Loophole

Minnow in the Clouds

Part 2/1 (Aheh): Breathe

Warning: Contains innuendo to a m/m relationship between two consenting beings of different species. If you don't like it, don't slag it-leave.

Dislcaimer: I own…nothing.

Author's Notes: Originally Loophole was only a one-short, but at three in the morning I randomly got inspiration to write about Legolas' emotions as he left Aragorn behind. I feel absolutely no pride towards this chapter, and I wish I could boast that it was worth typing up and exhausting my fingers but truthfully, I wonder if this doesn't completely override the very ethics of the first chapter. Perhaps I'm sounding to serious-it's only a bloody fic, after all. Despite the horribleness, try and enjoy, I suppose. =D I live for reviews, hint hint. Sorry for how nonsensical that entire paragraph is-I'm working on a half hour kip as my rest, and haven't had any caffeine in far, far too long.


I awake in a cold sweat as I recall what it is the task I have set upon myself. Unwrapping myself quickly from the grasp which I relish to linger within for all eternity, I draw away from Aragorn's chest and stand. It is futile to attempt recovery, so instead I feign to myself certainty. Aragorn needs Arwen to exist harmoniously with his people, with his destiny-I was but a sign along his road.

But I look at him and I cannot breathe. It never fails; no matter how much training in my lifetime I have undergone, the laborious exercises to ready my senses against any threat, without stirring this sleeping being can leave me gaping. Tears brim within my eyes again, and in seconds I feel the unstoppable queue of their heat down my cheeks. I have wept so many times within his arms, and he in mine-yet I have not that comfort, this time, nevermore.

I rub bitterly at my eyes until red veins curl visibly away from my tear ducts, blearing my vision with burning pain. For several moments I am blind and vulnerable as a newborn. I can feel sweat pricking at my body as my tears had, fingers trembling again as my form lamented when my throat could not produce a song. I knelt on the bed beside the only man I would ever love.

I slowly run the palm of my hand over his still-glistening skin, memorising how the stubble of this particular shave felt beneath my questing touch. I close my eyes and dared breathe his name, barely audible even to my own ears, as my thumb strokes the cleft of his chin. Mesmerised by the hypnotic lull of this man even as he was unawares, I lean close and place a chaste kiss on the chiseled jaw line, snatching his wind-chapped lips beneath my own and reverently kissing them as a ghost would, again and again until I feel tears will overwhelm me again.

My trembling fingertips trek over the still-swollen lips, pressing into them gently, before toying with the raven locks shaggily deposited, uncaringly unkempt, about my King's head in a way quite reminiscent of a sturdy stallion. My sweaty palms leave distinct stains on Aragorn's skin, but by the daunting morn they would have all but faded. I kiss the shuddering eyelids, holding his neck and cheek with the appropriate hand, and rest my brow against his.

At last I stand, drawing away from his body so lethargically, so reluctantly that it was as if we are bound by something tangible, straining at my limbs as I try to leave behind the only one I ever lay with, and ever truly would. Perhaps the future will bring me other lovers; Haldir had showered me with worship and innuendo for many decades, and a dozen willing Elven maids waited in Mirkwood with my Father for a Prince to impregnate them, and to co-produce a Mirkwood heir. But I would never love them as I had Aragorn, never write poetry in the dark or sing sloppy songs, automatically curl against the warmth of his body in the night. I would never know another who would fit with me as he did, who could cling to me as I clung to him like two drowning things, just because we craved each others closeness.

I slide the scrawled note out of my sleeve, placing it deliberately on the pillow where, for countless sleepless nights in his possessively loving grasp, under his command yet willing, I had laid my head. My body shudders, mind revolting against the prospect that I would never again feel full, not as I did both when I lay with Aragorn as he stroked my cheek, waiting for me to adjust or afterwards as he gathered my hand below the sheets and whispered sincerely how beautiful I was, spiritually and physically (though to him it was only the former that truly mattered), worshipped me with soft kisses in the hollow of my throat.

I watch as his body automatically twisted in its deep reverie, looking to spoon with a slight body as it had so many thousand times before. How queer it was that this was the end; our bodies had joined so many times before, rehearsed and yet so beautiful, so fulfilling, and now it was the end. So many words we had whispered to each others lips, but the flow of endearments was staunched, a wound clotted yet never healed.

I slowly close my eyes, turning away from the only creature I ever loved. I sense my pulse beating faster, then hear it within my ears as a hollow drumbeat. We never flaunted our love, but he showed me in the dark that the all of Middle Earth didn't need to know of our relationship to make it real. My legs falter and for a moment I fear I will collapse in grief, but I force myself into strength. I cross the threshold of the room trembling like an aspen leaf, and pry open the door as silently as I can.

I adored him, loved him with such absolute reverence; my entire being was set on showy little gestures to explain to him in terms either pretentious or blatantly simple how I felt. The pressed flower I slid into his hand beneath the table one breakfast or the day he came home to find a room fragrant with candles, decorated with rose-petals strewn over the floor and bed. It took my entire mind to try and show him how I felt, but simply by existing he loved me more deeply than I could ever fathom, that I know.

My throat constricts, eyes clamping shut as I drag the door shut, stepping outside. I feel like falling to the ground and retching in disgust, like throwing back my head and screaming, cursing the Valar for punishing me only on counts of unrequited love, but instead I merely tremble. As previously, I forget to breathe and find myself light-headed, strangling myself without meaning to. Eons will pass, and eventually I will migrate across the sea, toss the betrothal band I wear on a chain at my ankle into oblivion, and I will kiss another being with desperation equal to what I showed Aragorn. I will cling to another being and tell them that I love them as no other. But I will never forget Aragorn.

And I never again will truly breathe.