A/N: To those who are still following this story: Thank you so much for waiting, it means the world to me! I really hope you enjoy the update.
"Have you ever looked into the Mirror?" Thranduil casually asked, as if it were a perfectly normal way to greet someone.
The Elvenking's hair was wet, and he was seated on a bench nearby the garden's central basin as he gathered the full, tangled mass of blonde in front of his left shoulder. He looked up at Aragorn as he approached.
"You knew I was coming to speak with you," Aragorn said. It wasn't a question.
"I had rather hoped you would." Thranduil gestured toward the basin. "The mirror, Aragorn. Have you ever looked into it?"
"I have, many years ago. But I only saw things that had already come to pass," Aragorn replied, warily.
"Interesting," Thranduil said. He stood and approached the basin, his fingers still working their way through his damp hair. "I see naught but my own reflection when I look into it. Likely a result of my own power in conflict with its effects."
He pulled a silver comb from the sleeve of his robes and began working it through the tangled ends.
"It's rather convenient, really," Thranduil added, eyes trained on what was presumably his reflection in the water.
Aragorn wondered if the Elvenking would be so boldly irreverent if Galadriel were here to witness his actions.
Probably not, he thought. The Lady in her grace would likely ignore such displays of vanity, and Aragorn suspected Thranduil was only doing this to distract him, or perhaps to see how he would react.
Don't forget what you came here to say.
Aragorn took a deep breath. It was now or never.
"What color was the child's hair?" he asked.
"What?" Thranduil asked, looking at Aragorn with the slightest tilt of his head.
"You said Legolas would have had another babe—a son—if not for what happened. You said you had seen pieces of his future. I'm asking what color the infant's hair was."
Thranduil's gaze returned to the mirror basin, his hands still working through his damp hair with the comb.
"Despite being raised among elfkind, you still don't seem to know much about us," he said, coolly.
"He was mine—he would have been mine," Aragorn said, his voice shaking.
"Of course the child I saw was yours," Thranduil said, still calm. "He and Maeryn walked hand-in-hand among beech and oak. Practically twins, so close were they in appearance and age."
"But how—"
"How, you ask?" A sharp bark of a laugh escaped Thranduil's lips. "That has never been for me to know. The small amount of foresight I have been gifted has just as often proved a curse. There is never any context to the visions, nor is there any indication of what must be done to achieve the outcomes I see—or indeed prevent them."
"Prevent?" Aragorn asked, his anger rising within. "Is that your aim then? To prevent Legolas from breeding again with the likes of me?"
"Don't you dare speak of my son in that way," Thranduil practically snarled.
The comb dropped from Thranduil's hand to the soft grass at his feet, and when he looked back at Aragorn it seemed his mask of composure had suddenly shattered and he couldn't be bothered to pick up the pieces.
"The only vision I have ever tried to prevent was the one that brought me here," Thranduil spoke again, darkly. "My son's health and happiness is—has always been—my only concern."
"Then why?" Aragorn asked. "Why force me to break his heart?"
"You already broke his heart eleven months ago when you left. You left without so much as a promise to remain true, a place or time to meet again. You just claimed some excuse about duty and ran off to the wilds again. I suppose he never told you of the days he spent weeping?"
Aragorn flinched at the memory of Legolas's face the morning he had left Greenwood to travel west again. Their parting had been difficult for Aragorn as well, but he was only now understanding how elevated the pain must have been for Legolas. He had been with child by then, unbeknownst to either of them.
Thranduil shook his head and turned away as he knelt to pick up the silver comb, dusting it off and examining it.
"And you will leave him again, Aragorn. Your quest is too important, your time too short. Legolas is yet very weak; he has no choice but to remain in Lórien to recover and care for his daughter. Perhaps he may be convinced to return with me to our homeland, where Maeryn will be hailed as a princess of Greenwood the Great."
"You are right. I will need to leave Legolas behind," Aragorn said, his fingers fidgeting with the ring that he bore on the first finger of his left hand. "But I will leave him with a promise this time."
Thranduil paused in his examination of the comb.
"Your perils will be great," he said, slowly. "There is no guarantee that you will return alive."
"Then I will need to trust in your foresight."
Thranduil looked back at him, a wry smile on his lips.
"I should have foreseen that you would use my own vision against me."
"Not against you, Thranduil," Aragorn said, tactfully. "You are my daughter's grandfather, and I love your son. I have no desire to quarrel with you."
Thranduil slipped the comb back into his sleeve and began parting his hair into sections, eyes once again trained on the mirror of Galadriel.
"I admit when I last spoke with you, I was blind in my desperation—my grief," he said. "I only cared that Legolas would live, and that he would continue to live, by whatever means possible."
He began weaving the sections into one large braid in front of his shoulder.
"But the truth is I have been selfish, and I have allowed my fears to blind me where my son is concerned. You see, Aragorn, I am no stranger to the tragedy of war. I witnessed my father slain in battle, along with more than half of our army, and I have endured three millennia of insults from elf-lords who called him a fool for the stand he made that day. But despite the unspeakable horrors I have witnessed in my long years of life, it was the quietest days that nearly broke me. The days when I had to watch my loved ones sleep, not knowing if they would ever wake again."
He turned back toward Aragorn, his eyes reddened and damp.
"I do not wish to quarrel either," Thranduil said. "But you must understand; Legolas is all I have left."
Aragorn shook his head, surprised by the sudden warmth he felt in his chest. He had never expected to see eye-to-eye with the elvenking, yet now he found himself empathizing with him on a deeper level than he had ever thought possible.
"Your pardon, your majesty, but he is not," Aragorn said, smiling gently. "You have little Maeryn now; your own lassig's lassig."
Thranduil tilted his head in that strange way of his that seemed to indicate surprise, and he returned a soft smile of his own.
"Indeed, you are right. I did not expect to love her so dearly so quickly, not when my son's life was so nearly spent in exchange for hers. When they brought him in, her tiny body held so close to his chest…I remembered the way his mother held him when he was born."
Thranduil gave a soft sigh, tossing the braid behind his shoulder, where it quickly began to unravel.
"Say that you understand the cost Legolas will pay," he said, his tone resigned.
"The cost?"
"For a life with you, Aragorn." The elvenking rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Please do not make me spell it out for you again."
"I understand, your majesty," Aragorn replied, feeling suddenly lightheaded. Was this—?
"Say that you will love my son and my grandchild unconditionally," Thranduil continued.
"I—I will. Believe me, I already do," Aragorn said.
Thranduil went still, turning his head and listening.
"Then it seems now is your chance. Legolas is searching for you."
He gave Aragorn one last nod, and his expression held a deep sadness that Aragorn had never seen in him before.
"Go and have him, Aragorn, if he will have you."
"Was my father here just now?" Legolas demanded as he strode into the garden, his daughter in his arms.
"He was," Aragorn admitted. "I'm afraid you just missed him."
"And what were the two of you plotting together without me? More plans for a future in which I have no say?"
Aragorn winced at the bitterness in his words.
"Of course not, Legolas." He suddenly noticed the color high in the elf's cheeks—a stark contrast to how he had appeared even a few short hours ago, before he had awoken. "Are you all right? Has your pain worsened?" He hesitated before reaching out, placing a gentle hand on Legolas's shoulder.
"Never mind my pain; Just listen," Legolas said, pulling free of Aragorn and staggering slightly as he backed away. "I know you think you are doing the honorable thing by leaving me, but you are wrong."
Legolas paused, and it seemed he needed a moment to catch his breath before speaking again.
"Even so, I am sorry for how I spoke to you," he said. "That is not how I wanted us to part ways. Not when I know you love me, and I you."
"I agree, and I am sorry as well," Aragorn said. Legolas's shoulders seemed to relax a bit.
"So what will we do now?" Legolas asked.
"The Fellowship will need to move on from here as soon as possible," Aragorn said, gently. "I'm afraid you will need to stay, both to recover and to look after Maeryn."
"And you?" Legolas asked, his tone bitter.
"I will need to leave the two of you behind. Frodo and the others will be looking to me for guidance, and I cannot abandon them at this most crucial hour."
Legolas closed his eyes, his face tightening in pain, but he gave a small nod. Aragorn reached out, his fingers brushing the warm skin of the elf's smooth cheek. He was relieved when Legolas did not shy from his touch.
"But if you would allow me to make you a promise as well," Aragorn said. Legolas opened his eyes, meeting his gaze with a small tilt of his head. Aragorn ran his fingers through the pale, silken hair behind one pointed ear.
"I promise that when these most crucial tasks are completed we will be reunited."
The elf's eyes began to fill with tears. Aragorn swallowed and took another breath. His left hand was fidgeting, his thumb pressing and twisting at the ring he wore on his first finger.
"And, if you are still willing after all the nonsense I've put you through, I ask that you would consider forgiving me—for both my foolishness and my lack of faith in our love."
A small, shaky laugh escaped the elf's lips as he tearfully nodded.
"Oh, Legolas," Aragorn whispered. "If you really can forgive me—"
"I can. I do," Legolas said, fiercely. Then, more gently, "Ask it, Estel."
Aragorn's eyes were fearful, his voice trembling as he finally spoke the words he had been waiting to say.
"Will you, Legolas Thranduilion, pledge yourself to me, as I would pledge myself to you? When all of this is over, will you promise to take me as your husband, the father of your daughter?"
"I—I don't think I can stand anymore," Legolas said, suddenly swaying.
"Legolas?"
Aragorn barely had a chance to reach out and grasp the elf's arms before his legs gave out beneath him. He lowered both Legolas and Maeryn softly to the ground, then reached under him as if to lift him into his arms.
"You are too weak to be up. I'm taking you back to your room," Aragorn said.
"No, don't," Legolas said, reaching out with one arm to tug at Aragorn's wrist. "Not yet. Come join us down here," he insisted with a weak smile.
Aragorn allowed Legolas to drag him down beside him, and then the three of them were huddled together among golden leaves. Aragorn pulled the silver ring from his left hand and held it out to Legolas.
"This ring and the promise of my love are all I have to give you. Are you yet willing to accept them?"
Legolas took the ring from him and held it up, admiring the way the emeralds seemed to glow on their own with green flame. Then he reached for Aragorn's left hand, pressing the ring back onto his finger.
"I cannot accept this," Legolas said.
Aragorn bowed his head, his shoulders beginning to shake. But Legolas reached out and raised Aragorn's chin, meeting his damp, reddened eyes.
"You are going to need that ring to claim your birthright, you senseless brute." He smiled, grasping Aragorn's hand in his. "The promise of your love is all I will need to sustain me while we are apart. I pledge myself to you, Aragorn son of Arathorn. My Estel."
For several moments it was all Aragorn could do to remember to breathe as he gazed upon his betrothed for the first time. He eventually gained enough presence of mind to reach out and take the elf's face in his hands, his skin soft and warm to the touch. Then he kissed him with all the passion and none of the care that he had put into their kiss from earlier that morning.
Legolas was warm—too warm? Aragorn found himself wondering vaguely, but he was too wrapped up in the moment to spare another thought for it. Legolas was now promised to him, and in that moment it seemed that nothing, not even war or distance, could ever come between their love again.
Legolas kissed him back just as eagerly, one hand holding his daughter close and the other buried in his lover's dark hair, and he only broke away when it became clear that Aragorn would rather suffocate that be the first to let go this time.
"I'm cold," Legolas murmured. "Won't you hold us?"
He pressed his face to Aragorn's chest as the man wrapped strong, comforting arms around him.
"I love you," Aragorn whispered. "I should have said it this morning, and I didn't. I'm so very sorry, meleth."
"You're saying it now, Estel. That is enough for me."
"I love you," Aragorn repeated again, like a mantra.
He could have stayed like that for hours, holding his family in his arms. The knowledge that they would be parted in a matter of days made him want to hold on as long as possible. But Legolas pulled away after only a few minutes, wincing as he shifted in discomfort.
"I need to speak with you—with everyone, including our hosts, regarding the quest," Legolas said. "I believe I borrowed a portion of my father's foresight along with his blood. I saw things while I slept, Estel, ill things that we must not let come to pass—and I feel I have already waited too long to tell of them." The elf's glassy eyes were wide when Aragorn met them.
"Peace, meleth, you are trembling," Aragorn said, becoming more concerned at the heat coming off the elf's body, the color high in his cheeks. "You will have a chance to address us all this afternoon."
"This afternoon?" Legolas questioned.
"Of course. Were you not told of the meeting today? Rúmil said Nenna would inform you when she came to check on you."
"I may not have given her the chance," Legolas said, guiltily. "She practically fled from the room to brew me some medicine after detecting my fever."
"Fever?"
Aragorn's hand shot out, alighting on the elf's burning forehead.
Childbed fever.
Damn it! He had seen all the signs as they appeared, why had he not connected them?
"I knew you were worse than you were letting on," Aragorn said, shaking his head. "You are burning up, my love. You should not be out of bed."
"Does it help that I am already feeling much better?" Legolas asked. His smile was genuine, if a bit tired.
"Not enough to save you from my fussing," Aragorn said. "—or Nenna's, for that matter. Hold tight to our little one now; I'm going to carry you back to your room. Hopefully we will find your long-suffering midwife along the way."
"Can't wait to get me into bed, can you?" Legolas cheerfully quipped, wrapping one arm around Aragorn's neck as he was lifted up.
"Indeed," Aragorn said, his tone going sultry. "Nothing would bring me more pleasure than to take you to bed and lie with you—as I watch you rest and heal, you stubborn, beautiful thing."
They did not run into Nenna on their way back to Legolas's room, though they found a wide-eyed healer waiting at the door who ran off without a word at the sight of them. Aragorn figured it was only a matter of time before Nenna was informed of their return—and of her patient's less-than-ideal condition.
Sure enough, Nenna entered the room scarcely a minute after Aragorn had laid Legolas down on the bed. Her braids were tied back again, and she held a steaming clay cup in her hands.
"I ask you to stay in bed for just a few minutes, and you take that as your cue to run off for half an hour?" she said, exasperated.
"I needed to find Aragorn," Legolas said, though he had the decency to look contrite.
"And it is well that you did," Nenna huffed, crossing the room and taking a seat beside Legolas on the bed. "Talynna told me Aragorn had to carry you back."
Legolas bowed his head.
"You're right; I am sorry," he said, quietly.
Nenna shook her head, her face softening at the exhaustion in her patient's voice.
"It's all right, Greenleaf. I've had patients do far more foolish things while delirious with fever."
She held out the steaming cup and Legolas accepted it with both hands, blowing on it.
"What is it?" he asked, giving the contents of the cup a sniff.
"Herbs for the pain, ginger and various roots for your fever. Honey to sweeten it."
Legolas took a sip.
"Needs more honey," he said, grimacing.
"No amount of honey will cover up the bitterness of the herbs, I'm afraid. Go on now, drink it all," Nenna insisted. Legolas reluctantly obeyed, and Aragorn reached for his back, rubbing gently.
"What time is the meeting this afternoon," Legolas asked as he handed the empty cup back to Nenna.
"The one you aren't going to?" she asked. She made as if to stand, but Legolas reached out and grabbed her arm.
"I need to be there, Nenna," he said. He gave Aragorn a desperate look. "Tell her, Estel."
Aragorn felt torn. On the one hand, Legolas was still very sick. But on the other hand, his counsel might prove invaluable as their company decided how their quest must continue from here. And the way Legolas was looking at him now, his eyes pleading…
"It's only for an hour or so, Nenna," Aragorn said, reluctantly.
Nenna looked from one to the other, then gave a soft, long-suffering sigh.
"A half hour. And only if your fever has improved. You can say what you need to say in that amount of time."
"A half hour," Legolas eagerly agreed.
"And you will sleep until I come to get you. Four o'clock."
Legolas nodded fervently, making a show of snuggling down into the blankets.
Nenna held out her arms toward Aragorn, her hands gently beckoning for the child.
"Let me look after her for a while; an uninterrupted sleep would do the both of you good," she said.
Aragorn looked to Legolas, who gave a small nod of assent.
"I wish you could, you know," Legolas murmured once Nenna had gone from the room, taking his firstborn child with her.
"Wish I could what?" Aragorn asked. He eased Legolas into a sitting position at the edge of the bed and began helping him undress.
"Lie with me. It's been nearly a year, and I've missed you. So very much. And now we are promised to each other, and I'm so relieved, and happy, and—it's just a shame we can't be together in that way for a while yet."
"Oh," Aragorn said, momentarily taken aback. "I—I am sorry too," he added, quickly. "But think of how much sweeter our union will be when we meet again after you have recovered."
Legolas went silent as Aragorn helped him dress into sleeping clothes, then settled him into the bed before climbing in himself to lie alongside him beneath the blankets. Moments later Legolas shifted onto his side, facing away from Aragorn.
"There is nothing wrong with my mouth, or my hands for that matter. You have sung their praises before," Legolas softly murmured.
Lying so comfortably against the warm, lithe body of his lover, Aragorn felt heat bloom in him at the very thought of what Legolas was suggesting—despite how deeply both his heart and mind rejected the idea. He tried to subtly shift his hips away from the elf's backside before his body's betrayal became too apparent.
At the same time, Legolas reached an arm behind his back, fingers splayed and searching. Even reaching blindly, the elf's aim was as true as always, and Aragorn gave a soft, surprised cry as he felt the feather-light touch of his lover's fingers upon the bulge in his trousers. He squirmed backward and out of range as Legolas gave a soft laugh, pulling his hand back.
"Use your words, Estel. Some parts of you seem more willing than others," Legolas teased.
"Do not be cruel," Aragorn said, feeling his face redden. "I am only a man. You know I cannot claim full control of every part of me where you are concerned."
"Forgive me, I am only relieved to know that I still hold such sway over you, even in this miserable and bloated condition," Legolas said.
"You have never been more beautiful or desirable to me, meleth," Aragorn said, very gently, "But I must refuse your generous offer."
"Even if it is what I desire?" Legolas asked, softly.
"Yes, even then," Aragorn said, leaning in to press a kiss to the damp skin of the elf's nape. "You have a fever, my love. And I can tell you are still hurting. It would feel too much like taking, regardless of how willing you are to give."
"I understand," Legolas said, "—And I love you all the more for it."
Aragorn shifted onto his back and slipped his left arm beneath Legolas, pulling the elf's body up against him and turning his head to press more soft kisses into his neck. The physical desire deep in his core gradually faded, replaced by feelings of affection that were truer and deeper as both he and his betrothed drifted off to sleep.