This is along the same arc as my longer fic; just about an evening in Gondor, some time after she had been reclaimed by her rightful king. Musings; his and therefore mine as well, but in the story the characters own their thoughts, minds and souls.
And as for the disclaimer: nothing is mine, just the circumstance.
And yes; the barest minimum of slash, or rather: love. It can be interpreted as friendship, whatever you like.
And now: showtime
Stone
The dull December dusk came tumbling down with its typical alacrity, almost clownish in its haste to blanket and covet in the dark the city it held in siege.
He was by the window; great in his plainness, the simple timelessness of his figure, lone and diminutive, no, the night is not truly sinister—it is pathetic almost, so desperate to capture what it can hold only for a wink in eternity, as though by conspiracy, and it is snatched away once more. Light and day returns to claim it.
Such was the perpetual cycle.
Gondor in her dusky fabric swirled with the smoke of embers; they gleamed with faint stillpulsing memory: the day.
He thought of times long past, he would always question the elusive threads that had penned the present. Why?
And the moon rose, cold, alien; it had been there, an unquestionable fixture—but now, he faced it, it did not suit the earth, so young, carefree.
Then moon—beautiful, but dead. Perhaps it thought to dissect the intenseness with which the land could inhale.
The stonework was chilly—promises of the afterlife; it would remain to Gondor's old age, it would remain with Gondor's death… it would stay, and remember, sing with its deep intonations. And it would be the tomb of kings.
Could he think such dark thoughts?
His fingers, callused with sword work, brushed the stone once more. Chill, with dew, tears? Immortality, but it would deteriorate, age, testament to time's wearying. And it would never find an end.
The Other, had been right, trees were better off. Such a pity, Men could not build a kingdom from them. The Other had indeed preferred trees: growth, cycles, memory, life. But he had remained in this city of stone.
The door, the latched clicked, quiet discipline; silk's rustlings heralded another's entry. The Other.
--Elessar.
A wry smile; quiet dignity. There was irony was there not, in that greeting?
--Legolas.
Acknowledgment and slight warning. Silver and black; typical of Gondor's advisors. Gondor's.
A sigh; not the language he would have chosen, but the mood, it insisted.
--Aragorn, there have been… pressing matters, finances and such, trivial things, but problems will arise.
--I will see to them.
A slight reluctance revealed itself, they now spoke like this; he felt a stirring; blue eyes, long, white, hands. There was a want, a need: two protagonists by the sea's lapping tongues, crooked white fingers, the moon; and the stream of gloomy tenderness in one released, spilling, relentless, from the eddies and pools. And all that there was; secrets, unknown even by the givers, given by both.
The Other did not leave, a strange persistence hung around him, static, tense.
Fair hair glinted in the candlelight; sleepily glimmering as they burned low.
The ghosts of small flames danced along strands of his own.
The Other tucked a lock of hair behind a carefully pointed ear, he would never truly find the peculiarities of the elf normal though he had long ago accepted his family as simply being elves. Legolas was placed beyond that.
--Could you ever forget Arwen?
His inflections and features gave away nothing, he was like that, a conundrum and a paradox, wild, untended splendour, restrained with learned discipline.
--No, I could not.
--I am not asking you for anything… it would be too audacious.
He sat down and watched Legolas; he did not invite himself to sit, a sign of unease.
--Aragorn, I cannot help but profess… I …there are unresolved matters between us.
--I would have it that way.
A sharp look, blue eyes, depth heightened beyond the sky's vaulting infinite.
--If we were to end it, set it in stone,
he ran his hand along the wall, its pervasive cool was intimidation, threats of permanence,
--it would stand then, for all time, as history, and it could only end badly. If incomplete, we,
you and I, his eyes gestured and closed the domain of 'we',
--run on, on and on, then our threads will be carried by time until it all fades.
--Am I selfish?
He asked, very low, very soft—how different for a king, used to commanding, being heard.
--no.
A reply, agreement in the negative; a word like hush.
He smiled, his hair trailed along the lines of face, gold aglint, brutally soft contrast to his stern garments. Of Gondor, they spoke, his garb, the habits he affected.
--For now…
--and ever and ever. Aragorn gave the sentence completion.
The advisor accepted this advice, he sat in the opposite chair, both registered hazily that the chair had been Arwen's. Her presence lingered, lullaby, tamed melodies; she was of a praised virtue.
--You were sincere to her.
He smiled into the goblet of wine his host had poured.
--It would have been an insult to her not to, an insult to you as well. We are not so base.
--You loved her.
--I did.
Confessions of deeper nature would be revealed later, they both knew this, or rather, not ever, there was no need for reaffirmation.