Legolas, clad in the silver, silk of Lórien, glanced around him. The hobbits sat silent next to each other against a large mallorn tree, it’s beautiful branches stretching towards the sky with dignified grace. They were no longer openly mourning the passing of Gandalf, yet the somber tone of the fateful day hung in the air almost palpable. Boromir sat on the fresh earth discussing something quietly with Gimli, both man and dwarf had made no effort to hide their grief and sorrow weathered their weary faces. Turning to Aragorn, he discovered a pair of keen, gray eyes studying him. Meeting his watchful look, Legolas stood a moment and when Aragorn did not relent in his piercing gaze, dropped his eyes and bowed his head slightly at his old friend before silently stealing away into the shadows of the Lórien evening.

None seemed to be aware of him as he took his time walking up the steps towards his chambre given to him by the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. The night was clear, as were the voices of the elves still singing for the loss of their treasured Mithrandir. The fair elven voices carried over the night dipping and ascending, much like a bird upon a thermal. Taking one last glance at the serenity of the twilight and ignoring the lack of it in his heart, Legolas stepped into the softly lit chambre.

The voices of Gandalf’s lament could not be drowned by sleep and Legolas felt weary and unclean after the dark road through Moria. Removing his new garments and laying them on a large chair next to the bed, Legolas stood naked letting the moon bath his ancient body with it’s healing light. A soft breeze filtered through the room and Legolas shivered slightly before reaching up to his soft, golden hair to begin slowly unwinding the braids that bound his hair out of his eyes. For those too were aged with wisdom and pain, Legolas noted turning his attention to a mirror set upon a desk. Finishing, Legolas found a soft tunic made of the same material as his other garment and through it on.

Stepping lightly down the stairs, the tunic billowed around him similar to the mist that would ladden the morning forests of dear Mirkwood. Walking silently upon the soft, green grass, Legolas made his way to the bath house set against the whispering river, for it did not babble or laugh gaily as it had in Rivendell, rather it whispered of things long forgotten, pain and sadness. Feeling a kinship to the river, Legolas strayed to the bank and watched the whimsy of the flowing water before skimming the water in a dive to join the endlessly moving liquid. The river played upon his limbs lightening them and dipping his head in cool water, Legolas’ mind was at ease.

An hour or so must have passed before Legolas stepped shivering into the cool night air once again. Wringing his hair out one last time, Legolas made his way back to his bedchamber. Sitting on the pillowed stool against the desk, Legolas studied his expression in the mirror ignoring the pool of water that was collecting under the chair as droplets of the silver liquid ran down strands of his hair and onto the floor.

He was saddened by what he saw. The price of immortality was high and was paid though those that did not have it yearned for it. All elves paid the price for eternity; it could be seen etched in his fair face, his eyes much like sea were worn, his lips had taken far too many breaths, and his flaxen mane had seen one too many summer days. He was radiant as an elf could only be, yet staring into the mirror, Legolas saw past the illusions. He felt detached from the grief the fellowship shared for Gandalf and a longing to be able to sit next to dear Merry or Pippin and weep openly with them for the loss of a good and trusted friend. As one who saw the death and passing of many, feelings of sadness and grief were not allowed near his heart for it would break him to bear the anguish of all lost souls.

Strong hands suddenly found their way to Legolas’ shoulders and startled he awoke from the dream hazy and yet all too clear. Aragorn. Powerful yet gentle; a murderer and a hero; a king and a prisoner. Meeting the man’s gaze in the mirror, Legolas saw grief reflected in those stormy gray eyes. Aragorn knew. Being raised by elves, he had long ago understood the cost of immortality and has experienced it himself. Legolas opened his mouth to speak to the still silent ranger. A finger was pressed against his lips and then a hand reached around him and picked up a silver handled comb and tenderly began to untangle the knots in his still damp hair. Sighing, content to simply have this intimate and quiet contact, Legolas closed his eyes and enjoyed the steady stroking of the comb and the fading voices of the elvish voices.

Aragorn finished and set the comb down upon the desk and cupped Legolas’ ethereal face with his hands gazing silently down upon him. Legolas breathed in deeply and leaned back against Aragorn’s lean body. Aragorn stared in awe at the beauty of the white light of the moon grazing the pale chest of Legolas as the tunic was held closed across the middle with a single silver chain and was now falling open baring the silken skin of the elf. Legolas opened his eyes and gazed at Aragorn with pure peace in his eyes, his lips were moist and a soft pink. Smiling softly at the elf, Aragorn leaned forward and pressed his own lips against Legolas’.

The two remained like that for sometime before moving to deepen the kiss. Aragorn wordlessly pulled Legolas to his feet and pressed the lean male against him continuing to maintain contact with their mouths. Lips and tongues met and collided languidly for there was no hurry.

Finally breaking the kiss, Aragorn pressed his forehead to Legolas and slowly undid his tunic. Legolas mimicked Aragorn and his deft, graceful fingers soon removed all clothing from the man. The two beings stood for a moment, as if frozen in time, before their lips met again. Aragorn wrapped one arm around Legolas’ waist and the left hand cupped his face gently slowly stroking his thumb across the planes of the elven face. Legolas’ fingers had entwined themselves in the dark locks of Aragorn and while his right hand remained against the rangers heart, finding its melody as beautiful as the elves’ lament.

As the moon baptized the two forms, silhouettes against the fair light, Aragorn led Legolas to his soft bed. Lying down, Aragorn held on to Legolas’ hand and pulled him face down on top of him. Remaining prone there for a moment, Legolas let his lips and tongue trail over the familiar body. While not lovers, both men continually sought comfort in the arms of the other. Finally turning around in Aragorn’s arms, Legolas pressed his back against Aragorn’s chest enjoying the refuge in their tight embrace.

Time passed slowly and all that could now be heard was the soft, gentle breathing of Aragorn and Legolas began to ponder his life once more. While others dreamt blissfully, sleep would not claim him, nor would it allow him any haven if it did. Dreams haunted his nights and remaining awake was often better than the cold sleep he fell into. The ring too was wearing heavy on his mind, as were the perils yet to come. The sense of foreboding was too great to ignore and Legolas began to accept that he would no longer sleep until the quest was over. He planned to only allow himself time meditate in a waking dream while he walked. He was able to get adequate rest that way.

Aragorn shifted closer to Legolas and mumbled wordlessly into his hair. Closing his eyes, once again Legolas was faced with the picture of Gandalf, beloved friend and trusted advisor falling into the ominous black pit. He longed to mourn for him and for the pain and agony the rest of the fellowship must feel. ‘Yet I cannot feel.’ Legolas thought regretfully as he bit his lip in frustration. Suddenly Aragorn tightened his grip on Legolas and with one hand brushed an errant strand of hair from his saddened face.

"I know."

Was all that was said and yet Legolas knew in his heart that Aragorn really did know and turning around once again in the close embrace Legolas buried his head in the crook of Aragorn’s neck

And cried.

He cried for the loneliness; he cried for his indifference at a time when so much should be felt; he cried for lost ones that could never have been grieved over; and he cried for the understanding and wisdom of elves, that which allowed them to accept life and death so simply. Aragorn traced circles along Legolas’ back while Legolas mourned those things in life which he could not have and yet so greatly desired. As time continued, Legolas’ breathing slowed and for the first time since leaving his home of Mirkwood, he slept dreamlessly and with ease.

Aragorn tenderly pressed his lips against Legolas’ forehead before settling down closer to his friend.

Lulled by the gentle breaths of Legolas, Aragorn drifted slowly to sleep, wrapped in an elven embrace.


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