Disclaimers: I don't own any characters or settings from Lord of the Rings.

Act VI

Chapter 47: Whispers in the Moonlight

The festivities had begun to wane. The clock ticked closer to midnight, and the merry throngs that had filled the grand hall were thinning. Common folk, their bellies full and spirits high, had bid their farewells and drifted homeward. Now, a hush fell over the chamber as tireless workers, flitting like silent moths, began the task of restoring order.

Inside, the flickering firelight cast a warm glow on small, lingering groups. Aragorn and Arwen, their faces turned towards each other, were locked in a deep conversation, a lifetime of unspoken emotions finding voice in the quiet intimacy. Arwen's eyes shone with love and devotion as Aragorn's hand gently clasped hers, their whispered words promising a future of hope and unity.

At another table, Faramir and Éowyn leaned close, their heads bent together in earnest discussion. Their eyes were alight with the possibilities of the future, their voices low as they strategized for the tasks that lay ahead, their partnership as strong in peacetime as it had been in war. Éomer and Lothíriel shared a playful argument, laughter punctuating their exchange as they teased and jested, the warmth of their newfound bond evident to all who glanced their way.

Across the hall, Gimli and Gandalf, an unlikely pair forged in the fires of shared hardship, shared a thoughtful dialogue. Their weathered faces were etched with the weight of experience and the hard-won wisdom that came with it. The wizard's eyes twinkled with a knowing light as the dwarf spoke, his gruff voice softened by camaraderie and mutual respect.

Elrond and Galadriel, their eyes gleaming with the wisdom of ages, conversed in hushed tones. They reflected on the journey that had brought them to this moment, their voices carrying the weight of countless memories and the hope of a brighter future. The hobbits, weary but content, lingered at their tables. Merry and Pippin, their youthful exuberance undimmed, raised their tankards in a final toast, their laughter ringing out like a cheerful bell in the dimming light. Sam and Frodo, their bond strengthened by an ordeal only they could truly understand, spoke in earnest murmurs, the depth of their friendship evident in every glance and gesture.

In a quiet corner, Legolas and Arien stood apart from the rest, their silence a stark contrast to the warmth and laughter that filled the hall. The tension between them was palpable, a lingering remnant of their earlier quarrel.

Legolas, feeling the press of the crowd's ease, rose from his seat. A quiet yearning for solitude stirred within him. He sought solace in the vastness of the night sky, a canvas unmarred by the merriment of the hall. Stepping outside, the cool night air embraced him like a soothing balm. He wandered to a secluded corner, nestled between the sturdy stone walls and a breathtaking vista. Here, bathed in the ethereal glow of a crescent moon, he settled onto a weathered bench.

The world around him unfolded in a formation of breathtaking beauty. In the distance, the jagged peaks of the distant mountains pierced the velvet darkness, their snow-capped summits shimmering with an ethereal silver light. A gentle breeze whispered through the boughs of ancient trees that stood like silent sentinels, their leaves rustling in a soft lullaby. The air, cleansed by the recent rain, vibrated with the nocturnal chorus of a thousand unseen creatures.

Beneath the vast expanse of the night sky, a million stars twinkled like scattered diamonds. The stars a luminous river of celestial fire, streamed across the heavens, casting a soft, ethereal glow upon the landscape. Legolas, ever attuned to the whispers of the world, felt a sense of peace settle over him.

As for Legolas himself, the revelry had left a touch of rosy warmth upon his cheeks. His usually stoic features were softened by a hint of a smile, the lingering aftertaste of shared laughter. Dressed in the silver prince robes of his Elven heritage, his garments shimmered with an inner light that seemed to emanate from within. His washed blond hair, long and unbound, flowed down his back like a midnight cascade.

But it was his eyes, the most arresting feature of his Elven visage, that truly captivated. They shone with an otherworldly luminescence, the color of twilight – a deep, fathomless grey flecked with silver. In their depths, one could glimpse not just the reflection of the starlit sky, but the wisdom of ages and the unwavering spirit of an Elf unbound.

Here, amidst the tranquil beauty of the night, Legolas allowed himself a moment of introspection. His thoughts drifted back to the events that had transpired, the weight of responsibility momentarily lifted. Yet, even in this peaceful respite, a vigilant awareness remained, ever present in the glint of his moonlit eyes.

Legolas, bathed in the cool moonlight, found his worries resurfacing, like ripples disturbing the surface of a still pond. The recent journey, a perilous dance to escort Arwen to Aragorn, had temporarily pushed them aside. While he readily admitted a desire to ensure Arwen's safety, a deeper purpose had fueled his steps. He knew, deep down, that Lord Elrond was more than capable of protecting his daughter. Yet, there was a quiet satisfaction in being a part of the journey, a friend sharing the burden.

Departure from Gondor wouldn't be immediate. Aragorn still needed his support, the wounds of war demanding the tireless efforts of rebuilding. This path was already set, a plan discussed with Gimli and Aragorn in hushed tones after the thunderous roar of the Battle of Pelennor Fields had faded, replaced by the groans of the wounded in the Houses of Healing.

It was during those grim days that Legolas first heard the haunting call of the Sea. A lone gull's cry, sharp against the mourning wind, had triggered a yearning within him. The worried glances exchanged by Aragorn and Gimli hadn't escaped his notice. Back then, with Sauron's shadow still clinging to Middle-earth, the yearning had felt more urgent, a countdown echoing in his veins.

But the call had quieted in recent times. This didn't disquiet him. Elves, though possessing a lifespan that dwarfed that of Men, were not truly immortal. One day, even they would feel the pull of the West, the Undying Lands beyond the Sea. Yet, such thoughts held little weight for Legolas now. Middle-earth, his birthplace, cradled him like a familiar embrace. He had friends here, a purpose.

He had chosen to delay the inevitable, however. Soon, he would ride for Mirkwood. Not just out of concern for his father and the realm, but for a sense of unfinished business that gnawed at him. Aragorn, ever understanding, had readily agreed. Gimli, too, yearned for news of Erebor.

So, for now, Legolas allowed himself to simply exist. He gazed out at the peaceful vista, his mind a canvas yet to be painted with the details of the future. It was a welcome respite, a pause before the next chapter unfolded.

The moonlight bathed the courtyard in a silvery glow, casting long shadows that danced with the gentle breeze. Legolas stood at the edge of a balcony, his eyes scanning the serene landscape of Minas Tirith. The city, now a beacon of hope and renewal, bore the scars of recent battles, yet it thrived with a new vitality. The air was filled with a mix of scents—freshly blooming flowers, the distant aroma of baked goods, and the faint, lingering scent of the sea carried on the wind.

His mind wandered back to the journey from Rivendell, a journey filled with moments of both tension and tenderness. He remembered Arien's spirited arguments, her fiery determination clashing with his own steadfast resolve. Despite their quarrels, or perhaps because of them, he had come to respect her deeply. Her strength and passion reminded him of the resilience of Middle-earth itself.

Legolas turned his gaze toward the sky, where the stars glittered like a thousand tiny beacons. He found solace in their constancy, their eternal watch over the world. His thoughts drifted to his friends—Aragorn and Arwen, united at last; Gimli, steadfast and loyal; the hobbits, whose courage had changed the fate of Middle-earth. Each of them held a place in his heart, bonds woven through trials and triumphs.

In the quiet of the night, Legolas allowed himself to dream. He envisioned a future where peace reigned, where the scars of war healed and new life flourished. He saw Mirkwood, its trees vibrant and its people thriving. He imagined Erebor, its halls echoing with laughter and song. And he saw himself, as a bridge between these worlds, carrying the legacy of their shared struggle and the promise of their enduring friendship.

Legolas had stood there for an indeterminate stretch of time, perhaps an hour or more. His thoughts had quieted, replaced by a peaceful stillness. The war, the battles—they were etched into his being, an undeniable part of who he was. Yet, even for an Elf accustomed to the shadows, the darkness that had shrouded Middle-earth for so long left a mark on his soul. It was unnatural, an antithesis to the Elven spirit.

A wistful sigh escaped his lips. Today, for a fleeting moment, it had felt perfect. Everything seemed to be falling into place. Aragorn, crowned King, with Arwen by his side. A new dawn breaking over a world slowly healing. Battles there would be, challenges to overcome, but Legolas held no fear. They would face them together, as they always had.

This sense of quietude shattered with the jarring arrival of an unbalanced figure. A woman, her gait unsteady, materialized beside him. Legolas, caught off guard, hadn't sensed her approach. He recognized her—Arien. Earlier that evening, he'd seen her flitting through the corridors, a glass of ale clutched in her hand, her demeanor increasingly tipsy with each passing moment.

His initial instinct was to retreat, to vanish into the night. He and Arien had a habit of clashing, and Arien, fueled by alcohol, had a knack for creating awkward situations. Unfortunately, escape wasn't an option. Before he could react, Arien had latched onto him, her arm wrapping around his for support as she swayed, her gaze fixed on the panoramic vista before them.

Her voice, thick with intoxication, slurred out a greeting. "Legolas, it's beautiful, isn't it? This new beginning," she rambled, her words a mix of sincerity and muddled thoughts. "Arwen and Aragorn... it's like a story from a dream."

Legolas felt a wave of discomfort. "Indeed, Lady Arien. It is a momentous occasion," he replied, striving to keep his tone measured and calm. "But you should rest. You have had much to drink."

Arien's grip tightened as she laughed, a sound tinged with a trace of bitterness. "Always the voice of reason, aren't you, Prince Legolas?" She paused, her gaze turning more serious. "But tell me, have you ever wondered about the path not taken? Like Arwen who had found her happiness, have you ever wandered of yours?"

Legolas stiffened, taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. "Arwen has made her choice. Her heart belongs to Aragorn, as it always has. Now everyone has the same outcome. Not everyone needs it."

Arien nodded, but her expression was unreadable. "Yes, of course. But sometimes, I think about different possibilities. What if you had chosen differently? What if... you had someone by your side?"

Legolas' eyes narrowed slightly. "Lady Arien, you speak of things that can only lead to confusion and hurt. The paths we walk are the ones we have chosen, and it is best to accept them."

She sighed, her breath heavy with the scent of ale. "You're right. You're always right, aren't you? I just... I don't know. Tonight, everything feels so overwhelming."

Legolas softened, recognizing the pain beneath her bravado. "Change is always difficult. And not everyone can have the same ending. And some may not even wish it."

Arien's glazed eyes, though unfocused, held a glimmer of sincerity as she tilted her head towards him. "A loyal friend you are indeed, Prince Legolas. That much cannot be disputed. I may wish it otherwise, but your prowess in forging bonds is undeniable. Even Gimli, a dwarf of resolute nature, has succumbed to your charm."

She swayed closer, the weight of her inebriated form pressing against his arm. "Change, it seems, is a familiar companion to you as well, my lord. You yourself have transformed over time." A sly glint flickered in her eyes. "My words were not meant to imply endings or beginnings, Prince Legolas. Merely a spark of curiosity."

Legolas, momentarily caught off guard by her unexpected compliment, inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Indeed, Lady Arien," he replied, a hint of surprise softening the usual formality of his tone. "Your point is noted. Though, I confess, I remain unclear on the nature of your inquiry."

Perhaps the absence of their usual haughty posturing allowed for a more genuine exchange. However, Legolas, ever cautious, underestimated the boldness fueled by Arien's intoxication.

"What stirs your spirit, Prince?" she blurted, her voice thick with drink. "What could quicken your pulse and send you careening off course? A mere musing, you understand."

This forwardness was a stark contrast to the usual decorum of maidens, even his Elven kin. Legolas attempted to deflect the awkwardness with a touch of humor. "If my heart were to 'skip,' Lady Arien, I would suspect a grave medical condition," he quipped, though a flicker of unease sparked in his eyes as he saw her irritation rise. "You, of all beings, have certainly triggered your fair share of annoyance within me."

Arien released a dramatic sigh. "Naïve you may be, Prince, or perhaps a master of charades. I simply inquired, dear Prince, if you have ever succumbed to the throes of love."

A smirk played on Legolas' lips as he gently placed a hand on her back, subtly maneuvering her closer as he studied her face. "Your meaning was not lost on me, Lady Arien. I merely chose to navigate around your question. Our current... accommodation is not conducive to such personal revelations."

Her gaze locked with his, a glimmer of defiance flickering in their depths. "Think not of it as shyness, Prince. Perhaps you could simply admit to your unfamiliarity. If memory serves, the concept of 'falling in love' remains a foreign notion to you, does it not?"

Legolas felt a surge of confusion. Arien's words muddled his usual composure. He tilted his head, a gesture that spoke volumes of his bewilderment. "Lady Arien," he began, his voice regaining its formal edge, "my age grants me ample knowledge of the world's workings. Love, however, is not a pursuit that interests me." He cut through her approaching, dreamy inquiry with a touch of finality. "You are clearly inebriated, Lady Arien. Allow me to escort you back to your quarters."

"Perhaps," she murmured, more to herself than to him, "one day, even the mighty Prince Legolas will find something—or someone—worth letting his guard down for."

A tense silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the soft sounds of the night. Arien, her playful facade faltering, struggled to regain her composure. A strained giggle escaped her lips, laced with a hint of desperation.

"What triggers you, Prince Legolas," she tittered, her voice wavering slightly. "Do you mean to imply...? After all these centuries?" She paused, a mischievous glint sparkling in her glazed eyes. "Wait! Are you a 'virgin'?"

Legolas, ever the diplomat, opted for a neutral response. "My romantic pursuits are of no consequence to this conversation, Lady Arien," he replied, his voice a touch cooler. "As I have stated, I have no interest in such matters."

Arien, emboldened by the alcohol coursing through her veins, scoffed. "Disinterest, or simply...unfamiliarity?" she pressed, her voice dripping with unveiled amusement. "Surely, even an Elf of your age has experienced a...kiss?"

Legolas rolled his eyes inwardly, a gesture unseen in the dim moonlight. Elven courtship was a far cry from the crass inquiries of a tipsy maiden. "Given my current lack of romantic entanglement," he responded with measured patience, "the answer would be negative. Is it truly so outlandish a notion, Lady Arien, that matters of physical intimacy hold no particular interest for me?"

He found her behavior utterly perplexing. Elvenkind, with their inherent grace and wisdom, should be above such juvenile curiosity. Frustration laced his tone as he reached out, his hand gently but firmly grasping her arm.

"Enough of this charade, Lady Arien. The night grows late, and it seems your faculties are...impaired. Allow me to escort you back to your chambers."

Arien, swaying slightly in his grasp, offered a coy smile. A flush crept up her cheeks, the result of inebriation rather than shyness. "Oh, I wouldn't say impaired, Legolas," she slurred, her voice thick with amusement. "In fact, I'd say quite the opposite. I've been kissed, you see. Certainly not a naive maiden after five hundred years." She paused, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. "Though, wait...perhaps that's not entirely accurate. Kissed in another body, perhaps? Does that still count?"

Legolas had never encountered such an enigma. This Elf maiden, once poised and collected, was now a whirlwind of nonsensical pronouncements. "Lady Arien," he began, his voice strained with exasperation, "your...experiences are of no import to me at this moment. My sole concern is your well-being. Please, allow me to guide you."

Arien stumbled, her grip tightening on his arm. She leaned closer, her breath warm against his cheek. Their faces were inches apart, an undeniably intimate space. A slow, teasing smile played on her lips.

The scene hung suspended a moment of unspoken tension. Legolas, caught off guard by her sudden proximity, felt a strange pull, an unfamiliar sensation that sent a flicker of disquiet through him.

Then, just as abruptly as it began, the moment shattered. Arien, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, leaned back. "Well, well, Prince Legolas," she whispered, her voice laced with amusement. "Perhaps your heart did skip a beat after all? A revelation, wouldn't you say?"

She threw her head back and giggled, a sweet sound that echoed through the night. Turning on her heel, she sauntered away, her steps unsteady but her laughter echoing back at him. "Such a shame, Prince Legolas," she called over her shoulder, her voice laced with mock sympathy. "Almost got yourself a kiss today! Almost!"

Legolas watched her go, a bewildered frown etching itself onto his face. The initial awkwardness had morphed into something far more unsettling, a disorienting encounter that left him feeling like a pawn in a game with unknown rules. He leaned against the cool stone wall, the weight of the bizarre interaction settling upon him. It would take a while to untangle the confusion that Arien's words and actions had wrought.

The ale's warmth, now a traitorous fire in her belly, propelled Arien back to her chambers. Her playful jabs at Legolas, already fading from her inebriated mind, were replaced by a heavy drowsiness. With a careless tumble onto the plush bed, she surrendered to sleep's embrace.

Legolas, however, remained tethered to the spot. The cool night air, once a balm, now felt heavy with the weight of the strange encounter. Arien's words and laughter echoed in the stillness, a cacophony that muddled his usually clear thoughts.

He had encountered countless foes in his long life, navigated treacherous landscapes, and weathered the harshest of storms. Yet, this exchange with Arien, fueled by her potent mix of intoxication and curiosity, left him feeling disoriented. It was as if he'd been caught in a whirlwind, his composure momentarily ruffled.

Leaning against the cold stone, he closed his eyes, seeking solace in the familiar quietude of the night. But even with his eyelids shut, the image of Arien, her face inches from his, remained imprinted in his mind. A strange sensation, a tremor he couldn't quite define, lingered in his chest.

Was it, as she so playfully teased, a flicker of his heart skipping a beat? The notion was absurd. Elves, with their long lives and measured emotions, were not prone to such fleeting whims.

Yet, the disquiet persisted, a pebble lodged in his normally tranquil mind. He let out a sigh, a sound that carried the weight of his bewilderment. The night, once a haven for introspection, now held a new layer of complexity. He knew sleep would be elusive, the encounter with Arien demanding further unraveling. Perhaps, with time and the clarity of a new dawn, he would understand the disorientation that clung to him like a shadow.

((Upcoming Chapter Forty - Eight))

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