The evening stretched long over the city, its fading light sinking into the grey stone like the last traces of a half-forgotten memory. The streets darkened, the prisoner's footsteps echoing as he was escorted back to his cell, the clinking of chains a low, steady rhythm that reverberated through the quiet halls. Yet, amidst the duties of kingship, it was the quiet unrest within him that demanded the most of Aragorn's attention—an unrest stirred by a mere conversation with an orc, one that had awakened old fears and uncertainties, fears that had long been buried beneath the weight of rule.
Aragorn had grown accustomed to the burdens of leadership—the constant decisions, the shifting alliances, the ceaseless demands of the crown. But the turmoil within his heart was something far more insidious, a challenge he found more and more difficult to overcome. He would rather stay late in his quarters sorting through problems and sending letters than to go back to his empty chambers and fall asleep alone. Arwen, being an elf, found other arrangements a long time, and he could not blame her for it. In a way, he even preferred it.
The most prudent course of action, he reasoned to himself, deep in thought, would be to send a messenger to Mirkwood, to inquire if there was truly trouble brewing there. Thranduil, ever the stalwart ally, would surely tell him the truth if pressed. Their bond was strong—an alliance forged in the fires of conflict and upheld by promises of mutual safety. If Legolas were indeed injured, or if the danger was as grave as the orc had suggested, Thranduil would not keep it from him. Aragorn was certain of it. Or would he?
"Visitor for you, King Elessar."
"This late? Who?"
"An elf who always gets his way is demanding to be seen. I did not see much point in arguing.'
Hi secretary shrugged, clearly annoyed.
"Of course he does."
Aragorn muttered under his breath, his heart betraying him by quickening its pace. It always did when Legolas was near, a fluttering that had never faded since the first time their paths had crossed. No other man or woman, or elf, had ever stirred such a reaction within him, one that rendered every other meeting seem pale and insignificant in comparison.
"Well, bring him in," Aragorn said his mind and heart both racing ahead of him, torn between duty and the all-too-familiar song that the presence of the elf always brought.
Not handsome in the conventional manner, Legolas diverged from the usual standards of elven beauty. His features were more angular than most, too sharply defined, yet it was the fluidity with which he moved that truly captivated. His grace was predatory—an elegance in motion that evoked the swiftness and poise of a stalking cat rather than the serene dignity typical of his kin. There was something almost otherworldly in his movement—an ease that, paradoxically, defied the perfect harmony expected of the Elves. In battle, Legolas fought with a savagery that harked back to the untamed forces of the First Age: fierce, wild, and relentless. His skill with bow and blade was unparalleled, but it was not mere precision that made him formidable—it was the unflinching cruelty he could summon when the need arose, a striking contrast to the gentleness he reserved for those he held dear.
To Aragorn, Legolas had always been more than a mere ally; he was a constant presence through both conflict and tranquility. The bond they shared had been shaped by countless skirmishes, dangers faced side by side, and moments of quiet understanding. Though Legolas was often distant and reserved—as was the way of his people—he had never faltered in his loyalty to Aragorn, always ready to stand with him, to fight for what was just, even when the odds seemed insurmountable.
Their relationship, however, had shifted in ways neither had anticipated after Aragorn's marriage to Arwen. Legolas, ever steadfast, accepted this change with the quiet dignity one might expect of him, but the air between them thickened in a subtle but undeniable way. It was a change not spoken of aloud, for there had been no argument, no claim of entitlement over something that had never been his to claim. Yet, the unspoken understanding between them had been tested, and something fragile, yet irretrievable, had altered in their bond.
Legolas did not begrudge Aragorn his happiness—he never had. But the change was palpable, and the quiet intimacy they once shared began to feel distant, a memory rather than a living connection. He never gave voice to the emotions he might have harbored, for he was too aware of the silent conventions that governed their world. Yet, that unacknowledged tension lingered, present in the spaces between them, felt by both but never spoken of.
Though the battle for what might have been was fought in silence, with no victor to claim, it left its mark. Legolas, with the poise and grace befitting of his people, accepted Aragorn's choice without outward reproach. Yet, if one looked closely enough, there was a shadow of something unspoken in the elf's eyes—a disappointment that only Aragorn could discern, a fleeting glimpse of restrained anger that could not be entirely concealed.
Their meetings, once marked by camaraderie had of late become more fraught with discord. What had once been simple exchanges now often ended in argument, as they found themselves at odds over even the most trivial matters. The ease of their companionship had eroded, replaced by a tension neither could easily dispel. As a result, the frequency of their meetings dwindled, and Aragorn, for all his longing to rekindle their bond, found that they met less often than he would have wished.
Aragorn regarded his elf with a growing sense of unease, noting the subtle but unmistakable changes in Legolas's appearance. His form seemed smaller somehow, his movements slower, less sure than they had once been. Aragorn knew Legolas as the back of his own hand—every nuance of his presence, every shift in his posture. Yet now, as he observed the strain in each step he took, an unsettling realization gripped the King. The trouble was not only real; it was undeniable.
"I did not know you were coming," Aragorn said at last, breaking the silence that had stretched between them.
"I did not know I was coming either," Legolas's tone was a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "I was heading further north, but then, on a whim, I decided to stop here. A very sudden decision, some might say... an immature one, perhaps," he added, his voice softening in reflection.
"So, you mean to say you were planning to pass me by without so much as a greeting?" Aragorn raised an eyebrow, taking a step closer to where Legolas stood.
At this, a slow, deliberate smile spread across Legolas's features. His blue eyes gleamed with an unspoken mischief as they locked onto Aragorn's face, the light in them warming the otherwise cool air between them.
"Well, yes." He shrugged. 'What of it?"
Aragorn studied the elf, taking in his disheveled appearance—his hair, usually braided with such care, now flowing untamed, his posture weary, but even in this state there was no denying the quiet radiance that he possessed. To Aragorn, Legolas remained the most beautiful being he had ever seen. No passage of time, no marriages or promises made to others, could alter that truth. It was a knowing as constant and enduring as the stars themselves—silent, unspoken, but ever-present in the spaces between them.
"I've heard rumors of your recklessness, Legolas." Aragorn's tone carried a bite. He dismissed the bait, despite the annoyance that stirred beneath the surface. "Seeking out trouble in the North, picking fights, and not being discerning in your... company. Such behavior is hardly typical of an elf. Of you," he added, his gaze steady, though there was something unspoken in his words—an edge of anger he could not fully hide."
"Which part troubles you the most, my King?" Legolas raised an eyebrow as he settled leisurely into a plush chair across from the throne. He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head, and fixed Aragorn with an all-too-knowing smile. "The fights, or the other?"
"The other is not of my concern. I have only heard whispers, nothing more. But your safety, Legolas, is something else entirely. "He weighed each word carefully after that. "Should anything befall you I would find little purpose in the world beyond that." There was a pause, a fleeting moment where the silence seemed to carry more than just concern. It was the truth that hung between them, unsaid but undeniable—an unspoken bond that transcended friendship and delved into something far more dangerous.
"That's not playing fair, Your Majesty," Legolas remarked sharply, though his eyes betrayed no real anger—only the faintest hint of understanding."
"Call it what you will," Aragorn shrugged, "but it is the truth." He leaned slightly forward. "Now, tell me why you truly decided to come here on such short notice, and why it appears you haven't slept in weeks. And," he added with a pointed glance, "What on middle-earth happened to your hair?"
Legolas frowned, as if weighing whether to share anything with the King. He had not come here to confess his troubles—revealing them had never been part of his intent. There was a brief stillness in him, as though the decision to speak the truth carried a consequence he would rather not face.
"I've encountered some difficulties.
He confessed at last.
"I am aware of it."
Aragorn admitted; there was no pint of hiding the truth beyond this point.
"Oh?"
"Don't ask me how, but I know. I do not understand why you sought out this trouble, nor what has unsettled you of late. But I know of your injury. I understand its severity, and I also have a reason to believe that it is not beyond remedy. Allow me to help you, Legolas."
Legolas turned toward the window; his eyes drawn to the stars glimmering in the night sky. "Even if you can help," he said quietly, "it would make little difference. It is only a matter of time before I find another conflict, another wound to bear. It would be wiser to leave it alone."
"If you truly believe that, then why come to me now?" a hint of frustration and confusion began to fray Aragorn's restrain.
Legolas met his gaze, silent for a long moment before he spoke.
"To see you one last time, of course." came the simple admission. "What is left to understand?"
How foolish, Aragorn thought then looking at his elf sulking beneath the light of the stars, how utterly futile it was to fight against the inevitable current of destiny. The path had always been laid before them though he had tried in vain to turn away from it. He knew, now with the certainty of the ancient stones beneath his feet, that his heart had always belonged to Legolas—through all the battles, all the years. He knew, too, that no matter how fleeting their time together might be, they would be bound in a way that even the vastness of time could not sever. Theirs was a bond so tightly woven that Legolas would rather seek the quiet embrace of death than live in a world where Aragorn did not walk beside him.
"To see me one last time?"
"To see you on last time, and maybe do this."
Legolas moved with such swiftness that Aragorn scarcely had time to process the motion before the elf was standing before him, a presence so immediate it seemed to bend the air around them. The chair creaked softly in Legolas's wake, but the space between them had already narrowed to something much more charged. Aragorn could smell the sharp, clean scent of pine and earth—a reminder of the forests from which Legolas had come, a lingering trace of wilderness in a room suddenly too small.
Though Aragorn had shared few such moments with elves, none of them had ever been like this. Legolas did not kiss as others did. There was no hesitation, no soft exploration. The kiss was urgent, unrelenting—like a force of nature that the elf truly was. Aragorn was caught off guard, as much by its intensity as the sheer certainty in it. Legolas kissed as he fought: fierce, decisive, and with a clarity that left no room for doubt.
It was a kiss that revealed as much as it concealed, a promise implicit in its boldness, leaving Aragorn with an unsettling, undeniable certainty. The way Legolas kissed made it clear that this was not something to be taken lightly, nor easily forgotten. And, despite the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind, one truth lingered: he would discover soon enough how Legolas did everything else.
"There is someone I need you to meet." Aragorn contemplated his options of convincing Legolas to listen to him, as they observed one another, both understanding that things between them will never be the same. "He may have a way to heal your injury. Please."