Chapter 2: The Man who will be King

Four decades, I think. Four decades.

With a weary sigh, I lift my eyes to the dark expanse above me. The moon glides slowly across the sky as it has done every night of the past forty years, but how much has changed in that time.

I have learned that I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir to a kingdom I never asked to rule, a kingdom I did not even dream had anything to do with me.

It is a heritage I was curious about at first, then feared, then hated. And now – though I still do not welcome it – I have accepted it. I have no choice, for my people depend on me to deliver them from the looming threat of the Dark Lord.

My people depend on me. That grim realization will guide my actions from now on.

I have turned from a carefree young man into a man who will one day bear the solemn responsibilities of a king.

That is why I am here, with the Rangers. Living in the Wilds, looking foul, keeping low, staying nameless. We protect this land, our land, my land, in secret.

That is why my visits to Imladris are now few and far in between. This is now my home. For a while. For a long while. We wait for the day I will reclaim the throne of Gondor and restore it to its rightful bloodline of Numenorean kings. Of which I am the last. Me.

That is why I need an heir. To carry on the line of kings.

And that is why I am trying to make myself put aside a love that bloomed in my heart before I was eighteen, waiting for a fancy to pass that I now know will not pass, yet I cannot hold. Not if I have to have an heir.

My fancy. My beautiful, untouchable fancy.

He sits now with my companions: a lone elf amongst humans. A single, beautiful ray of golden sunshine and silver moonlight in the midst of a fog of pipeweed smoke and a dark tumble of scruffy beards. He has been with us for several months now. He missed my company, he said when he came, and he wished to join me in my clandestine vigilance against the gathering forces of the Dark Lord.

I thanked the stars then, exhilaration flooding me. My elven prince, come to bestow his company on me, even if it was just in friendship. Just having him around me, close to me, was joy. The shadows of my loneliness fled in the light of his presence.

Silver laughter tinkles against gruff guffaws as he responds to a joke that has been shared, and I am drawn back to the present.

I look at him from a distance, from the quiet solitude of a seat beneath a tree, away from the fire, away from the merriment. My eyes travel over the one who holds my heart in his hands and knows not that he does, and I taste bitterness on my tongue again. For the ten thousandth time or more, I ask why Fate has dealt me this agony. Why it has brought to me the only person to whom I wish to give my life and soul, if I cannot give them.

He senses my eyes on him and he turns to me. His radiant smile lights up the camp more than the dancing flames of the bonfire ever could.

I ache to touch him. But he does not feel it.

I long to tell him. But he must not hear it.

He gets up to come to me, and my heart leaps as it always does.

But a hand stays him, and I stiffen.

The hand grasps his arm, urging him to sit. He smiles and shakes his head. Several groans come from the men and several more hands reach up to make him stay. One hands him a mug of ale, challenging him in a slurred voice to drink. He hates it, but he is too polite to refuse. He does not want them to think that he sees himself above their station, he once told me.

The men are tipsy, having allowed themselves the indulgence of a tankard after the hard day they have had. We ran into a fierce band of orcs this morning. Dismayed to find them so far north, we fought hard to finish them off – every single one – so that none would live to reveal our identities and location. We sustained no fatal injuries, but the men are weary, and Legolas knows it.

He seats himself again, throwing me a look of resignation. I smile briefly, amused, but am proud of his willingness to indulge my companions. I know they, too, gain pleasure from simply looking at so fair a countenance in a rough wilderness.

I see him grimace at the first sip and chuckle when he forces himself to down the whole mug. The men clap him on the back and hand him another. He obliges them again, a third time and fourth, and the whole group is laughing now in drunken delight.

I do not know if it is that the elf prince is not used to anything other than the fine wines of his father's palace, or that he simply cannot hold too much strong drink, but he is beginning to look lightheaded. He does not sit as straight as he usually does, and his cheeks are more flushed than they were a while ago.

He refuses another mug that is held out to him, pushing it away weakly, and tries to stand. He seems a little unsteady, and I smile in amusement. I can imagine how embarrassed he will feel later.

Hands reach out for him again but he tries to walk away and stumbles. Someone stands quickly and catches him, laughing and saying "Whoa!" Another quickly joins them, putting his arm around the elf, and I stiffen again. Legolas' head drops forward, his unbraided hair falling over his face like a golden curtain, and the arms of a Ranger readily receive him.

I am up in an instant as an unreasonable anger stirs in me, and I am at his side in fewer strides than I thought would take me to get there.

"I will take him," I say, pushing away the arms of my Ranger companions from around the elven body, surprising them a little. I hesitate as I notice their wonder, but when Legolas gives a soft, silly laugh and asks "Wh… where are we… going?" I take him firmly from them, draping one of his arms around my neck and holding him up with my own arm around his slender waist. He is drunk from the ale, but it is his clean woodland scent that intoxicates me.

"You are going to bed, Elf," I say in gentle admonishment, and when he drops his head onto my shoulder and leans into me, I am reminded that the thrill of his touch which sent shivers down my spine forty years ago still has the same effect on me today, and I wish the whole world would melt away and leave us alone.

Then I remember who I am, and the destiny I cannot deny.

I rest my cheek against the smooth, fragrant skin of the elven forehead and tell myself to wait another decade, and another, and another… for the fancy to pass.