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It was well after dark when the Fellowship reached the borders of Lothlorien and Aragorn finally felt he could let them stop for the night.
It had been a driving force, thrumming through his blood since Moria - get them away, get them hidden, get them safe - so much so that when they stumbled beneath the trees and he felt the familiar touch of Elven art lifting the burden from his shoulders, he staggered and almost fell from the sudden lack of weight. Legolas caught him by the shoulder and flashed a concerned look, but Aragorn shook his head and dredged up an only half-begrudging smile for his friend. He could see the same easing of tension in Legolas’s face, the automatic sense of safety that came from being in a place that, however distantly, resembled home.
The rest of the Fellowship didn’t look nearly as reassured, and Aragorn supposed he couldn’t blame them. Lorien didn’t open its borders to strangers often, not Men or Hobbits, and as for Dwarves… the wary expression on Gimli’s face and the way he gripped his axe more tightly than he had back in Moria might have been amusing, except that Aragorn was already imagining the struggle it was going to be persuading Lorien’s guards not to skewer the Dwarf with their arrows on sight. If he had any luck, it would Haldir who found them first; the Marchwarden was stiff-necked and proud, but he was also a friend. Aragorn could convince him to allow Gimli to pass. Probably.
For now, that was a problem for tomorrow. They were still at least an hour’s walk from where Haldir’s patrols began, and it made sense to take some rest in the relative safety of the trees before pressing on to the city itself. Aragorn led the group a little further on, until he could be sure they were well out of sight of any orcs who might still be following but wouldn’t dare to breach the forest. “We’ll camp here for tonight,” he said.
The others all gave him solemn, tired looks before taking on the tasks of setting up the camp. Aragorn sighed as he watched them. After so many nights in the wild, the Fellowship moved around each other like long-time companions, setting out bedrolls and making a fire and distributing food efficiently and without fuss - but tonight there was none of the chatter and teasing that had accompanied every other evening, even those in Moria. Exhaustion and fear weighed his companions down; even the hobbits were mostly silent, exchanging only the occasional necessary word as they passed supplies back and forth. Aragorn knew there would be no staying up to talk over the fire and a smoke tonight, that all of them longed to fall into dreams and hope they were more pleasant than present reality.
It isn’t just the long road behind us and the fear of orcs, he reminded himself. Grief is what drags at them. But that was a thought too close to the pain in his own heart, and he pushed it aside.
The hobbits finished setting up their things and collapsed into a pile all together, curly heads and bare feet so close it was difficult to see which belonged to which hobbit. On other nights, this had made him smile - like puppies, Boromir had said fondly once, and Aragorn had agreed. Now he could only see that the Shirefolk clung to each other the way children clutched at their parents when they were suddenly and cruelly introduced the realities of the world.
They weren’t children; even Pippin was close to a full adult by hobbit standards, and Frodo was much older than his smooth features and huge eyes showed. Nor was it likely that they were strangers to death, even sudden death - he knew Frodo, at least, had lost both his parents at a young age, and the Shire was just as afflicted with illness and accidents as anywhere else where mortals dwelled. But violence was new to them, and even more than the others, they had trusted that everything would be safe so long as Gandalf was there to guide them.
That thought, and the memory of Gandalf urging him to lead the party on, made him step closer to them. “Sleep, and rest, my friends,” he said softly. “Lorien’s trees will give us protection.”
They responded with a chorus of sleepy murmurs. Pippin, who had taken Gandalf’s death the hardest and hadn’t stopped weeping even during the long jog from Moria, was already fast asleep, and Sam and Merry didn’t seem far behind. He would have to watch out for Pippin, Aragorn thought; the youngest hobbit was afflicted as much with guilt as grief, for having caused the commotion that drew the orcs to them in the first place. He would have to make sure Pippin understood that Gandalf’s loss was not his fault.
Alone of the hobbits, Frodo still seemed wide-awake, his blue eyes gleaming faintly in the light of the small fire. “Strider,” he murmured, and Aragorn knelt down beside him.
“What is it, Frodo?” he asked. He would protect every member of the Fellowship with his life, had known that even before Gandalf fell, but it was to Frodo that he had pledged his sword, and to whom he now had an enormous responsibility. “Are you well?”
“As I can be.” Frodo shifted a little, though not enough to dislodge either Sam, who was curled up against his back, or Pippin, half-sprawled over his legs. “Did you know Gandalf a very long time, Strider?”
The question caught him off-guard, almost breaking through the wall he’d set around his own grief. “Nearly all my life,” he said, after a moment. “He was a frequent guest in Elrond’s house when I was a child.”
Frodo nodded slowly. “Bilbo’s too,” he said. His eyes were full of sadness, but there was something else there too, some relief at seeing his own grief reflected in another.
It was Frodo’s tears that had almost broken Aragorn, back outside the gates of Moria. When Frodo had turned back to him, the loss written all over his face, Aragorn’s resolve had nearly crumbled. They would all miss Gandalf, of course, but Aragorn thought perhaps you had to have been a child who first learned wonder and magic at the knee of a grumpy, grey-cloaked wizard with fireworks and stories of far-off places to really understand how much they’d lost.
He reached out and laid one hand against Frodo’s curly hair, feeling once again how small this creature was in whom they were placing all their trust. “When we come to Lady Galadriel’s city,” he said, “there will be time. To mourn.” Perhaps not long, depending on the council the Lady and Lord Celeborn had for them, but he would make sure of that much. “I promise.”
“Good,” Frodo said, and Aragorn saw some of the pain ease in his features.
“Rest,” he said again, and Frodo, eyes already closing, murmured, “you too, Strider,” and turned to hide his face against Merry’s shoulder.
The rest of the Fellowship had settled down by now. Gimli had set his bedroll at the very center of the camp - not, Aragorn suspected with a flicker of amusement, because he wished to be near the fire, but so he could stay as far from any of the trees as possible. He was nodding over his pipe, but every few minutes his eyes shot open and he sent around a suspicious glare.
“We are safe here, Gimli,” Aragorn said as he passed him. “The Lady’s protection can keep away any orc.”
“Hrmm, and what kind of elf magic does that take, and what else is it doing?” Gimli grumbled, but he put out his pipe and lay down.
Boromir was a few feet away. There were dark circles under his eyes and a slump to his broad shoulders, but Aragorn recognized the stubborn look on his face as Boromir saw him approach. “I’ll take the watch,” Aragorn said, cutting him off before he could speak.
Boromir hesitated only a moment, the need for sleep battling a captain’s desire to be the one who took on the most strain. “Wake me for the second,” he said finally.
Aragorn really didn’t intend them to stop long enough to require two watches, but he nodded anyway. He would have to be careful with Boromir. The Steward’s son had followed Gandalf - begrudgingly and not without complaint; there was some history here that Aragorn suspected came down to Denethor’s life-long dislike of anything “foreign” - but he wouldn’t be inclined to trust Aragorn’s leadership in the same way. Aragorn knew that he could put Boromir in his place, if he had to - everywhere he’d led men, whether in Gondor or Rohan or among his own Rangers, there had always been one or two who resisted his authority, but never for long - but he would prefer if Boromir could be made to respect and trust him willingly. It would be a relief, he thought, with a flash of longing that caught him off-guard, to have one from among the people he would one day rule whom he could call a friend.
As it was, he and Boromir were still far from friends, but as he turned away to find a place from which to keep watch, Boromir cleared his throat and spoke, his voice stilted. “I apologize for earlier,” he said.
Aragorn turned back, eyebrows raised. “Apologize? How did you offend?”
“Back before the gates the Moria, when you wished us to rouse the hobbits and move on. I questioned that.”
Aragorn shrugged. “I don’t expect you not to question me, Boromir,” he said. Wryly, he thought he wouldn’t expect that even if in some future time he truly was Gondor’s King, and Boromir his Steward. Again there was that longing; despite having led men for decades, being a king always sounded lonely.
“But you were correct,” Boromir said. “We couldn’t have stayed there.” His eyes drifted towards the pile of hobbits. “I spoke from compassion for them, for they remind me of children sometimes. Of when my own brother was - “ He shook his head, visibly pushing away sentiment. “But you were right. If we had remained, we would have had to face the orcs again, and perhaps lost even more than we already have.”
“I was right,” Aragorn said, “but I knew you understood that. I knew you only wished not to add to their grief.”
“Sometimes being a captain means being the one to give the difficult orders,” Boromir said, and Aragorn was reminded again that this, too, was a leader of men.
“I should be so lucky, that these were the most difficult orders I have to give.”
Boromir made a sound that was almost a laugh, and when Aragorn looked over he saw the younger man watching him with a considering look. “We will see them to the end of this road,” he said. “All four of them.”
All eight of us, Aragorn wanted to correct, but he knew better. “We will,” he said instead, and grasped Boromir’s shoulder briefly. “Goodnight.”
He retreated to the edge of the camp, setting himself with a rough tree trunk at his back and his sword close at hand, and digging through his bag for his pipe. The camp fell silent, the breathing of the others dropping off into the slow pattern of sleep, and Aragorn felt his own exhaustion return to press at his shoulders. Aches that he’d ignored all the long run since the battle in Balin’s death chamber began to make themselves known and he shifted, stretching carefully. As a healer, he knew that he too could benefit from rest, but he had much experience of travel in the wild and he could keep himself awake, and keep the Fellowship safe, another night.
As if summoned by his own treacherous thought of rest, a shadow moved in the trees above him and a voice said, “And you, Estel?”
Aragorn tipped his head back, catching a glimpse of golden hair far above. “What of me, Legolas?”
There was another shift, and then the elf came climbing down from the branches of the tree, dropping soundlessly to a crouch beside him. Aragorn raised an eyebrow and waited, bemused. He knew what Legolas was going to say, and Legolas knew how he’d answer. There was a comfort in them working through the old script anyway.
“Why are you awake?” he asked, preemptively.
“I don’t sleep.”
Aragorn rolled his eyes at the elven prince’s lofty tones. “Try that one on someone who doesn’t carry as one of his earliest memories the experience of coming upon an elf asleep with his eyes open.” It had been Elladan; young Aragorn had brought nearly the entire house of Elrond running with his cries that his “brother” was dead.
Legolas’s lip twitched. “I don’t need as much sleep, say then,” he said. “I can keep the watch tonight.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“It is,” Legolas said, and held up one hand. “And don’t say anything self-deprecating about your human blood, because we both know that’s not what I’m talking about.” Green eyes studied Aragorn in the dark, their serious expression not matched by the slightly ironic smile. “You are tired,” he said. “You grieve.”
“We are all tired, and we all grieve.” Including you, he thought. Legolas had never been one to handle death well, despite the fact that he’d certainly seen plenty of it. It was as though he believed all the people he loved should be as eternal as the trees, and each time that proved untrue he was stricken.
But tonight, there was no darkness in the elf’s eyes, just an irritatingly worried mother-hen expression. “But you are the only one taking on the full burden of holding Gandalf’s place,” he said, and before Aragorn could protest that as an absurd idea, Legolas reached out and brushed his hair back from his face, callused fingers lingering at the raised flesh just above his ear. “And you were hurt, also.”
“It’s nothing.” He should have known that Legolas would have seen the moment back in the mines when he’d taken a blow to the head trying to reach Frodo and very briefly lost consciousness. All the Fellowship had learned to watch each other’s backs, but Legolas had been watching his for far longer than a few weeks. “I’m all right.” As if in defiance of his words, he felt the headache that had plagued him for hours crest again.
“You are the healer, so if you say so, I must believe it,” Legolas said, though the warning look in his eyes carried memories of a few times when Aragorn might have, slightly, downplayed injuries in the past. Sometimes he wondered if Legolas looked at him and still saw the eager and proud fledgling Ranger he’d been when they met. After all, to look at Legolas, not a day had passed in all those years.
Not on his face or his body, anyway, he thought with a touch of regret. There was a look in Legolas’s eyes sometimes that reminded him of his father and brothers, and of Arwen most of all. Loving mortals ages them in other ways.
“I will watch tonight,” Legolas said again, “and if you insist, you can remain awake and keep me company, foolishly costing two of us sleep instead of one. Your choice, oh mighty leader.” His lips twitched again.
“You are absurd,” Aragorn said, but he could feel his own heart lifting. “But if you insist, I shall lie down briefly.”
“Do that.” Legolas settled himself against the tree trunk, legs stretched out before him, and Aragorn lay down. After a moment of shifting, he felt Legolas tug at his sleeve and went obediently, resting his aching head against the elven prince’s thigh.
The quiet of the night, the sanctity of Lorien’s trees and the presence of one of his oldest and closest friends made him relax in spite of himself. Aragorn’s thoughts began to drift, though he kept his eyes open and his senses attuned to the forest around them. “Legolas,” he said after a long moment of quiet, unable to keep the thoughts that had been clamoring for his attention at bay, “do you think Gandalf… do you think he knew? What would happen?”
Aragorn had had his own reasons to want to avoid Moria, but Gandalf had seemed almost frightened by the idea. It wasn’t something Aragorn had seen much of on the old wizard.
“I don’t know,” Legolas said quietly. “Do you? You know more of the gift and curse of foresight than I do.”
“I think he did.” He felt Legolas’s hand move, long fingers drifting softly through his hair, and welcomed the comforting touch. “Before we reached the bridge,” he admitted, “he told me that I needed to lead you all on. I think then, he knew.”
“He had faith in you.” The brush of Legolas’s fingers was hypnotic, and Aragorn’s eyelids fluttered in spite of his best efforts. “As we all do.”
Aragorn sighed. “Let us hope it is not misplaced.”
“What did I say about being self-deprecating?” He couldn’t see his friend’s face, but he could imagine his look of fond exasperation, having seen it so many times before. “Sleep, Estel. I have the watch for now. In the morning you can take back this burden.”
Aragorn gave in, letting his eyes drift close. “If Haldir comes, don’t let him shoot Gimli,” he mumbled, and felt Legolas shake beneath him as he laughed.
“Rest, my friend,” he said, and Aragorn did.