It was the rain that first woke Aragorn.
The first few drops did not fall but plow, and upon opening his eyes he had to snap them shut again for fear of another arrow-like drop spearing into his vision. He shifted his position so he faced out of the wind and opened his eyes again, this time wincing not at the deluge of rain but at the ache in his head.
What had happened? Where was Legolas? The rain started to bite into his skin, the wind thrashed it so hard. Oh, his head was throttling him. And it was so cold. Where had Legolas got to? Why—
Suddenly the steep terraces marching up his line of vision slammed into memory. The Citadel? How had he gotten here? Where on earth was Legolas…
Aragorn stood, moaning at the throb in his head, and was immediately knocked back into the wall by the wind, chain clanking. Nobody could stand this wind. He hoped to Elbereth and Gilthoniel both that Legolas hadn't—he wouldn't—he'd know better—
Voices reached Aragorn's ears. The storm clouds overhead had not quite made their way across the mountains yet, and a solid line of shadow ran down the length of the foot-wide terrace where the clouds ended and the sun began. Grimacing with pain and general unease at the height, Aragorn leaned out over the rock ledge to peer down onto the last terrace, the one pierced with sunlight. He stood in shadow.
He choked.
* * * *
To the Sea, to the Sea! The white gulls are crying,
The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying…"West I go," Legolas thought through sun and air and blue, so very blue. It wasn't supposed to be this way. He wanted Aragorn, sea-ache though there was! He didn't desire this scintillating clamor of blue and white, sun on water; didn't want to be spirited away to lands of eternal plenty! What good were they when Aragorn would falter and fail and die alone, so alone to go off on the paths of Men unknown. Paths never retraced…
"Legolaaaas!"
Pain such as even Glorfindel's dagger—who was Glorfindel?—hadn't inflicted lanced through Legolas' whole body, jerking him into a spasm of such intent white agony that he had no idea whether he screamed or not. His eyes, wide and white and rolling, caught more of the same swirl of sun and sky and water, sickening him beyond all hope of recovery. But oh, he'd forgotten his stomach was empty—pain, not even that pain came close to this new one!—and there was nothing to expel, nothing to ease his misery. Except some voice that seemed to be calling his name…
"Legolas! Leg—"
Wouldn't it stop? He was in enough agony already; he didn't need everyone clamoring for his attention. How could he attend to anything beside this white-hot presence in his leg? Leg…was it his leg? How had it focused there? Maybe he was just getting confused with his name. Confusing, it was all so confusing—
"Please, Legolas, oh please, for me, Aragorn, please just hold on—Legolas!"
Aragorn! Legolas struggled to get the name past his lips but could not. He opened his mouth—or thought he did—a few times, then gave up. His senses had abandoned him. That voice was probably just a figment of his imagination. But wait…if he could just see Aragorn, then perhaps he could be sure. Not that he believed it was possible, but just to simplify matter he'd check.
In the torrent of color, his eyes rested on the one bland, anchored object available: a chain. What was a chain doing here? Where was here? His eyes must have widened, for dream-Aragorn gave a yip or a yelp, Legolas wasn't sure which and started babbling.
"Oh Legolas, you're—but of course you are, I knew you would be, just hold on, all right? I—" he grunted, his words coming thin tight between straining lips. "I'm so sorry, I never should have left you. Did I leave you? I don't remember. Oh sweet Elbereth, Legolas, hang on. I'm—trying—to—"
Legolas tried to mumble an assurance; don't hurt yourself Aragorn you sound tired; but still his voice refused to work. Instead he watched (in between spurts of pain that slammed his eyes shut) the dull red of the iron chain inch slowly through the whirl of blue and white and—was that grey, or silver, or both? Legolas' nerves hung in shreds and his mind lacked the capacity to link the jerks of the chain to his pain, let along differentiate among colors in this chaotic canvas through which he floated. Or dangled. It was all so confusing.
But the lessening of pain—oh, he understood that, when it came. And the strong arms around him. "Oh Legolas, Legolas, I thought I'd lost you…" The voice in his ear didn't seem so hard to believe in now. Trying to respond to it brought only a muddle of broken thoughts and words, but that was fine; the arms and the voice didn't seem to mind. "Oh, that gash and your poor leg, I'm so sorry, but—Legolas? The wind! It's gone! Did you notice? Can you hear me at all? Please be alright, Legolas, please!"
Had they been cold, Legolas would have thought the drops on his face rain. But they ran warm down his forehead, over his eyelids, into his mouth…their sharp salt taste took the elf's whirling senses and set them upright and in their proper places. Suddenly the blue was sky, and the white was sun, and that silver-grey flashing over there was a stream—and the stubbly beard nuzzling his hair was Aragorn's.
"I—"
"Oh!" Aragorn gripped him tighter, kissing his eyes, his lips, his chin. "You're—oh, Legolas, I thought—when I saw you I thought there wasn't a chance."
"Is he—"
"He's gone. Gone, gone, gone, and you're here." Aragorn choked on the last word, kissed Legolas instead. "You're here," he finished, smiling through tears lit by the sun.
"How?"
"You tell me, I was the fool who went and got hit—no, no, rest. Don't speak. The rain woke me up—it's gone now, isn't it? Never reached this step—and it was so cold. I didn't know where you were until I looked and you were falling, you were…" The man's voice caught again and he pressed his face into Legolas' neck, stifling sobs. He stopped as the elf recoiled. "Oh Elbereth, I'm sorry, he got you—"
"A scratch," Legolas smiled weakly. "Go on, what happened?"
"When I saw you—I was too far away. There wasn't any chance. But I jumped and then this—" He held up a rusty end of the chain clamped to his collar, the one neither of them had managed to find time for over the course of the previous day. "I threw it. And it caught, it caught you and now…" He clutched the elf in his arms more tightly than ever. "You have no idea how frightened I was."
"Yes I do." Ignoring the pain in its various places, Legolas raised his hand to Aragorn's cheek and just held it there, savoring the ability to do so.
"Of all the ways we have to part," Aragorn murmured between butterfly kisses that loosened the strain in Legolas' face one by one, "this would have been the worst."
Above them, at the top of the long stair of terraces in the doorway of the Citadel, Legolas could make out the glint and gleam of sun on silk and silver mane. He did not need the sight to remind him and so it was from his very own heart when he took Aragorn's face in both his hands and proclaimed, "We don't ever have to part."
Confusion flitted across the Man's face and the elf lay a pale finger over lips that tried to protest.
"I gave up my mortality the second I loved you," Legolas whispered, bringing his mouth close to Aragorn's to keep the man from speaking. "And I don't regret a moment of it." He drowned the Man's wide eyes, his slack jaw and guilty wince, in a kiss that left them both shuddering.
"The sea—"
"Will age me," Legolas purred, "and catch me up with you." He fingered the wings of silver in Aragorn's hair lovingly, and the man could only stare and blink tears from eyes turned from grey to blue.
"Aragorn, son of Arathorn!"
Aragorn looked to Legolas in wonder but the elf nodded his head toward the top of the mountain. The man stood on sturdy legs, still holding Legolas in both arms, and squinted along the breadth of the terraces. He thought he recognized that voice.
"I trust Legolas son of Thranduil found you in good health?"
"I found him, at any rate!" Legolas called back, since Aragorn's gaping rendered him speechless. "I forgot to tell you," the elf mouthed.
"Would you like a hand there?"
Aragorn shook himself and looked the long way toward the tangle of blurry figures at the top of the terraces. He knew Arwen could see him. "It would be most appreciated, Lady Undomiel!" he called, glancing down to Legolas to assess the damage in a moment. "Athelas first, please!"
"On its way!"
After a smiling moment where Aragorn just stared incredulously at the wounded, impish elf laughing softly in his arms, a crown of blonde hair appeared over the edge of the terrace above and dropped a leather pouch down between them.
Aragorn's jaw dropped further. "Lady of Rohan?"
Eowyn gave him an arch look. "Surely, Aragorn son of Arathorn, you don't consider a Shieldmaiden of the Rohirrim incapable of scaling mountains?"
"I don't think it's the mountains that bother him," Legolas spoke up, shaking Aragorn from his stupor with a kiss.
Aragorn looked from elf to Lady to the far-distant gathering at the entrance to the Citadel, and for all that he was raised among the elves in a heart of their culture, he could find no words.
* * * *
Minas Tirith had unrolled all her carpets. Trumpets flashed, shields shone, and from every window hung a banner bearing the White Tree and the Crown and the Seven Stars on their field of ebon. The crowd in the square before the Citadel rustled in their finest finery, buzzing with nearly palpable anticipation as they awaited the opening of the great white doors. And above them all, the Tower of Ecthelion caught the still-rising sun's rays and multiplied them a thousandfold, bathing all present in dazzling light and excitement the likes of which had not been seen since news of the victory at the Field of Cormallen.
Suddenly the ranks of trumpeters rose their silver horns from the battlements on either side of the great doors, sending light reflecting every which way all over again, and the crowd hushed. In the quaking stillness of voices all that could be heard was the wild flapping of the flags and banners like hands a pace before themselves clapping; that and the triumphant keen of wind through the rooftops of the White City, stirring hats and veils from heads and paleness from cheeks.
Then the great doors creaked slowly open, and even the wind died down. Eyes and mouths widened as the two white trees emblazoned on the door parted, spilling light forth from the courtyard within.
"The King has returned," a voice intoned, rich and deep and laced with something that let it be heard the whole crowd over.
An overeager cheer leapt from collective throats but crept back as the voice spoke again. "And he has been reunited with his beloved."
This time they let themselves cheer, loud and long, until the doors stood open and empty and it became apparent that all would wait until they quieted.
Those in the front could see it first. The light of the rising sun splashed through the inner courtyard, magnifying and seemingly infusing the two figures within until it hurt to look at them. But those in the front looked on and passed the word back: They're, coming, they're coming! A second hush fell on the crowd, more potent and breathy than the first, like a pebble perched on a peak that divides continents.
The figures advanced, one with a slight limp, gathering light until it seemed sure they would burst—and then they passed under the arch of the doorway and were doused; their sudden quenching left the crowd blinking and searching for the brilliant points of light they'd been drawn to.
Just as the sun cleared the last battlement the pair emerged, gleaming gold and green and, in the light reflected by the Tower, every color of the spectrum. At the top of the stairs they halted, waiting for the sun to withdraw its fiery shield and reveal them to the crowd.
It did. Within moments there stood not a tower of golden mail but Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King of Gondor. Even without the sun's full force the White Tree flared from his breast brighter than his armor, rendering those in the very front blind and those further back near to it.
And beside him, beside their king holding his hand stood Legolas, son of Thranduil, Prince of Mirkwood. The embroidery on his green velvet glimmered gold, as did his mane, lifting lightly in the resurrected breeze to settle in strands on Aragorn's shoulder. Both pairs of blue eyes blazed out across the assembled hundreds, taking in their precipitous position. Not daring to look at each other.
The hush deepened. The breeze that had toyed with the elf's hair stilled itself to silence, as did the flags and banners. Not a word was said, not a breath taken in the entire city for a moment or two as Aragorn and Legolas stood on the dais motionless, waiting.
…has been reunited with his beloved…
The crowd erupted into cheers. Clarion calls charged from the throats of the famed silver horns as streamers sailed from windows and children tugged at their mothers' skirts to be lifted up to see. From the Citadel itself came carpets of sweettail and buckwillow flowers, tossed free in great baskets at the orders of two smiling women back in the courtyard. Higher up, from the Tower itself, came torrents of colored paper, whirling and swirling down onto the heaving, cheering tumult.
Amidst the flowers and streamers and roars of joyous people, a Man turned to an elf with a smile.
"You've got flowers in your hair!" Aragorn shouted over the general carousing.
"So get them out!" Legolas replied, biting his lip to keep the tears from spilling just yet.
"No," said Aragorn, pulling Legolas in all his emerald array close. "I rather like them there." Then he brought his lips to the elf's and kissed, long and deep and rich, and Legolas returned it all the more.
End