"You promised him what exactly?"
Legolas's voice pierced the stillness of the night, laced with incredulity as he rose from his place by the fire, adding more wood to the flames. The crackling firelight cast sharp shadows across his features, accentuating the gauntness that had settled in his face over the past week. They had reached an unspoken understanding in these last days—acknowledging the feelings that existed between them. Yet, despite the undeniable truth of it, any future beyond the kiss they had shared felt impossibly distant; perhaps futile. The weight of that realization hung between them unyielding as the fire's dying embers.
"A chance of redemption," Aragorn replied.
"Redemption… for an orc?" Legolas's laughter was soft, edged with disbelief. His fingers brushed against the rough bark of a log; the night around them hummed with the rustling of leaves, the wind's murmur echoing the passage of time. "You do realize that he likely deceived you from the start—hoping for his release or a quicker death. You do remember how orcs were made?"
Aragorn stood unmoving, his figure a solitary silhouette against the boundless expanse of the night. His gaze lingered on the dark hills that rolled away beneath the sky—an endless sea of stars, cold and remote, stretching above him like an ancient, unknowable force. The stillness of the world around him contrasted with heaviness of his thoughts, a quiet tension settling between each breath.
"Yet he knew of your injury."
"It's not exactly a secret," the elf shrugged, his voice betraying nothing more than a tinge of annoyance. He stood in the pale light of the new moon, his composure maddening in its calm. When Sauron made orcs," he continued, "he did so by tormenting captured elves, stripping them of their essence. To forge such abominations, he severed their bond with their immortal souls. In that sense, they've already been 'redeemed'—though not in any meaningful way for the living. Their souls have departed, leaving only twisted, hollow shells, devoid of the life they once held."
"Yes, I remember the histories. But this one—this prisoner—he seems different somehow."
Legolas added another log to the fire, the flames licking higher as the wood crackled." Could be," he agreed easily enough," I've heard stories—of elves with strong wills, who managed to cling to fragments of their souls, even after enduring Sauron's vile works. But in the end, these remnants were not a gift, but a curse—lingering torment, not salvation."
"How so?"
Aragorn asked, his voice edged with genuine interest. His eyes focused intently on Legolas, as if the answer might reveal more than just the intricacies of the orc's creation. There was no trace of impatience, only the steady determination of a mind accustomed to untangling complex matters. The question wasn't born out of idle curiosity, but rather a desire to understand—to see beyond the surface and grasp the deeper currents that governed their world. It was a king's mind at work, always seeking, always asking, always calculating.
Legolas's gaze lingered on the fire, the shifting light casting brief reflections in his eyes as if he were searching for answers within its erratic dance.
"Because the orcs created in this way were not merely corrupted. They chose it. They weren't entirely blinded by Sauron's control. The stronger ones understood the choices they were making, and in their darkest moments, they embraced their monstrous nature."
"Yes, but even the most deliberate fall from grace leaves room for regret."
"Spoken like a true king," Legolas murmured. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I've grown too weary from endless battles, too numb to see clearly. The pain of what we've lost, what our kin have become—it clouds my vision. These creatures—they were once like me. Yet you seek to offer him what even the wisest among us fear to give; hope that something of him remains, that he can be more than the monster he's become. But hope, Aragorn… hope is not always enough."
"Hope is the last thing we have. Without it, all we are left with is despair."
"Perhaps; but there are times when even hope must give way to acceptance" Legolas said with a tenderness that belied the weight of their conversation. And when that happens, we must learn to let go."
The wind stilled, and the fire blazed brighter, its erratic flames casting deeper shadows that stretched in the sudden quiet. Legolas still hadn't braided his hair, and now wore looser garments that allowed space for the bandage. The long gash across his side required constant attention, the bleeding refusing to cease. With each passing day, the elf seemed to lose more of his strength, his life force draining away, and his fragile appearance, so human now, seemed to grow more pronounced.
He was barefoot, hair tied back with a silk ribbon as though even that small act of care had become too much to manage. The tunic parted at the collar, exposing the delicate sharpness of his bones and the web of old scars across his chest. Elves healed quickly, yes, but even they bore the marks of battle. Legolas had more scars than Aragorn could count.
Yet, despite the weariness that clung to him like a second skin, in the shadow of his suffering - familiar radiance about him remained—an essence that seemed to make everything and everyone around the elf dim, as though the world faded in his presence.
"You're staring, Estel."
Legolas realized his slip only after the words had left his lips, a flush creeping up his cheeks. The name, once so natural, now felt like a ghost—a forgotten piece of their past. He hadn't used it in years. The wind stirred, carrying with it a faint memory of their first meeting, when the Elven prince had encountered a stranger in a forest and for the first time in his life heard somebody else's song. After that, nothing had been the same, and no one had ever been enough. He'd tried to resist the pull, but even then, he'd sensed the futility of it—an elf's heart loves only once, with a devotion that isn't easily undone. Now, he couldn't help but wonder where this struggle had led him.
"How do you know? You're looking away," Aragorn replied, his voice light, though the strain of the moment hung suspended between them. He too seemed lost in the echo of distant memories—memories of first fateful meeting with one elf that had kindled a spark in him that never truly faded. Over time, it had only grown, a quiet flame that now threatened, at last, to consume him entirely.
"I can tell when someone looks at me as if I'm their next meal," Legolas snapped, the sharpness in his tone betraying more than irritation. His words carried frustration—perhaps with himself as much as with Aragorn. "I'm an elf."
"So you are," Aragorn agreed smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes held something far deeper than amusement. The moment was fleeting, but beneath it lay a weight.
Legolas hesitated, the words he needed to say heavy in his chest. "Even if I survive this—whatever this is between us—nothing could come of it. Not truly. You know how both our worlds would see this. It is not something widely accepted. And even if it were—" He paused, swallowing hard. "You're a King. And a married one at that."
"I am a King with a free will, one that can choose what his heart truly desires this time," Aragorn said, his tone deliberate, as though he sought to reassure them both. "What is my kingdom without my elf by my side?"
"Your elf?" Legolas laughed, amusement igniting a spark in his eyes. In that moment he appeared unaffected by the weight he carried, a child born of the twinkling stars above, shining brighter than any being, elf or human, had the right to be.
Aragorn's answering laugh was low, a quiet whisper in the stillness of the night. He moved closer, his presence an unyielding force that seemed to fill the space between them. He slipped his arm around Legolas's waist, drawing him back against his chest, the heat of the contact both comforting and intimate. His hand brushed lightly beneath the loose tunic, careful not to disturb the bandage, but resting over Legolas's heart. The touch was tender, an unspoken acknowledgment of the wound that troubled the elf.
"The love of my life? The one and only?" Aragorn murmured into pointed ear, his voice a soft caress, barely audible in the quiet.
Legolas closed his eyes, allowing the warmth of Aragorn's embrace to settle around him, grounding him in that fragile moment. His smile deepened, reaching his eyes, softening the edge of doubt that had held them both in its grip. "Your elf is fine," he sighed into embrace.
There had always been an invisible boundary between them, a delicate line drawn by unspoken understanding, one neither had dared to approach, let alone cross. It had taken Legolas's reckless yearning for an end to challenge that boundary. Perhaps, in any other moment, in any other place, it would have remained just that; or perhaps, it would not have worked in any other way but this, since the will of fate has its own design. Yet here, beneath the silent canopy of the night, they lingered on the edge of crossing that long-guarded threshold, as though the strands of their bond had intertwined so deeply that they could no longer be denied—woven into a connection too profound, too intimately shared, to remain unspoken.
"It's getting late. I should retire for the night," Legolas finally murmured, pulling away, with blink and you miss it, disappointment.
"True, that." Aragorn agreed letting a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "And which bed would you prefer, mine or yours?"
Legolas tilted his head. "The real question," he said, his voice light with playful hesitation, "is whether there's enough room in yours for an elf?"
Aragorn paused for a moment, his eyes drifting to the endless expanse of stars above, the night sky vast and serene. He let the question settle in his mind before meeting Legolas's gaze again. "Perhaps there is," he replied with a teasing edge. "It is a king-sized bed, after all."
The air between them shifted, the silent watch of the heavens pressing down, and the invisible gap that had long separated them now felt less weighty, less insurmountable.