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The Fellowship ran through the cavernous Mines of Moria, dodging falling boulders and rocks. The monstrosity that pursued them was none other than the Balrog, and as Mithrandir had warned them all, it was beyond any of their capabilities to defeat.
As Legolas leaped nimbly across the thin, rocky slice of stone that served as a bridge across the chasm, it cracked and crumbled into the endless black below.
The Elf carefully helped each of them jump clumsily across. It must have been awkward compared to him, whose grace was nearly unmatched.
Aragorn heard the Balrog’s deep growls, piercing howls that could make even him afraid. In the corner, Sam was trembling with fear, and Frodo laid a reassuring hand on his arm.
This made him smile a bit. Those two were made for each other.
The Fellowship, after more broken rocks and collapsing cliffs, reached the small alcove where they could escape. They were so close.
And, of course, that was when everything went wrong.
The Balrog, wielding a nasty-looking whip made of fire, made it to the bridge after the others had sprinted across. Gandalf drew a sword and marched down to meet it.
“You shall not pass!” The wizard cried, and brought the sword and the staff he normally wielded together, creating a loud clash that could be heard even through the chaos.
A puff of smoke flew out, and the slightest shimmer showed that he’d formed a magical barrier. But he knew enough to realize that with the Balrog’s prowess, the shield wouldn’t last long.
Motion flitted in the corner of Aragorn’s eye. When he turned to it, Legolas was holding an arrow in his hand, halfway through the process of loading it in his bow.
“Legolas, no!”
He reached out uselessly and stared at Legolas. Trying so hard to silently convince him that it wasn’t worth it, even though Aragorn knew abandoning the wizard was a fool’s decision.
It didn’t work.
The Elf ran out from the others and took an archer's mount beside Mithrandir. The stinging arrows infuriated the creature like bee stings. It roared in anger and started to sprint across the stone pass with no reservations.
The rock cracked with the Balrog's weight, and it broke. Just like most else in the cave.
The creature plummeted into the darkness, along with the majority of the bridge. So that had been Legolas’ plan. Make it angry, so it would take down all the stones that had been dislodged. Therefore causing it to fall into the chasm. Legolas turned back to them, a relieved smile on his face.
But nothing could be perfect. There would always be something.
This time, it was the Balrog. It had one more trick up its sleeve. The whip, which they’d foolishly forgotten.
It cracked once more, finding purchase on something. His meleth’s leg.
Legolas cried out in pain as the fire ensnared his ankle.
He was dragged to the very edge, and soon, only his hands held onto the overhand.
“Run!” Legolas cried to them, wincing at the burn.
His eyes shifted to Aragorn, and he mouthed,” I love you, Estel.”
Then, the pull and weight became too much and he dropped into the darkness. Along with the creature. Alone.
Looking back on the events, later on, he cannot remember very many things. Darkness clouds these memories, tainting and darkening the details like evening’s long shadows.
Aragorn is unsure quite why, though the sorrow must remain a constant. Perhaps it was the literal darkness of the cave and the rushed lapse of the happenings was sufficient. It could have been something else he wasn’t aware of.
But he is almost sure of the first one. Loss and grief are powerful weapons, for they can incapacitate an enemy on merely one occasion.
The pieces he can remember follow in a slight blur.
Boromir dragging him from the broken bridge, and screams echoing off the vast, high walls of the cave. Aragorn is almost sure they were his own, cries of denial. He would have stood there forever, waiting for the Elf to reappear.
Stalactites fell from the tall roof, high out of sight from any of them. Even Legolas hadn’t been able to see the top in some areas.
Once the man of Gondor had pulled him outside with Aragorn fighting the whole time, he collapsed on the rocky stone ground. The rest of the Fellowship (excluding Legolas) were lying askew, spread out across an area that was about five meters in radius.
Aragorn, after Boromir had sat down and released the hold on his tunic, walked to the area's edge.
The mid-battle adrenaline was starting to die off, and with each second he felt the emotions that had been so carefully placed behind a wall leaping out and wrapping their fiery claws around his heart. Small cuts and scrapes he’d been able to ignore before started burning.
A hand from behind him clasped Aragorn’s right shoulder, and he started, thinking for some minuscule moment that it was Legolas, who'd miraculously escaped from the Balrog and was about to greet him with a kind smile, perhaps steal a secret kiss if the others weren't watching too closely.
But no, it was Mithrandir. “Aragorn,” He trailed off, making this one of the rare times he was lost for words. The wizard usually had a silver tongue. But not now, a time that any joke or sass would be seen as hurtful and insulting.
“I'm sorry for your loss.” The sober tone of Mithrandir’s voice struck him with a finality that nothing else had. Legolas was gone. He would not be coming back.
Aragorn’s knees were about to buckle, so he called the others, who were resting after all the excitement that had happened.
“Hurry up! By nightfall, these hills will be crawling with orcs!” He gestured to Boromir. “Get them on their feet!”
The man hesitated for a moment. “Do you doubt me?” Aragorn snarled. “Get them up!”
Boromir was never one to take shouted orders. “Simply because you lost someone doesn't mean you get to be an ass, Aragorn!” He cried. “We have all lost others, and moved on.”
Mithrandir interrupted, keeping the conversation from spiraling even more than it already had. “Boromir, get the hobbits up. Aragorn is right; the orcs are quicker than one would think.”
The man from Gondor walked away while muttering something to himself that Aragorn couldn’t hear. Probably about how rude he was.
Mithrandir beckoned them on. “We ride for Rivendell. Elrond will give us a different path.”
Sam’s eyes lit up, reminding Aragorn of Elves. The young hobbit was fascinated with them. Legolas would often be bombarded with questions about their culture.
Aragorn gave a quiet hiss as his chest panged. It was quite painful.
“Strider?” Frodo noticed the irregular motion. “Are you all right?”
No. “I’m fine.”
The Fellowship had traveled for hours and were just now approaching the forest. It loomed, with tall trees and thick underbrush getting closer every second. The sounds of scurrying animals were more apparent, running to get out of their way.
The birdsong was quiet, but distinct if one listened for it. Aragorn had spent much of his life here, in this forest, with the elves. After his father died, his mother, Gilraen, chose to move away. She’d died not long ago, buried in a grave deep in the heart of Rivendell.
He overheard Gimli telling the hobbits about the White Witch who lived deep in the woods and would curse anyone who dared lay eyes on her. “But don’t worry, lads. This dwarf is too sharp.” He was incorrect, as Aragorn had heard this rumor before. It mentioned Galadriel, who lived in Lothlorien.
Ironic, for the very next second, Gimli nearly walked straight into an arrow held by an Elf.
“Your dwarf is so noisy, we could shoot in the dark.” The polished, regal voice broke the tension, unique to their race. Aragorn carefully walked forward, making sure to keep his hands away from his cloak. “I am Estel,” He said. “We wish to hold council with Elrond.”
The leader of the group (Who Aragorn knew as Haldir) nodded, and the others lowered their weapons.
Everyone was blindfolded and led along a path that only the elves seemed to know. It wasn’t long, and soon Aragorn found himself in the kingdom of Rivendell, with its white pillars and structures that seemed unearthly with beauty.
It was similar to how he remembered, but some parts had been updated to fit the newer design. He spotted an enlarged armory, fitted with several weapons that looked much heavier than those typically used by the Elves. Old paint that had been chipped away was restored, more brilliant than ever.
Elrond was seated on the same grand throne Aragorn had known in his youth. The King’s eyebrows furrowed as he observed them.
Mithrandir bent in a low bow and spoke. “My king, we come bearing news.”
As the wizard explained their predicament, Aragorn’s memories of what had transpired in the Mines flooded him. He should have done more, could have done more-
“Estel,” Elrond called to him. “You are dismissed. Arwen has been waiting to see you for quite some time.”
He nodded and walked away, leaving the other Fellowship members to the king.
Arwen’s room was in the same place as before, on the upper right wing of the tower. She had chosen it due to so much light pouring in from large circular windows built for extra luminescence.
They had romanced briefly in their youth but came to the answer that it simply wasn’t meant to be.
A few months afterward, he met Legolas. The Elf had charmed him with his personality and skills. They’d gone on several missions for the king, all of which had been successful.
Not long after that, they’d begun courting.
The pain abruptly surged up and threatened to overwhelm him. Aragorn took a few deep breaths until it subsided a bit and knocked on the door.
“Come in.” A soft voice came from inside,
He opened the door, and there was the girl he’d grown up with, as close to a sister as he could get. But she was no longer a girl, but a regal, beautiful woman.
Arwen’s face lit up as Aragorn entered. “Estel! You are back!” She leaped up and wrapped him in a hug.
“Arwen,” He murmured, holding her close and tightly. “So much has happened since I was here last.”
She pulled back and studied his face. He could remember her doing the same thing as children, trying to get a read on his emotions. After a moment, her eyebrows wrinkled.
“Something is wrong. What is it?”
Arwen had always been intuitive. Even when she was only five years old.
“Nothing. I’m happy to see you.”
“I am as well, but you're not telling me.” One of her hands reached up and caressed his face, fingers carefully rubbing the sides.
It felt wrong to lie to her. So Aragorn sat down on her bed and began to tell the whole, long, awful story.
“After, Mithrandir decided to bring us here.” He finished, after what felt like forever.
Arwen stared at him, dismayed. “Oh, Estel. I am so, so sorry.”
His heart felt like it was breaking. He didn’t want to feel this pain. He only wanted Legolas back.
But part of him, deep down, knew that he’d never see the elf again. Aragorn would have to get used to it.
“Estel! Are you alright?”
He blinked and snapped out of the haze of thoughts that had been clouding everything. “I’m fine.”
Arwen brushed her hand across his cheek.”You're crying.”
He touched his eyes and felt moisture.
“I apologize.”
She stared at him with sorrow in her eyes. “Don't apologize. I cried when my mother died, it’s entirely natural.” Arwen pulled him down beside her, both of them laying on the mattress. Aragorn tucked his head into her neck and breathed in her familiar smell, that of fresh air. It was quite similar to the forest they’d walked through before.
They slept like that, curled up together.
Aragorn woke early in the morning, finding the bed empty beside him. Arwen had had other things to do, probably.
He sat up and got dressed in new clothes that she must have left out for him. Always considerate.
The palace still had a structure close to the one he’d known, so Aragorn was easily able to make his way down to the feast hall.
The rest of the Fellowship was already there. He’d probably slept late.
Taking a seat with the others, Aragorn was quickly caught up to their new plan. They would make their way to Lothlorien, where Galadriel lived. There was a consistent river route, which would lead them along a safer path to Mordor. At least, safer than the land would be.
He added a few ideas but mostly stayed quiet throughout. His thoughts still rested on Legolas.
Aragorn couldn’t stop feeling the ache in his chest. Arwen had only numbed it for a small time; it panged with a fury.
It should have been him. Everyone else could have gotten by without Aragorn…
He sat through the rest of the strategy meeting in silence, pretending to listen.
Two months later, a short time after the Battle of Helm's Deep.
The battle was over. Somehow, with their small number of barely over three thousand men, Saruman’s army had been defeated. The Fellowship (What was left of it, after they split up) was one step closer to defeating Sauron.
Aragorn, Gimli, and Mithrandir had traveled to Rohan, where the wizard had freed the king there, Théoden, from Saruman’s influence. After this, Théoden declared an evacuation of the city, and every person living there made the journey to Helm’s Deep.
From there, the army of orcs and Uruk-hai marched upon the bunker. Perhaps the fates had smiled on them, and granted a win.
It was not an easy win, with many casualties.
Aragorn walked along the battlefield, counting the corpses of Men and Elves. He’d lost hope when the numbers went beyond one thousand.
Gimli had been hauled away on a stretcher, having obtained a critical head injury. It wouldn’t be lethal, but quite painful.
Mithrandir had been led off by Théoden, the pair going off to discuss something unknown. Possibly about the restoration of another emergency bunker, in case something like this happened again. With Sauron watching over everything, there was a chance. Higher than anyone would want.
Light footsteps padded along the ground towards him. Aragorn turned, half expecting it to be Gimli, having run off from the healers. The dwarf had done that more than once, to the healers’ dismay and displeasure.
But no, it was an Elf. His heart leaped for a moment until they lifted their hood from their head. They introduced themselves as Leo, which was a rather unusual name for an elf. Perhaps it had been changed.
Leo led him off the battlefield, into the woods nearby. They dodged logs and undergrowth with practiced skill, the sort that came naturally to their kind.
After a short time, they stopped at some type of clearing. A den made from grasses, sticks, and fronds was near the edge, along with a firepit.
Aragorn assumed it was theirs until Leo told him to sit there for a while. They left without barely making a sound, and he carefully studied the camp.
A quiet crunching noise came from behind him, causing Aragorn to stand up and whirl around with his sword already drawn. Many of the orcs had fled into the woods after their defeat, and it could easily be one of them.
The very last thing he expected came into view, one arm in a sling.
Legolas.
The weapon fell from his hand, making a clunk sound when it hit the ground. Aragorn stood completely still, staring.
The Elf, on the contrary, rushed forward and wrapped him in one of the tightest hugs Aragorn had ever received.
He paused, breath catching in his throat. This couldn’t possibly be real, it had to be some sort of trick.
Legolas pulled back, studying his face with a concerned expression. “Estel?” He stopped, a blush creeping up his cheeks.
Aragorn was shaking, trembling so hard he couldn’t control it. Everything was too much right then.
The Elf took his arm and led him into the makeshift shelter, where they both lay on the mossy mattress. It was surprisingly comfortable, and Aragorn felt himself relax the smallest bit.
He tilted his face up to Legolas and inhaled a shaky breath. “I thought you were dead.” Aragorn’s voice cracked in pain, and he winced.
“We were falling – and I caught onto a ledge. I broke my arm-” He gestured to the arm in a splint. “The Balrog kept falling into the darkness.”
“I found a way out, behind a pile of rocks, and Leo found me outside. They got me here, where we heard about the battle.”
Aragorn hated this weak, helpless feeling. “I should have helped you.”
Legolas squeezed his hand. “No. I told you to run. Everything turned out alright.”
“Please, don’t do this. I thought you were dead. Gone. I was never going to see you again.”
Aragorn’s vision started to swirl as tears blurred his eyes.
“Oh, meleth nin,” Legolas reached out with his good arm and caressed the Man’s face caringly. “I’ll never leave again, I promise.”
And that was when the dam broke, and Aragorn started to cry.
He hadn’t sobbed this hard since he was a child when his father had been reported dead. The child he’d been probably didn’t even know what had happened, but his mother was crying, and that was enough.
Now, grown-up Aragorn was tucked into Legolas’ side, desperately clutching his waist for dear life, as he wept.
It wasn’t anything new; he’d felt like this ever since the Mines, but had been able to postpone it for a while.
But no longer.
When the sobbing fit was over, he still held on tight as the elf pulled him into a soft, yet strong kiss, one that left him gasping for breath.
Aragorn felt, for the first time in months, whole.
The world hurt a little less. His chest felt lighter than it had been in what felt like forever.