"We can go see him today, if you want."
Legolas's voice was steady, controlled, but there was an underlying tension, an effort to mask his discomfort. As he carefully adjusted the bandage on his side, Aragorn couldn't help but notice the faint tremor in Legolas's fingers, a subtle sign of the pain still lingering. His movements were methodical, yet each pull of the cloth seemed to remind him of his fragility. Their eyes met, and for a moment, Aragorn caught something in Legolas's gaze—a flicker of hesitation. This wasn't an easy decision for him, and Aragorn knew it.
Legolas stood before Aragorn in the fragile quiet of the early morning, his form bathed in the soft glow of the sun's first light. He seemed otherworldly, like an essence drawn from the heart of the earth itself. His silver hair, still tangled from sleep, fell in disheveled waves over his shoulders framing his lean, angular form, sculpting his silhouette in a way that felt more ethereal than real; tangible thing that Aragorn could touch, yet feared would slip away like the fading mist that lingered in the hollows of the hills.
Aragorn could feel it—the untamed presence of Mirkwood that clung to Legolas, its wildness tangled in his hair and the strength that radiated from his being. It was a power born of age-old trees and whispered winds, a power that both soothed and stirred, and yet, in Legolas, it was tempered by a quiet grace—an elegance that softened the edges of his presence.
His skin—pale, radiant—caught the light of the sun, and there was purity in him that made everything around seem dimmer, more earthbound. The faint scent of rain-soaked earth lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle traces of pine, a scent that could only belong to the elf—an aroma Aragorn had quickly learned to associate with moments like this.
It was intoxicating, the air around him, thick with untamed splendor that stirred in Aragorn's chest with ache, making him feel both profoundly alive and painfully aware of the fragility of their time together.
"Let me help you with that." Aragorn's voice was gentle but firm, an offer of support that went beyond the task at hand. He reached for the bandage still clutched in Legolas's hand.
Legolas hesitated, his gaze briefly flickering up, distant yet revealing a depth of emotion he quickly masked. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that Aragorn had never seen so openly, and for a moment, he wondered if it was a rare quality that only he was meant to witness. He didn't look away, holding Legolas's gaze unflinching.
"I know how to do this," Aragorn said, his voice low. "You know that I know how to do this." He paused. "Why not let someone else bear the weight for once? Why carry it alone?"
The silence between them stretched, indefinitely.
"It's a lonely road, Legolas. Don't you see?"
Legolas's grip tightened on the bandage, and for a moment, his jaw clenched as if trying to hold back a torrent of emotion. Then, after a long breath, he finally spoke.
"I'm used to it."
Still, when Aragorn gently took the bandage from his hand, there was no resistance. His touch was steady and practiced, the same calm Aragorn had cultivated over years of mending wounds, both on the battlefield and in the aftermath. Every motion was deliberate, a promise of care and understanding without words. The bond between them spoke through the simplicity of these small actions.
"About us," Aragorn continued, his hands working with precision, but his mind lingering on something deeper. "If there is to be anything between us, this will need to change. You'll have to let me care for you. You'll have to accept that you are not alone anymore." His voice softened, but the gravity of his words remained unchanged. "That is my request, Legolas. And it will remain so."
Legolas paused, his fingers stilling as he tied the end of the bandage. He looked at Aragorn for a long moment, as if searching for something. Finally, he gave the smallest of nods, the motion barely perceptible. "Okay," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "I will consider this condition, my King… if I survive this, of course."
"You will." Aragorn's tone was certain, though the unease still coiled within him. He met Legolas's gaze for a moment longer, then, without thinking, reached up to tuck a stray lock of golden hair behind the elf's ear. The touch was soft, deliberate—an unspoken promise. "I'm sure of it."
And for a moment, Legolas stood before him, more than a warrior—more the Elvin prince. He was simply Legolas, fragile and beautiful in his vulnerability. The wild scent of pine and earth still clung to him, mingling with the fresh morning air, as though the very woods of Mirkwood whispered their strength in his presence. He was impossibly graceful, every line of his form a testament to beauty, even now, despite the pain that lingered just beneath the surface. Yet in this rare moment, there was an openness in his gaze, a rawness that Aragorn had never seen before—a fleeting glimpse into the soul of the warrior who had fought so long, so fiercely, and now found himself, for the first time, without armor.
The cold distance that had always defined him in battle, that perfect mask of a soldier, had cracked in the light of dawn. Here was Legolas, the elf whose history was written in blood and fire, standing before him not as a friend, but as a companion—a lover.
Aragorn felt the pull of that truth, a tug deep in his chest, a sensation that left him breathless, as though the very essence of their bond had shifted, becoming so much more than the sum of their past struggles. It was not just the weight of their history, nor the specter of their future, but the simple present that connected them now. And Aragorn knew, in that quiet moment, that no matter what came next, this—this—was real.
In the stillness of that moment, Aragorn felt a feeling stir—an instinct to shield this fragile version of Legolas from the world that had shaped him so. To protect him, not just from the enemy without, but from the wounds that had been carved into him over years of battle and loss. There was no need for words—no need for the usual banter that had once marked their friendship. There was only this shared silence, this understanding that spoke louder than any declaration could.
Legolas seemed to notice the change in him, and for a fleeting moment, his own composure faltered, the quietest flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He took a step closer, though his movements were slow, measured. The exhaustion was evident, but his will was still strong. He might have been broken, might have been made frail by the injuries that now marred him, but there was nothing weak about the way he stood before Aragorn. Even in this rare, vulnerable moment, he was an elf of Mirkwood—unyielding, even in his fragility.
Slowly, Legolas's fingers brushed Aragorn's jaw—so light, so soft, that it almost felt like a whisper, but it was enough to pull Aragorn closer. The elf's breath was warm against his skin, carrying with it a sense of longing, unspoken but palpable.
And without another word, Legolas closed the distance, his lips meeting Aragorn's with a tenderness that carried more than simple affection. The kiss was soft, hesitant, as though they were still testing the waters of this new intimacy. It wasn't urgent or demanding, but instead, it was a quiet exploration, the brush of lips a conversation between them, unspoken yet understood.
This wasn't their first kiss, but this one felt entirely different. The first had been urgent, a meeting of lips driven by a desperate need for connection. The second had been softer, more tentative, as though they were both still uncertain of the depth of what was between them. But this kiss—this kiss was more.
The kiss deepened, but it wasn't frantic. It was slow, measured, like a tide pulling them in, relentless but gentle. There was no wild rush—just the complete surrender of everything they had held back. This was no longer a fleeting moment, but the start of the future that could not be
undone.
When they finally broke apart, it wasn't with regret or hesitation. It was with the absolute certainty that this was only the beginning.
"I'm sorry for falling asleep last night," Legolas said as he pulled away just enough to speak. "My strength doesn't match my will just yet."
"And that is why we have business to attend to."
Aragorn's voice shifted, pulling them both back to the present. The warmth between them dissipated, replaced by the reality of their situation. The prisoner—the one who claimed to know a way to save Legolas's life—was waiting.
"We must see him," Aragorn said, his tone tempered with the dread he could not entirely mask. "If there is any hope for us, if there is a future beyond these next few weeks, we must act now. We cannot waste any more time."
The words hung heavy between them—We cannot afford to lose you, Legolas. Aragorn's unease was evident in the tightness of his jaw, but his resolve remained. This was more than duty. It was a race against time.
"Let me get dressed, then."
The prisoner was kept in isolation, deep within the shadowy recesses of the dungeons, far removed from the King's chambers. It had taken them more than an hour to reach this point, the journey marked by a slow, unsteady pace. Legolas moved with slowness, his gait faltering with every step, the weight of his injury and the toll of his fatigue drawing his movements into something more like a stagger than a walk.
It was an odd procession. The King, a symbol of strength and command, now seemed more like a bodyguard, a shadow trailing behind a figure at his side. Aragorn could see how much it cost Legolas to keep moving. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his breath came in shallow bursts as he placed one foot carefully in front of the other. Each step seemed like a struggle, as though the very act of walking was a battle. More than once, Aragorn wondered if Legolas would collapse before they reached their destination—if he would lose the strength to continue and fall into his arms.
"Hold on to my arm," Aragorn said finally, his voice low, commanding - yet but with an underlying tenderness that only Legolas might hear or understand.
Legolas hesitated, his guarded gaze flickering up to Aragorn's for a moment before the elf gave a reluctant nod. He reached out, just the smallest motion, and allowed Aragorn to take his arm. The moment quickly passed, but the new kind of acceptance lingered in the air between them.
They moved onward, the silence stretching between them like an invisible thread. As they ascended the narrow, cobbled stairs that led to the dungeon's heart, the dim light from the torches flickered, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The stench of damp and earth permeated the air, mingling with the faint, ever-present scent of pine that clung to Legolas—a reminder of his homeland, of the forests of Mirkwood, so far away from this cold stone.
For a brief, surreal moment, the world felt impossibly heavy. Aragorn felt the weight of Legolas beside him, felt the tremor in the elf's body as he fought to keep upright, to stay focused, as they neared the entrance to the cell where the prisoner was kept. The air was thick with unspoken thoughts, with the quiet understanding that whatever came next would change the course of everything.
Aragorn's steps slowed as they neared the door to the dungeon, the soft sound of their footsteps the only thing that filled the space between them. This was more than just a journey to save Legolas's life. It was the beginning of something else, something neither of them had dared name yet, but which Aragorn could no longer ignore.
What comes after this? he wondered, though the question was unspoken. What happens after we pass this threshold?
But he pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the immediate task. The prisoner awaited, and whatever truths or lies he held, they needed to be heard. They needed answers.
And, perhaps more than that, Aragorn needed Legolas.
"I would gladly come to you, Your Majesty," the prisoner rasped from where he sat on the cold stone floor. His voice was hoarse, each word laboring out of his chest with difficulty. Aragorn could see how much the he was suffering—his face drawn in pain, breath shallow and ragged. He looked worse than the last time they'd met, his body broken in ways that spoke of both torment and survival. "But as you are probably aware, my ability to walk has been... diminished."
"So I have heard," Aragorn replied flatly. He'd been told of the attack earlier that morning—how both prisoner's legs had been shattered in a nasty assault. Whoever had come for him hadn't meant merely to wound him. They had meant to kill. Yet here the orc was, alive but broken, as though by sheer stubbornness alone.
The prisoner gave a slow, pained smile, or perhaps it was just the twisting of his lips in resignation. "But that is of little importance, as you are here now. And I see you brought the elfling with you."
Legolas stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. There was no immediate threat in the room, but his instinct was to remain vigilant, to assess, to judge. He glanced down at the orc, his gaze sharp as a hawk's. "What are you called?" he asked, his voice calm, but with an edge. "Do I know you? Have we met before?"
The prisoner's smile deepened, also assessing, yet not entirely unfriendly. His eyes flicked briefly to Legolas, then back to Aragorn, as though weighing the value of answering. "This is also of little importance, prince archer," he said slowly, a rasping chuckle escaping him before he coughed. "Maybe we have met. Maybe we have not. I have met, battled, and destroyed many elves over the years. Perhaps we crossed paths in a place neither of us care to remember." He paused, a flicker of something deeply unsettling—in his gaze. "I have been around much longer than you have, young prince of Mirkwood."
Legolas's expression remained blank, but there was a tightening in his jaw, a muscle flexing under his skin. This orc had lived through many battles, and though the words were casual, there was an edge of history between them. A history that neither orc nor elf could ignore.
"What are you called?" Legolas asked again, his tone steady but firm." Do you have a name?"
The prisoner's stare clouded, as though the question had stirred some old grief or lingering bitterness. A strangled breath escaped him before he spoke, as though the very act of recalling his name weighed heavy upon him. "I had a name once," he murmured, his voice distant. "But it holds no meaning now."
"Names are power," Legolas regarded him with a curious stare. "They are never truly forgotten, even if we choose to discard them."
The prisoner's lips parted as if to speak, but for a moment, he seemed lost in the echo of his own words. Finally, he whispered, his voice a thread of sound woven through the stillness.
"Ithramir I was once called."
"You don't look like the rest of them … Ithramir."
Legolas's voice was even, but there was still sharpness to it, both curious and accusatory. His studied the orc, trying to reconcile the creature before him with the many others he had encountered. The being before him was different, unsettling in its strangeness.
The orc - Ithramir raised his head slightly, though his posture remained slouched in the corner of the cell. The flickering torchlight from the corridor cast long, distorted shadows, but Legolas could still make out the subtle resemblance to his once-noble kindred. The orc's features were marked by years of torment—his skin was a sickly green, and his once-long hair was now matted with dirt and blood. But there was an underlying symmetry to his face, a haunting, twisted echo of elven beauty.
"I don't," Ithramir agreed, his voice rough, but not without a strange dignity. He didn't meet Legolas's eyes at first; his gaze was fixed on the stone floor, a silent wariness in his posture that hadn't quite dissipated after the beating. "There are more of us. Orcs, like me. Not all of us bent the knee to Sauron. Some of us resisted as best we could. We fought. We have saved many - children, men, elves."
Legolas blinked.
"You? Saved elves?"
Ithramir's lips twisted into a faint, hollow smile—one that did not touch his eyes. "Yes, Prince of Mirkwood. I helped save thousands of them. Many never knew it, but I kept them from worse fates. I kept them from Sauron's grasp."
Legolas studied him, his gaze sharp. "What proof do you have of this?"
"I have names, places, and witnesses, should they be needed," Ithramir replied, his voice steady, prepared to answer the question. "I would not have come here with my request if I did not have enough proof. I may be desperate, but I am not a fool."
Legolas's lips twitched ever so slightly.
"Surprisingly."
He then looked to Aragorn, his brow furrowing. His fingers twitched around the hilt of his sword, the weight of the past few days settling in his chest like a stone. But his king's face remained unreadable, his expression a mask forged from years of hearing things beyond simple comprehension.
Ithramir's gaze shifted upward, meeting Aragorn's with an intensity that carried a strange weight. "We only want one thing, King Elessar. A chance to live in peace. To no longer be hunted. To be understood for the lives we've lived. We have never asked for mercy—only the chance to stop being viewed as monsters. I ask you, King, to protect us. And I ask you, Prince of Mirkwood," he turned back to Legolas, his eyes now steady with resolve, "to allow us to return to the forests. To grant us sanctuary so we can live the rest of our days in peace until it's time to pass to other realms where the true redemption awaits."
Legolas's lips parted, but the words caught in his throat. Sanctuary? The thought was nearly impossible to grasp. "My father would never agree," came his answer to that unsettling in its entirety request. "Sauron's taint is still in your blood. What we saw of your kind during the war—there is no place for you among the elves. Not now. Not after all that you have done."
"Even if I knew a way to save you?" Ithramir's voice faltered, sinking to a whisper.
Legolas stared at him, his heart skipping a beat. "Even then," he said, his gaze unwavering.
Ithramir's mouth curled in a bitter smile, but there was something dark in it, shadow of old secrets perhaps woven tightly into the fabric of his soul. "That's where you're wrong. Thranduil would listen, if the cause was worthy." He turned slightly toward Aragorn. "And your King yet might find reason to believe differently."
Aragorn did not flinch, but the doubt crossed his eyes still —as though a veil had momentarily lifted to reveal a depth of thought too elusive to grasp. "What are you proposing, soldier?" he asked, with the edge of command. "Tell me about the remedy you speak of, and I will consider your offer."
Ithramir's smile deepened, a quiet surrender that spoke more of resignation than of any true mirth. "Considering is not enough," he insisted, his voice thick with meaning. "I need your word. A King's vow. Your promise that my kind can return home to live beside elves and men, in peace, without fear of being hunted. That we can live as we were meant to, without shame. Only then can I offer the remedy you seek. Only then will he be free of this curse."
Aragorn's brows furrowed. His gaze flickered briefly to Legolas, whose expression was a mixture of disbelief and confusion. Then, after a long silence, the king nodded. "You have it," he said. His voice was steady. "You have my word."
"No!" Legolas all but shouted, stepping forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He gripped Aragorn's arm, eyes wide. "You can't mean it. You can't promise him that."
Aragorn didn't look at him, but his voice was gentle, almost apologetic. "I must, Legolas. This is the only way to end it. The only way to stop the suffering. We can't allow vengeance to rule us forever. We must move forward."
Ithramir's eyes gleamed in the half-darkness, their pale glow a sharp contrast to the shadows that swirled around him. He spoke with a strange softness, as though savoring the words, as if they held a bitter sweetness that only he truly understood. "Love is a powerful thing, King Elessar," he said, his voice smooth. "It binds us. It blinds us."
Aragorn's lips pressed into a thin line. "
"It does. And it does."
"I helped to forge the blade that wounded the elfling," Ithramir said tone dropped again. "I helped to create it, and this is how I know of a curse bound to it. A curse that drains the life from anyone who is touched by it."
Legolas froze. "The sword," he whispered, understanding dawning on him with a shock that rattled his bones.
Ithramir nodded. "The only way to reverse it... is to destroy the maker." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "Life for life, as they say. The original maker of that weapon is dead, so only by my death can you be free of the curse. But it must be you, prince archer. You must be the one to end my life. It was designed that way."
Legolas took a sharp breath, a chill settling over him that had little to do with the damp air of the dungeon. His fingers clenched, the muscles of his jaw tightening as the weight of Ithramir's words pressed down on him. "I am no murderer," he demanded, his voice ragged, though there was steel beneath the strain. "I am a soldier; I defend the innocent. I do not kill defenseless prisoners—even if they are orcs."
Ithramir's gaze was unwavering, his pale eyes gleaming with a knowing that made Legolas uncomfortable. "And yet," the orc said softly, his voice lilting with an edge of mockery, "you would let a man die for your sake. You would let the curse drain the life from you, and with it, from your King."
Legolas's breath caught, a knot tightening in his chest at the words. The weight of battered prisoner's gaze seemed to press down on him, and for a moment, he could do nothing but stand there, frozen. How could this cursed orc know him so well?
"I would offer to fight you, Prince Legolas," Ithramir continued, his voice almost bitter, "but as you can see, I am unable to stand." His lips curled, a cruel twist of a smile. "I will not live until the morning. Then both of us will be dead—and it means my quest was for nothing."
Aragorn watched the exchange with the authority of a man who knew the cost of each choice. He looked from Legolas, his face pale with the strain of the situation, to Ithramir, whose eyes gleamed with an unsettling calm. In this dim, shadowed space, the weight of decisions hung like the air before a storm. Every word that passed between them was heavy with consequence. The curse. The redemption. The lives on both sides of this war. Everything, everything hinged on this moment. Yet in the end, it was the King who had the final say in the matter.
The words rose from Aragorn's chest like a weight long carried, wrested from a place where the tension of duty and the tug of doubt clashed in an endless struggle. They came, not easily, but with the force of inevitability, as though shaped by the burdens of both his crown and his heart. "You have my word." The words lingered in the space between them, a promise both unwavering and fraught with consequence. "I will see it through."
"What kind of consort are you, that my bed is left empty once again?" Aragorn's voice, though soft, carried a thread of reproach, yet it was steeped in warmth, as if his words were both a tease and a confession. His eyes followed Legolas, watching the elf move with a grace that could have belonged to a shadow drifting on a summer breeze.
Legolas, ever the embodiment of elegance, worked with the effortless precision of long practice. The soft click of buckles and the faint rustle of leather filled the stillness between them, a peaceful sound in contrast to the chaos that awaited beyond the stable walls.
"A warrior, a soldier," Legolas replied, his voice distant yet touched with a quiet humor. He did not lift his gaze from the task at hand. "Did you expect me to linger in your chambers like some gilded ornament, my King?"
Aragorn leaned against the stable door, crossing his arms, a slight smile playing on his lips. "I may have expected it, just a little," he confessed. "But there's no denying the truth of it, is there?"
Legolas paused, offering a smile that hinted at mischief. "And I did, per your request; For a time," he said, finally meeting Aragorn's gaze. "But duty calls, as it always does. And so does yours." His voice softened then, like the first light of dawn breaking through the dark. "We both have our paths to walk, and they do not always lead to the same place. But I will return—to occupy your life, your bed, and everything else that comes with it. You know that."
Aragorn's heart tightened, an ache settling deep within him. He ran a hand over his face, as if to brush away the shadow of longing that clung to him.
"I know," he murmured, his voice lower, as though the words were heavier than he had expected." But knowing it does not make it easier."
For a moment, Legolas lingered, his fingers resting on the pommel of his saddle. The flicker of vulnerability that passed across his eyes was brief, but Aragorn saw it—saw the affection and the understanding, unspoken but ever-present, that passed between them like a shared breath.
"Do you go to the North?" Aragorn asked, the shift in his tone barely perceptible, yet it carried the weight, as if the question held more than mere curiosity.
"Yes," Legolas replied with a brief nod. "And after that, I return to Mirkwood. There, I must speak with my father—convince him that I have not lost my mind. Showing up with a band of orcs in tow may not be met with the warmest welcome." He spoke lightly, his tone laced with a hint of humor, but there was an edge beneath it. The journey ahead would not be easy, and neither of them could pretend otherwise.
"Probably not," Aragorn agreed. He moved closer to the horse, the distance between them shrinking, his gaze growing serious. "I will join you for the council, then."
Legolas met his eyes then, their gazes locking in a silent understanding.
"But for now," Aragorn continued, his voice lowering to a whisper, as though the very air between them was too sacred to disturb, "Be careful. Do not let your recklessness be your undoing. Come back to me in one piece, Legolas."
The elf's gaze softened, his hand resting lightly on the horse's mane. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, as if the world itself paused.
Legolas turned toward Aragorn, his gaze light, a quiet depth in his eyes that spoke volumes without a single word.
"I will be careful," Legolas promised, his voice barely above a murmur. "But we both know that trouble has a way of finding me, no matter how carefully I tread."
Aragorn's lips curved into a smirk, but it was a smile filled more with affection than humor. His eyes lingered on Legolas, searching, as though memorizing every detail of him before he left. "Perhaps. But I still expect for my elf to return in one piece."
Legolas's smile deepened, his eyes glimmering with mischief —something like a vow, silent but undeniable. "In one piece. I swear it."
Then, with almost effortless motion, Legolas swung himself onto his horse, the familiar ease of the gesture belying the weight of the moment."
"Take care of yourself," Aragorn called - a plea that came from the very core of him, from a place he seldom allowed others to see; a quiet desperation that only Legolas would hear.
"I always do," Legolas replied, as though the promise was etched into his soul. "And I will return."
With that, he urged his horse into motion, the rhythmic sound of hooves soon fading into the distance. Aragorn stood there, watching the silhouette of the elf disappear over the horizon, the absence of him settling down in his chest like an unrelenting chill.
For a moment, he did not move, his eyes fixed on the spot where Legolas had been, as though willing him to stay, even just a moment longer. The emptiness that followed was sharp, but Aragorn did not resist it. He had come to understand that this was simply the way of things—an ebb and flow of love and duty, always in motion, never still.
With a sigh, he turned toward the palace, his footsteps heavy but determined. There was no time for lingering. No time for weakness. Yet even as he walked away, the empty space beside him felt more present than ever—a space that would always, in some way, be filled by the promise of Legolas's return.