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Legolas stood at the wall, looking out over the city in the grey light of dawn. So much destruction, so much blood staining the broken stones, sullying the plains and causing the river to run red. It was almost too great a sorrow to comprehend, yet he knew it was naught compared to what was to come.
His gaze was pulled eastward to the looming clouds and smoke of Mordor, shrouds of grey obscuring the morning sky. Although he could not see it, Legolas was certain of what was beyond, at the rim of the world. A red sun was rising, flaming scarlet on this day of desperate sacrifice, when the ragged, wearied army of the West would march across the devastated land, bringing their challenge to the gates of Sauron himself.
In cold chambers of stone and wood, in ranks of makeshift canvas, men were waking, dread filling their guts as, through the haze of sleep, they realised what lay ahead. And their womenfolk too - what anguish, what helpless terror must assail those whose fate it was to be left behind? They knew nothing of Frodo and the ring, and in their eyes this campaign could have only one possible outcome. It was a wonder that any were prepared to follow their Lords on so hopeless a quest.
High above, the elf looked out and felt the city’s fear. The grief of a thousand souls touched him like a chill wind, pricking his eyes and clutching at his heart. He felt for them, sons and daughters of the West, of the great plains, the mountains and the coastal wilds. He felt and he understood, yet he could not say that he shared their pain.
There was still hope, albeit faint and improbable. The ring had not fallen into Sauron’s hands. That Frodo yet lived, Legolas did not doubt. The thought gave some comfort, but the calm that filled him had another cause.
What if they should fail?
They would ride to Mordor and there do battle for all of Middle Earth. Against such might as the Dark Lord commanded they could not win, and therefore they would fall. Legolas would meet his fate at Aragorn’s side, fighting shoulder to shoulder with his lover until the end.
Never again would he hold the King of Men in his arms as he slept, watching the scarred chest rise and fall to a quiet rhythm. Never again would he weep tears of astonished joy at the climax of their coupling, nor touch his lover’s incandescent spirit through the softest brush of skin on skin.
Never would he step aside to watch the only one he could ever love bind himself to another. Never would he witness the flesh fade as the soul grew weary and wearier still, until this life could no longer sustain it. And no longer would he struggle with the constant dragging ache, the incessant, unanswerable call of the sea, tearing his own fëa apart.
His love of the earth ran far too deep for him to court death, but if death should come seeking him, he would greet it with a clear head and a steady heart. One way or another, at Sauron’s gate lay Legolas’s path to peace.
He had no need to turn at the sound of light footsteps drawing near. Instead he closed his eyes and allowed the melancholy sweetness to wash over him as the man’s hand came to rest against the small of his back. Gentle Aragorn, so scrupulous in his refusal to enter the city as King, could not neglect his healer’s duties even on a morning such as this.
Legolas leaned slightly into the silent form beside him. None were abroad in this forgotten corner of the high citadel, and they would hear another’s approach before they were seen.
“How are they?” the elf murmured.
“Well. They are well,” his lover replied slowly. “Although Merry is bitter still that he may not ride with us, and Éowyn, while she grows stronger by the hour, has yet to heal her spirit.”
“And Faramir?”
“It will be many days before he is fit to go to battle, but if we… if the worst befalls, he will be ready to take command of the city.”
There was no answer to this. Legolas leaned closer still and turned his face towards Aragorn’s. Now the man was staring out to the East and his countenance was bleak.
“Imrahil is right,” Aragorn said. “It is madness.”
“Madness, maybe, yet what else is there to be done? You know where your destiny takes you, Aragorn. You feel it as well as I.”
“I know it. And yet…”
The man’s voice tailed off to nothing as his sadness grew, spilling through their touch into Legolas. The elf sensed it all, the flagging hope, the fear, the utter fatigue that Elessar strove so hard to keep hidden away. He knew he was the only one to whom the king could show his despair. Such trust was precious beyond all gifts, a true measure of his lover’s heart.
“Aragorn.” Legolas turned and placed his hands on the man’s chest. Gently but firmly he moved them both away from the parapet, back to the doorway. There he put his arms around his lover and held him tightly, face pressed into his shoulder, letting the emotions run their course.
After a time the elf raised his head and brought his lips to Aragorn’s. The kiss was slow and thorough. There was none of the fierce passion of the previous night, when they had made love with an urgency that was almost harsh, finding no real peace but only exhausted oblivion after. This was something deeper, sweeter, yet more powerful still; and Legolas did not draw back until he felt the man’s strength returning.
“If you were not with me, I could not…” Aragorn began, silenced by another press of the elf’s lips.
“I will be at your side, as I have promised.” Legolas shut his eyes as his hands slid down the sinuous arms to join with those of his lover. They stood silently with their foreheads barely touching.
“Whatever lies ahead, it is right for us to be together now, here at the end of things,” said Aragorn suddenly.
“It is right. How could it be otherwise?” He pulled his head back and met the man’s steady grey gaze. For a brief moment, Aragorn’s doubt and guilt were nowhere to be seen, and Legolas knew that his words were true.
The distant call of a bugle brought them back to the troubled world. They crossed to the wall once again and looked down to the scurry of activity outside the city gates.
“There is Prince Imrahil,” said the elf, smiling at the name of the fair lord. “He may deem this strategy to be madness, but he will follow you nonetheless, and his men behind him, singing. And there Éomer and his proud Rohirrim; they will not fail you, though they know so little of our purpose. What weapon can Sauron deploy against such love?”
Even as he spoke, Legolas glanced up to the lightening sky. He breathed deeply and for a second sensed something strange and sweet on the air, lifting his heart. His fingers tightened around Aragorn’s hand.
“There is always hope,” he said.
“But for you, I would have forgotten it,” Aragorn drew the elf’s arm forward to pull him close. Again they kissed, lingering in the final embrace before lovers became warriors once more.
At last Aragorn broke away and smiled at Legolas. The elf watched as he assumed the mantle of royalty, his shoulders set, nothing visible in his face but courage and resolve.
“Come, it is time.”
“I am with you.” Legolas smiled in return.
And I shall be with you until the end of it, he thought, falling into step beside Aragorn. For the folk of the Greenwood, for Arda itself, but above all for love of you, my King.