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They sit on the edge of ruin and talk. Aragorn is as weary as he has seldom been, a pipe between his lips and the grey cloak of Lórien about him, but he sits and listens to the voices of Merry and Pippin, brave Merry and Pippin, on the ruins of Isengard.
At least they have eaten, and finally Aragorn feels like he may yet come out of the Battle of Helm’s Deep and live, instead of falling to sleep each night into dark dreams of a cold and miserable death on the walls of the Hornburg. He believes he may yet be capable of forgetting the feeling of his arms turning heavy. Too heavy to wield his sword, notched and dull. Too heavy to defend Legolas and Gimli and all the men and women who foolishly believed in him.
The panic too he might one day forget, still thrumming in every of his limbs, in the tips of his fingers and the lids of his eyes. The panic he first felt when he looked around and caught no sight of his friends, when he thought he may have lost them. Like he lost Merry and Pippin, Gandalf, Boromir, even Frodo and Sam, all of whom he led to their deaths.
And Aragorn would have born it, the horror at his failing, but it could not be Gimli and Legolas. Not the dwarf and the elf who were supposed to live for many ages or even into all eternity. Who’d be driven to deaths by nothing but their unyielding faith in him, a grey ranger from the North who carries the heirloom of greatness like a burden instead of a gift.
Now they are sitting next to him, Gimli on his left, laughing warmly at a report of the Hobbits’, pipe between his lips, humming with pleasure; and Legolas on his right, face turned to the sun, keen eyes watching the Ents the rest of them cannot see and the tall tower of Orthanc and Meriadoc’s and Peregrin’s faces. He is searching for wounds, for scars, for any suffering beyond healing at the bottom of their souls and hearts.
But Legolas is smiling, so there cannot be anything too grave to spot. And Aragorn is so glad, so glad that when Pippin next imitates Treebeart’s deep voice to them, hrm hrm babum barumble hum, the laughter rises from the bottom of his stomach, warming his ribs and lungs and throat and heart. They are alive. By rights they should all be dead, Merry and Pippin killed by the Uruk-hai or tortured to death by Saruman. Then Aragorn forced to watch the same orcs slay Gimli the stout dwarf warrior and finally Legolas. Forced to watch the two friends dying side by side, the Prince of Mirkwood spending his last arrow in the defense of a friendship songs would be made about, the dwarf and the elf who died for one another. In many ages hence minstrels would have sung of their last stand, and of the elf's blond hair and bright face turning pale and lifeless and red with the blood running from his mouth. And maybe they would also have sung about the mortal Man who had led the friends to their doom, and how he had watched them die and then led the charge and been grateful for the first spear to bore straight through his heart.
Instead, they are all here. All here to enjoy the beauty of another sky filled with sunshine, reflected in the pool of water that once was Isengard. The water that washed away all evil and black machinery from this valley that set out to destroy them all.
Instead, Merry is currently trying to climb Aragorn’s shoulders to look out over the ruined walls, to catch a glimpse of the Rohirrim and their glorious banners, laughing as he steps onto the side of his neck and listens to the sounds of suffering the Ranger makes. “You will be able to bear one little hobbit, Strider, I should wager, after all your great deeds,” he says flippantly. Aragorn would turn and kiss his hand if he could, the hands and the forehead he was so worried for. He loves that the folk from the Shire joke when really they want to tell you what it is you mean to them. Pippin laughs as Aragorn raises his hands to support the back of Merry’s leg. “Can you see anything on this Great Filthy Man’s shoulders?” Pippin asks, and Gimli swats at him in Aragorn’s stead. Pippin throws his head back and laughs. Legolas leans back to lie down on the wall, finally resting his eyes, smiling as he looks up into a sky.
Aragorn looks at him, still supporting Merry, and it is all he can do not to lean down and kiss him. To kiss that smile on Legolas’s face.
And why wait? Whatever for? For the moment the spear truly comes that will go straight through Aragorn’s heart and end all dreams of a King in the City of the White Tree?
So it is that when they rise, to find Gandalf and see Isengard, that Aragorn waits for all of them to pass in front of him. “You can enter Isengard now at any rate, Stride, if you want to. But it is not a very cheerful sight,” Merry warns him before he goes to take the lead. Aragorn sees how concerned the hobbit is for him when their gazes cross. How Meriadoc worries his lips with his teeth and only wants for Stride to be well, the man who showed him the world. Strider cannot help but embrace him before he lets him pass. Merry laughs, but throws both arms around his neck in return and presses a little too tightly. “Thank you,” he whispers, before Aragorn lets him back down, kissing his forehead.
Merry smiles a dazed smile and then leads the way, followed by Pippin and Gimli, the dwarf leaning heavily on his axe, still weary from the battle even if he would never admit to it. The three of them are quickly engaged in an animated discussion about the qualities of the different pipe-weeds between Erebor and the Shire. Aragorn still finds it curious, and worrisome, that they should have found Longbottom leaf in Isengard, but he cannot bring himself to brood over it, not with the sun in his face and the warmth in his heart.
Legolas, risen back to his feet, shakes his head: “I fear I shall never understand this passion for burning green leaves to fill your lungs with their smoke when you might be breathing the fresh air and looking into the sky.” He is saying it gently, however, playfully, as he makes to follow their friends. The company once more as numerous as they never dared hope it would be again, and he glances at Aragorn as he takes the first step down towards the valley of Isengard.
That smile.
Aragorn stretches out his arm. He has grabbed Legolas’s wrist before the elf has an opportunity to step away. The sun is bright and warm on Legolas’s face, his eyes and lips and grin, and Aragorn cannot look away.
He does not care who is watching. It might be Saruman himself, from his tall black tower, Strider does not care.
Legolas looks at him. He lets Aragorn’s hand slide down to clasp it in his. Aragorn feels how soft the elf’s palms are in his, his that must be calloused and rough. Still, when Legolas steps back up to him, Aragorn lifts his other hand. He runs the tip of his fingers down the blond braid, gently caressing the outline of Legolas’s ears.
“Your touch is as light as if you fear you may break me,” Legolas says, his voice patient.
Aragorn puts his hand to Legolas’s cheek. He gives his reply in Elvish. “I am.”
Legolas’s eyes are as blue as ageless waters, smooth and sure. He lifts his hand to Aragorn’s shoulder. “Then take courage from me,” he says, his voice as clear as the light of the stars, still speaking in the common tongue. “For I have no such fear.”
Then Legolas leans in to kiss him.
When Legolas’s arms go around his waist, holding him up, strong muscles and sinews, as deadly as they are gentle, all fear leaves him. Aragorn closes his eyes and pulls Legolas close, kissing him under the light of the sun and eyes of their friends. And if all the Ents and wizards and Riders of the Mark are watching, too, what is it to them? Why wait for the night when he may feel not only Legolas’s lips on his and the beating of the elf’s heart against his chest, but also the rays of the sun on his cheeks and the wind against his neck and the fingers gripping Legolas’s leather doublet?
When they separate, Legolas cannot help but grin. And Aragorn laughs, just as he laughed standing outside of the Hornburg where Legolas told him he looked terrible. He puts his forehead to the elf’s, intertwining both of their hands. “You make me very courageous, it would seem.”
Legolas glances to the side. “Not just you, I believe.”
It is when Aragorn and Legolas join their friends at the bottom of the ruined walls of Isengard, when Aragorn sees Gimli smile into his beard, that Aragorn realises what Legolas was referring to. Merry and Pippin have gone on ahead, calling for the three hunters to follow, and the two hobbits are holding hands as they walk towards Orthanc and the King of the Mark, not caring who sees.
Aragorn is still weary as they follow, but he is also proud, and glad. Glad to be walking away from the ruin and towards their brave friends, with Legolas’s hand in his and Gimli by his side. There is no more fear. There is only the light of the sun on the pools of water that will cleanse Isengard until once more trees will grow here, tall and green under a clear blue sky. Already, he wants to call after Merry. You were wrong, you know, Master Meriadoc. It is a cheerful sight indeed.
There will be no more fear, and no more waiting.
They have waited long enough.