Someday, After A While
By: Emjay
The sun was setting, throwing its last golden rays across the world before diving into the horizon, when he finally stood in the doorway, hidden to the unnoticed eye, his eyes staring into the room before him. It had taken him nearly the entire day to find the courage to even dare going near it. Something had held him back, every time, like the conscience of a man about to commit murder, and he was not about to disobey its siren call. The familiarity of it nearly stole his breath, bringing with it memories so deep and beautiful he nearly wept to recall them. How many a time had he stood in a doorway like this one, considering, deciding, and wanting, so absolutely? It was like a ritual, one both damning and dear, and he longed so much to step over the threshold like he had in the past and relieve his heart of its terrible burden. It choked him, made him struggle for breath. It consumed him.
The trials of the day behind him seemed pitifully trivial compared to the one that lay before him, just out of reach. All bittersweet joy and elation he had felt earlier was gone, leaving an empty space in their wake. Looking into the room was like looking into the not so distant past, a past that he had loved, had cherished. The memories were as fresh and vivid as they had ever been, and he wished that he could relive them, if only for a moment. More than churning guilt held him in its tight hold now; remembrances of smoky azure eyes in candlelight, the heady sensation of lips on hot skin, of fevered kisses and passionate, desperate embraces that had made him burn with the wanting. In his own eyes they flickered, clouding his vision. But suffocating guilt, and shame, were immediate, and the feeling vanished like a lifted fog, no matter how desperately he fought to hold it in place.
Unbidden, a different memory surfaced, of a clear night, standing close on a bridge, where love was promised and immortality was forsaken. She had been so unbearably beautiful in those quiet moments his heart had shattered and his throat had closed up. She'd looked up at him as if seeing the answer to all her prayers, her soft, delicate hand a constant warmth around his own. Her eyes had told him of a love so pure and true and she would give her own life if only to spend it with him, and he had felt the power of it wash over him like a wave. In that second he had given his heart to her and told himself that he could never love another as he did her. The terrifying knowledge that that promise, that certainty had been shaken so soon afterward made him sick with guilt.
The night was a clear one, a blanket of midnight blue embroidered with diamonds and a milky moon. Under it's baleful eye the residents of Imladris slept on, unburdened by the weight of awareness and a troubled mind. A slightly chilled wind blew, lifting gauzy curtains and rustling the reaching branches of trees, sending piles of multi-coloured leaves into lazy, swirling dances. Alone by a small pool, Aragorn seemed the only one awake, his weathered face lined with tension and worry, his eyes fixed on the glittering pendant nestled safely in his palm. Around him the sounds of the slumbering haven swirled, cocooning him in a shroud of idle noise, though he heard none of it but for the memory of soft words exchanged not a night before.
"I would rather spend one lifetime with you," she had said to him in her deep, caressing voice, "than face all the ages of this world alone."
And his own heart had cried the same to her, though he said not the words. The remembrance of her soft lips on his afterwards was like a dream from which he wished not to wake. The sensation filled his body, wrapping gentle hands around his weary heart and mending the rifts in his soul that had borne too much sorrow. He recalled the light in her ageless eyes before they had parted for sleep, and felt once again the overwhelming wave of love and affection take hold of him. The power of it made him nearly weep. He could scarcely believe his good fortune to have simply known her, let alone hold her heart as surely in his hand as he did her immortal jewel. He wanted to cry to the heavens his love for her, to let all upon this earth know of their passion and bear witness.
It was in this state of euphoria that he turned suddenly and found himself captured in the wandering stare of another awake that night.
"It seems I am not the only one to find no solace in sleep."
The voice he knew from a forgotten time, low and musical like the majestic sound of a faraway horn blowing. The face, emerging from behind a veil of golden leaves, shining bright against the darkness and dappled moonlight. The eyes, clear as the sea at a distance and yet a smoky azure when close; the mouth, curved in a slight smile that held something that might have been melancholy behind content. His heart leapt and, without thinking, he moved forward, arms held aloft.
"Legolas," he said joyfully, embracing the friend whom he had thought might never grace his gaze again. "It has been too long."
"Indeed," was the reply, soft like a whisper, "The days of your childhood are ones fondly kept in my memories, Estel, or should I say Elessar?"
The two broke apart slowly, and once again Aragorn's face seemed shadowed by discontent.
"It is true," he said, suddenly uncomfortable under that clear stare, "Though you must understand why Elrond Peredhil acted as he did, to not tell you. Had you stayed in Imladris longer you might have known eventually, but you did not."
Legolas nodded, the melancholy Aragorn had seen in his smile now clear upon his face.
"I had wished to stay longer Elessar, but the demands of a Prince are not ones idly forgotten or ignored." He moved backwards a step, looking beyond Aragorn into a memory that he himself could not see. "I remember coming here. I remember your youthful face so clearly. You were naught but a young man, though I could see the eagerness in your eyes then, the yearning to shed your innocence." His voice wavered, though Aragorn could hear it only because he knew it so well unmarred. "Look what that eagerness had done to you, Elessar. If only you had wished to remain a boy."
Heavy silence descended upon them, and Aragorn found himself yearning to break it. Where had their easy camaraderie gone? What had happened to make them so unaccustomed to each other's presence? He could not understand why their eyes refused to meet, nor why when he made to reach out and touch his friend that he would hesitate, as if unsure such contact was allowed. Legolas seemed oblivious to his awkwardness, though Aragorn knew that while he did not look aware of it, he surely knew it inside.
Unsure of what to say next, Aragorn finally touched Legolas' shoulder lightly, guiding him deeper into the embrace of the trees where a roughly hewn bench sat waiting.
"Come, let us sit," he said. "There is much to talk of."
Together they sat, hands resting side by side between them, and with only the stars as witness began to speak. Their words were but for the two of them, and carried by the wandering wind were soon lost to the night, fading as the sky began to brighten into grey twilight. When the sun's first bright fingers stretched across the valley they walked together into the great house, leaving each other's company with only a soft word of parting. Aragorn continued down the faintly lit corridors, his mind far away, and though the two of them had said very little, he felt as if he'd learned his friend's deepest secrets and desires. When he finally lay down his head upon his pillow and closed his eyes, the image of Legolas as the swaying trees had parted and the moon cast its luminescent glow upon his fair face seemed burned into his eye-lids, and though he soon fell asleep, it did not fade.
In the morning he thought the night before nothing but a blissful dream, and it was only when he caught sight of Legolas in the garden below his balcony, talking lowly with Arwen did he realize it had not been a fantasy. He watched the two of them, his presence so far unnoticed, and Aragorn found his eyes drawn to his Elven friend, wondering at the enrapturing hum of his voice, and the bright shimmer of his golden hair. For a moment, Arwen's own dark beauty seemed eclipsed, and it was then that Aragorn finally pulled away from the balcony, moving back into his room as if under a spell. His heart thudded painfully against his chest, and it was only after he paused a moment to collect himself that he realized in the time between their first word and last the night before, something had changed.
There was a muffled sound from within the room, like that of a door slowly opening, and Aragorn stiffened, his heart beating quicker. His hand hovered above the door handle, unsure, and he felt the caress of the light morning breeze dance across his face. The corridor behind him was silent but for the far off footsteps of a sentry on the battlements, and he knew that while he could stand there for nigh on eternity and never be bothered, there must come a time when he would push open the door and go inside. The one who resided there deserved more than he could possibly give, and it was upon his shoulders to end what might have been.
Courage rapidly failing him, Aragorn nudged the door open further and slipped inside, closing it behind him without a sound. The room was dark and cool. A single lantern hung in the far corner, flickering listlessly and casting little but a pitiful circle of light around it, illuminating one corner of the massive bed and naught else. Aragorn stepped further in, looking around him, hardly daring to breathe lest he be found out. To his left along the far wall the bay windows were flung open and his eyes could just make out a figure silhouetted against the fluttering curtains of silk, looking south-west towards the sea. His heart rose rapidly in his throat, and he swallowed hard, trying to regain the shreds of bravery that were already out of reach. He closed his eyes for a moment to calm himself and another memory sprang to the surface, of a night like this one, where words were exchanged unwillingly and Aragorn nearly lost his dearest friend to his own weakness.
Above him the intertwining branches of the mallorn trees swayed as if waltzing to an unheard, eerie beat, letting little of the bright moonlight through their thickly woven quilt of golden leaves. Aragorn stood against the base of one such tree, one hand resting lightly on his breast and the other hanging by his side, his face turned up to the sky, bathed in the dappled light of the stars. Around him the sounds of Lothlorien went on without disturbance, the soft trickle of a nearby stream, the rustle of birds moving restlessly in their nests, the mournful cry of a far off owl, all interwoven in a symphony of the night. The Elven song of lamentation still seemed to echo through the trees, their musical voices raised as one to make a single, clear melody, and Aragorn found himself entranced by the sound of their poetic words.
In gwidh ristennin….I fae narchanen….I lach Anor ed
Ardhon gwannen Mithrandir, A Randir Vithren, ureniathach….
I amar galen….
I reniad lin ne mor nuithannen…..
Unbidden, a mistiness came to his eyes, and he brushed the unshed tears away with the tips of his fingers, feeling the tiny droplets of wetness pool there. A heavy weight had settled on his heart, such as he had not known for a long while. Again and again his eyes showed to him Mithrandir's last moments of struggle, his rough, aged voice bidding them flee from the caverns of Moria with hardly a care for his own life which hung so precariously in the balance. He could still feel the suffocating heat of the Balrog's flame upon his face, could hear the twang as arrows were released and the sound of the Goblin's broken screeches raised in fury, their cries colouring the close, humid air. It wasn't until that moment that Aragorn had truly begun to fear. If the darkness that crept up stealthily behind them like a rancid disease could so easily snatch Mithrandir from their hands, what chance did they stand without him, bereft of his wisdom and guidance, his power?
Now safe within the barriers of Lòrien, Aragorn felt as if their quest might not be so utterly hopeless after all. He could not deny the grueling difficulty that they would still come to face, but there was a flickering light inside of him that spoke of a time in the future when none of them would sleep with even a tendril of fear in their minds, and he was heartened, if only a little, by its persistent glow.
There was a sound of movement to his right, and he turned his head, half expecting one of the Fellowship stirred from slumber. It was not, however. The rough scraping was nothing more than Frodo rolling over with a muffled sound of distress onto his side, the blankets he slept on rubbing against the cushioning carpet of fallen leaves underneath. For a moment, Aragorn made to go to his side, to see what troubled him, then stopped, rebuking himself. There could be no other source of the Hobbit's distress than that of Mithrandir's fall, and the terrible, leeching weight that hung at all times from around his fragile neck. He knew that there was no comfort he could give that would ease his discontent. It was not his place to offer help when he knew not the extent of Frodo's suffering, just as it was not any other's place to question his own decision of exile, when they could not understand the blood that flowed in his veins, the crippling weakness.
Instead, he turned away from the his slumbering fellows and went without hesitation further into the embrace of the trees, trailing his fingers along the soft, yielding bark of each trunk he passed with soundless footsteps. He left his troubled mind free to wander and let his feet guide him, following their uncertain path through the forest that had at once lifted all the fear and worry from his shoulders the moment he stepped under its protective branches, spiriting it away to an unknown place. He was enchanted by the mystery of the Golden Wood, the same mystery that had stolen many a wandering mortal's heart. He felt more at peace here than he had in his entire life, long as it had been to this day, and had the infinite longing to stay as long as he possibly could, perhaps even forever. But he knew he was not to ever be that lucky. The daunting quest still loomed like a gathering storm before them, and he could not idly forget it, not while so many lives hung in the balance, especially those of which he had come to care deeply for.
Which of course, instantly brought to mind….
No, he chastised himself silently, firmly, forbidding his mind to wander down that uncertain, dangerous path. He had long since buried any thoughts he might have once entertained, pushed away that curious tug every moment their eyes met, ignored that slow burn in the pit of his stomach that seemed ever constant. There was no place within him for such things. Never. Not while the Evenstar still waited for him, holding with her the near entirety of his weak heart. For it was impossible to simply forget the love that had consumed him from the moment his eyes had beheld her, the love that still held him as surely as the moon hung in the sky. That was one thing that never wavered, while such other emotions, anger, fear, and hopelessness raged like a furious storm ready to take all in its path one moment, and died like a guttering flame in the next. This powerful love was the only surety in his ever changing life, and the only thing his grasping fingers could clutch at when the waters became rough. He was not about to toss it aside so easily for a feeling he could describe and could not name.
At a loss, all peace and serenity forgotten, he sat down on the bank of a nearby stream, looking forlornly into the crystalline waters. A face he could not recognize looked back at him with mournful eyes, the mouth he did not know pinched in a worried line. When had he become so old? When had the years suddenly caught up to him and taken his youth with remorseless hands? He pressed his palms lightly against his eyes, taking a deep, calming breath, and suddenly there was a gentle hand on his shoulder. Another face appeared beside his in the stream, glowing faintly with an internal light, and he felt Legolas sit down beside him, his body a soft warmth beside his own. His throat seemed to close up, and that feeling without a name awoke gradually in the pit of his stomach, reaching out in all directions with warm little fingers.
"Elessar." His voice was close to Aragorn's ear, vibrating pleasantly against the skin there, and the heat in him intensified with the words. "What troubles you?"
"Nothing that the other's do not feel," he replied, his own voice hoarse.
Legolas was silent. His hand lay itself on Aragorn's upraised knee.
"Elessar," he said again, after a time. "Do your thoughts dwell on the Evenstar?"
"Yes." It was a lie. Any thoughts of his beloved came only when he sought to dispel thoughts of another.
Legolas turned his head to face him. Aragorn did not return the stare.
"Though they also dwell on other things," he said, and Aragorn felt a spike of fear shoot up his spine. Could he have guessed? Could he have caught him when his eyes strayed? His entire body felt on the verge of snapping under that all-seeing gaze, and suddenly the sound of the bubbling stream was like the mocking laughter he knew was sure to come if his friend were ever to discover what he kept locked securely inside him. It made him want to run, to shake off Legolas' maddeningly distracting touch and flee.
Legolas shifted again, and this time the entire length of his side brushed up against him. It was clearly unintentional, but Aragorn suddenly found himself at a loss for breath. His skin felt ultra-sensitized, as if even the slightest touch might send another arrow of heat and curious longing straight to the base of his stomach. Legolas was unperturbed, or at least he seemed to be so, and merely returned his mesmerizing gaze to Aragorn, smoky as the dying light before dusk.
"They do dwell on other things," he admitted, a weakness to his voice, "but it is naught to worry over. There are many things that have occupied my mind of late. 'Tis to be expected, in dark times as these."
It was not exactly a lie, but Legolas was not convinced. His brows drew together in a worried frown, and he turned, so he might look upon Aragorn better.
"Why do you tell me things that are not true, Elessar?" he asked softly, moving his hand to rest again on Aragorn's shoulder, squeezing it. "Ever have I been your friend and companion. Why have the words between us become lies and evasion? Has the Ring effected us both so much that we can no longer confide in each other?"
He said the first thing that came to mind, and knew he would come to regret it later.
"I would tell you the truth, if not for my guilt. I cannot speak of my thoughts, for I do not understand them fully myself."
Legolas' face twisted, the lines of worry driving deeper into his fair skin.
"Guilt? For what, Elessar? You have done naught that would condone it!"
Aragorn hesitated, already wishing his words had been better chosen.
"It does not matter why I feel it," he said, moving away, "My thoughts are my own Legolas…"
"It does matter, Elessar." He was suddenly very close, and Aragorn could see the stormy blue of his eyes, the little flecks of light around the irises like an eclipse. "It does, whether you would think it or no, and I will not stand idly by and watch while you destroy yourself with unfounded guilt. I have been your companion too long for that."
He was angry. Aragorn had rarely seen him genuinely furious, and it was like watching a snake shed its skin, so great the change. It brought a light flush to his cheeks, making his lips thin into a severe line and his smooth forehead wrinkle. The cloud of serenity and wisdom he forever seemed to exude evaporated like mist, leaving in its wake a murky haze. Aragorn's heart began to beat faster, the warmth spreading further in every imaginable direction until his entire body seemed enveloped in a cloud of steam, making his vision blur.
"Legolas," he choked out, making to put considerable distance between them, but found his wrist caught in a insistent grip, halting his hasty retreat.
"What do you fear?" His words were like a caress, one that demanded nothing, and sought only to bring comfort.
Aragorn drew in a ragged breath, dipping his head so he would not have Legolas see the truth in his eyes.
"I fear my weakness. I fear the feeling that burns in me, that I cannot name, no, will not name."
Legolas' soft fingers were under his chin, gently pressing until he raised his head again.
"Tell me your feeling," he said, and for a moment Aragorn thought he saw something more than brotherly concern flash in his sea-blue eyes. "Tell me, Estel, mellon nin."
The childhood name made Aragorn flinch, at once a despair welling up in his heart, a longing for a simpler time when Legolas had been nothing more than a friend, a mentor, when he had been in awe of his ageless wisdom and beauty, of the same kind he would not come to know in Arwen for many years. In that time he came to admire Legolas beyond even the grudging respect he felt for Elladan and Elrohir, who had plucked him from Gilraen's arms the moment he and his mother had been placed under Elrond's care, bearing him away with promises of care free days and adventure. They had been quite a span older than him in that time, their forever youthful bodies lean and toned like that of a man no older than twenty years, but they had held affection for him, and pity, and put it upon themselves to care for him while Gilraen slowly wilted in her grief.
The day that Legolas rode into Rivendell upon his graceful white mount was a day forever etched in his fondest memories. He'd been nary older than sixteen years, still ripe in youth and gangly with it, and watching from Elrond's side as the retinue from Mirkwood approached was like seeing all that he would never be made flesh before his eyes. He'd felt distinctly inadequate and out of place among so much grace and beauty, but the moment that Legolas swung down from his horse and introduced himself, his dusky gaze lingering on Aragorn, the awkwardness had fled him. He knew not why, but for whatever reason, it came to be that they were companions, spending their days in study or wandering the boundaries of Rivendell, blessedly without the pall of pity cast upon his time with Elladan and Elrohir, his younger self always quick to smile and eager to impress. Those days were long in the past now, but the Elvish name still brought a twang of bittersweet joy to his breast, stirring in him a hope for a time in the future when things might be as they once were.
But at that moment he could not help but feel other things than hope, darker things that made his head spin and his mouth dry. He shuddered inwardly under Legolas' query, wishing briefly that the hand that had been under his chin might find its way elsewhere, and wincing at the thought.
"I feel….suffocated. I feel as if the things inside me are fighting for a release I refuse to grant. I yearn for these things, to my shame, but I know that they can never come to fruition, for I would betray a trust placed wordlessly upon me, one which I wish fervently not to break."
"Surely what you feel cannot be worse than the longings of all our hearts, Estel," Legolas said, his eyes glimmering in the half light. "Why not release them and free yourself of this burden?"
When Aragorn said nothing, Legolas moved ever closer, till their faces were barely a finger's width apart, his breath wafting over chilled skin and pursed lips.
"Let there be no frivolous words between us to bar understanding. Tell me plain, what is it that you feel?"
Somewhere within him, something seemed to burst, and the words tumbled from Aragorn's mouth as if of their own volition.
"I want you," he gasped, choking as a wave of longing rolled over him. "I desire you, Legolas, and if that not be plain enough for your ears I do not know what else to say that could make it so."
He had expected revulsion. He had expected laughter, cruel, mocking laughter. What he had not expected, not in any of his wildest fantasies was to have the lips he had craved for so long pressed against his own, or to feel the hands that he had desired to know cupping the curve of his head in the most gentle of fashions. His body cried out, at long last given what it longed for, and hardly knowing himself pulled Legolas closer, returning the kiss with a blind passion, moaning as he felt his mouth prodded apart and deftly explored, completely bereft of any of the innocence he'd known with Arwen. The world seemed to narrow to nothing more than the sensation of Legolas' slender body pressed up against his own as if made to be placed there, all firm muscles and slender curves, and the sounds of his own desire floating past his lips in the scant moments they were released.
Without knowing how he came to be there, Aragorn lay back against the smooth trunk of the tree behind him, gasping as Legolas moved against him, his hips brushing so tantalizingly over his own, pressing his palms to the taught muscles of Aragorn's shoulders and kneading in blissful circles.
"Legolas," he choked, his hands jumping as if itching to touch. "Legolas, please…."
But he did nothing more. He was suddenly gone, and Aragorn felt his absence like a blow to the chest. His half-lidded eyes flashed open and he leaned forward, his gaze landing on Legolas from where he sat a stride away, his face clearly distressed, and not a little saddened.
Still aching, Aragorn was hard put to find coherent words with which to address him. Legolas seemed no more able, his eyes clouded and distant.
"Aragorn," he said, after a long silence. "You know we cannot do this."
Aragorn stepped forward cautiously, hovering like a ghost just inside the flung open bay windows. He felt like an intruder upon a secret moment, witness to his friend laying himself bare to the caress of the half-full moon and the distant call of the sea. His face looked out over the city, his ageless eyes fixed unwavering on the point on the horizon still dark with midnight's cloak. There was a great pain about his features, a slight pinching of the mouth that belied a struggle beyond anything a mortal could understand. Aragorn himself could not hear the sea's tempting cry, but clearly saw the effect it wrought upon his friend, as if it had cast a net that slowly pulled and stretched him, wearing away his will. He did not wish to invade this moment, but his heart was crying out for an end to things that could never have been, heedless of the exacting toll it demanded upon him.
His feet moved without conscious thought, and though he knew that Legolas had been aware of him, it was only at that moment that he turned, a small smile that did not reach his eyes playing upon his lips.
"I had wondered when you would come," he said softly, sounding strained. "I did not expect you so soon, Elessar."
"Legolas…" he whispered, hit by a sudden surge of grief. "Legolas, you know we must speak of things."
"How could I forget?"
"I did not say that. I know you would not forget, as I cannot let myself do the same. And why would I wish to?" He tried to pour his soul into the last words, to somehow communicate how close he held their past together in his heart of hearts.
Legolas was unmoved. His face remained unchanged, and Aragorn began to despair. Why must it be so difficult? Why must Legolas make it so difficult for him? Would their precious friendship unravel, would their past be nothing more than a painful, blackened memory to be locked away and forcefully forgotten? Aragorn did not want that in the least. If he could not love Legolas, if that was not for him to want or have, than he would be content to know him as a friend, one whom he cherished above all others. But why then must Legolas make it something ugly, something bitter and cruel? Did he resent Aragorn so much for urging him into something that could never become anything more than kisses and embraces, words and passionate couplings? Was that the root of his coldness, his distance?
Legolas finally stirred, blinking slowly and reaching out to grasp Aragorn's shoulder with a light grip.
"Come inside," he said. "There is some mulled wine we can share."
He led Aragorn back into the shadowed room, pulling two ivory chairs over to a small table where they both sat. Legolas carefully poured goblets of the deep crimson liquid, his hands steady even though his face was pulled taut with strain, and handed Aragorn one. He took it, fingers brushing Legolas' briefly in the exchange. Aragorn felt the familiar tingle bloom on the tips, and for a moment was thrown wildly into the past, remembering a humid afternoon in the Golden Hall when they had shared cool cider, and after a veiled look had stumbled into the nearest room, grasping at clothing and mouths searching, slipping so easily into the familiar rhythm that they both knew well. This time around, no such looks were exchanged, and Aragorn found himself wondering if he would ever fall into that feeling again, knowing full well that he might not.
"You were beautiful this afternoon," he said softly, smiling sadly at the memory. "I do not believe I have ever had the privilege to know one fair as you, mellon nin."
Legolas laughed, stark and hollow.
"So easily do you forget the Evenstar." His melodic voice was cold. It whipped across him, stealing his breath like a wintry slap. "One might wonder why you came at all, Elessar, if your thoughts are so quickly muddled."
"I did not mean it like that, Legolas…."
"I believe you did."
His tone brooked no argument. Aragorn felt tears prick his eyes, and blinked furiously to dash them away. Why did he weep when there was so much good ahead of him? He couldn't understand the gnawing sorrow that burrowed into his heart. He had felt deep love for the son of Thranduil, that was true, but the Evenstar, his greatest love, had finally been returned to him. What then did he have to despair over?
"What is it that you wish to lay to rest, Elessar?" Legolas asked. "What might have transpired between us is not something that can continue, and should be forgotten."
"I know!" Aragorn protested weakly. He took a long sip from his goblet, the smooth warmth giving little aid as it slid down his parched throat. "I know, Legolas. I do, truly. But what we had was not merely a dalliance, surely you must know that."
At this, Legolas' bitter mask softened a fraction, though his eyes lost none of their chill.
"Whatever name you will give it Elessar, it changes not. There is no reason to lay this to rest, when it was nothing of substance to begin with. I did love you, I will say that. I loved you as truly as the immortal blood flows in my veins, but it was never more than that."
"How can love be nothing?!"
Legolas' lips twitched, almost bitterly.
"It can be when I am but a replacement for your aching heart."
"No!" Aragorn exploded, caught suddenly in a rage. "Do not bring her into this! This does not concern her, and it never will."
"But it does, Elessar."
"No! No it doesn't! What I felt for you Legolas, was not a love to replace that which is absent. Do not ever think that. How could it be so when the Evenstar is now again in my arms and I still remember our passion and ache to know it again?"
"I do not know," Legolas confessed, his voice empty. "I do not know."
"Then why do you deny it?"
"Because," he said, so simply, "it is all I can do."
There was a long silence. Aragorn sat stilled in his seat, hands hanging limply between his knees. He watched Legolas' devastatingly beautiful face, memorizing every curve and line, every pore, every delicate piece of the fabric that wove his countenance. It was agonizing to do so, but he did not stop. There was a throbbing ache that grew in his chest and reached, burrowing itself in every possible space until it seemed he were nothing more than it. He cursed his fickle heart, the same heart that had damned any man before him, and would damn many after. He cursed it with every part of him. He cursed it for breaking this gentle creature, who understood love in all its shapeless glory, and too the darkness of despair, the wells of lust and loathing. Who knew what it means to love selflessly without attachments, or awfull, fickle words. Who was he to be the focus of that love? Who was he to know it and scorn it, to destroy it?
Not knowing himself, he rose from his chair and stepped forward, only to fall again and Legolas' feet, prostrating himself, pulling his face down and crushing their mouths together as if he could do naught else. Their passion met like breaker throwing itself against the shore, taking and destroying and leaving nothing but emptyness in its wake, their lips pushing and sliding and meeting again and again until they were breathless and dazed and quite beyond words. Legolas' strong hands were around him, pulling him closer so their bodies met flush, every part of one placed securely against the other, the sensation driving them crazed with desire. They melted into eachother, remembering what it felt to put hands there, lips there, fingers grasped there. It was a culminating of everything they could not say and never wished to, the words that would become mangled in their mouths, made into something they did not want, something that would make their hearts harden and grow cold. This was all they could do, all they could express.
Bitter words between them were forgotten. Neither would dare deny now what they felt, what they had always known. It was something that neither could name or trace, but existed, simply. Both knew well that what it was could not endure in secret. That had already been decided, in their cruel clash of words. But they knew too that this time was for them, and tommorow was for the world. They would take what time was given, for it was theirs to take.
When the sun rose on the plains and illuminated the White City, they would part, and that would be enough. It had to be. They would greet the dawn and the world would seem a brighter place, for it was, undeniably, and what it was that molded them now to eachother will not have faded, or dimmed, or dissapeared, for that is impossible.
They will know that in the life that is to come they will find eachother.
And someday, after a while, won't seem so far away.
Finis