ranger gave a faint, consolatory nod. "And what might we find there?" His voice was more raw then Aragorn had ever heard it; his words were moreso. "I doubt that we will find answers in Rivendell. But we'll find solace, right? At least you will. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Aragorn drew back, "I don't know what you speak of."
"Do you not want to go back to Arwen? You know she's an elf, Aragorn. And you are only a mortal. Tell me, why do you love her? Why do you want to go back to her so badly?" He pushed himself up, facing the man. His eyes flashed, accusatory.
"Legolas..." Aragorn whispered, finding his voice caught in his throat, without the wit to lubricate his words.
"Is it not her beauty? Her immortality? Do you see her for a woman, or for an accolade of your charm? Elves are so sacred. Consecrated, almost. Do you desire her now? Or do you just want what everyone does?" Legolas licked cracked lips, "To grasp eternity. To hold perfection, tangible in your hands."
Aragorn opened his mouth to protest. And the words...
They wouldn't come.
Legolas ran a single finger down the man's chest, "Do you love her?" He stepped close. "If you were with her now...just imagine..."
"Le..." Aragorn murmured, but it came out as a muted protestation.
"Would you feel..." Legolas breathed, his voice subdued and irresistibly inquiring, "Her hands touching you?" He wound his arms around Aragorn's neck, tracing the man's dry lips with a single finger.
"Her voice speaking to you?" He leaned in closer, cornering Aragorn against a thick barked tree.
"Her skin under your caress?" Aragorn moaned slightly as Legolas pressed against him, tantalizingly deliberate, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"Her lips...kissing you?" he finally breathed out, staring straight at Aragorn. The man tilted back his head, letting his eyes flutter closed; guilt and deprivation, hunger and want ravishing him all at once.
And then he was slammed back against the tree, Legolas tightly grasping his shirt in his fist. He could feel the pressure and abrasiveness of the tree behind him, the splinters digging into his back. Legolas' slender fingers clenched almost painfully into the coarse fabric, threatening against his skin. But more than that he could feel the wrath emanating from Legolas. The choler, the fury, the ire, the pain...
The regret.
"I'm not her. Where do you get the clout to fall in love? Where do you get the superiority to see everything I've seen a million times only once? Where do you get the courage to feel these futile, wrenching emotions every damn day?"
He slumped to the ground. God, he hated himself. It was beyond hate. He loathed. He despised. It was sickening.
Aragorn was still leaning against the tree, his breathing a mix of craving, fear and concern. He dropped to the ground. "Legolas."
"Stop it! Stop...looking...stop...pitying..."
"I'm not," Aragorn said flatly. "It's alright. Just...tell me, please..."
"Don't you understand, Aragorn? I'm not immortal! I will wither and fade and no one will remember me! I grow tired, and I grow hungry, and I grow vain...And yet you seek to tell me that it's alright? I don't want solace, damn it!" He crossed his arms over his chest, drawing up his knees. Galadriel. She was the epitome of purity. And yet she was the one who stripped him of his own innocence, raping his soul. His immortality was...
"This was everything," he breathed.
Aragorn shook his head, "I do not understand. But I swear to you, this will not go unpunished. In the morning we'll set out. As soon as the sun rises. And for now, we'll sleep on it." He sunk to the ground with a luxurious stretch.
Legolas inched closer, leaning against him, "I'm tired, Aragorn."
Blearily he blinked his eyes before drifting off to sleep.
His last intelligible thought was that his eyes, for once, were closed.
