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The three hunters are relentless in their travel by day, desperation making them light of foot, for who knows what foul fate might befall two hobbits in the company of orc. For the light of Merry and Pippin to be extinguished would be too much, and so they do not consider it; instead, they pour their energy into their feet, flying through the lands at speed, as if riding atop of the late winter breezes.
They stop for the night; they have no choice but to stop. The foul machinations of Saruman render night travel nearly impossible, for the light of the moon is covered by unnatural cloud, and the wind swirls around them, disturbing any trace or sound of the orc that fly across land, destined for their maker. To continue the chase would only exhaust both man and dwarf, and potentially lead them further from their friends. Thus the three hunters come to a halt, forced to let the orc take the two hobbits ever further from their grasp.
Despite rest being unavoidable, Legolas is impatient, coiled like a spring with unspent energy. He does not say it aloud, for he has been graced with some tact, but he itches to give chase, however fruitless it might be, and Aragorn and Gimli share a weary look. The light is almost wholly gone, and what remains is grey and cold, far from the golden sun that should bless an elven brow.
Gimli suffers the most physically, though he would bluster to hear it said aloud. His very soul feels chafed, and yet he would not slow his step, would not let the hobbits get any further from his grasp than is absolutely necessary. But now that it is time for rest, he leans over, as if feeling every pain in his body, keenly and completely.
Aragorn aches, and his shoulders slump. He wonders if he will ever carry himself tall again.
Gimli coughs. “My dwarven ears are not so keen, but do I not hear the soft babble of a welcoming stream?”
Legolas confirms it, and then looks to Aragorn, waiting. They have not yet set up camp, and so Aragorn nods. “It is only another hundred yards. Come, we three will rest by the river tonight.”
The brook is wide and deep, but the flow is slow, suitable enough for bathing. Legolas strips first, unabashed as he wades into the cool water, and Aragorn follows after, slower in his approach but no less eager to be cleansed by the waters.
“Will you not join us, Gimli?” Legolas asks, the ends of his golden hair haloing around him as he floats in deep water.
“Nay, lad. Dwarves are not suited to such frivolities,” Gimli replies. He does, however, remove his boots and socks, and come to the riverside, resting his weary feet in the soothing stream. The dwarf pulls out his pipe, lighting it gently and blowing shapes into the wind. He turns his head away a little, eyes closing, trying to grant his friends a modicum of privacy in these lands where to separate could be a death sentence.
On previous travels, away from this current war, a rest in a stream might have lead to more amorous activities, but Aragorn is weary from the travel and the weight around his heart. Gandalf and Boromir gone; Merry and Pippin taken; and Sam and Frodo, off to some dire unknown fate. The water is a balm, but it cannot ease all hurts, and Aragorn tires, on a deep untouchable level.
The impossibility of his grief and strife does not stop Legolas from trying to soothe him, and the elf is far more effective than cold water could hope to be. Gentle hands run through his hair, and then disappear. The elf glides through the water like a bird, gathering something from his pack before coming back to where the Ranger waits for him. His hands return, this time with soapy suds to wash away the layer of grime that has encased Aragorn since Lorien. The scent of the soap is familiar; it is not of Lorien, or even Rivendell, but instead brings back memories of Mirkwood, of deep woods and cold halls, of candlelit bathing rooms that only elves were supposed to see - that he had seen, regardless. “You packed expensive soap.”
“I am not an animal,” Legolas replies. In the fading light, Aragorn can see the soap is only small, well used. It will last maybe five more washes - less if Legolas keeps sharing it. Elven hands coast away from mannish hair, washing the neck, chest, and arms of the Ranger with sure strokes, and it should feel as if it is building to something heated, but it does not. It feels like soft linens, and carefully wrapped gifted treats, and flowers, picked to match his eyes. He is glad Gimli had averted his gaze, for it looks like something far more intimate than coupling, and he wonders what the dwarf might see upon his face, were he to look.
They had not put a name to this strange thing between them; the inevitable tidal pull together that they had experienced on first meeting, and the way their energy seemed to curl together, bound as if pulled by a string, inseparable. There would be no other being for Aragorn, should Legolas fall; nor would Legolas find happiness in the arms of another, no matter how Aragorn might wish it, on days when he felt keenly the fragility of man.
Legolas leads him to shallow water and washes the rest of him. It speaks to the weight on his soul that even this does not rouse Aragorn to passion; he feels heavier than he ever has before, but trusts that Legolas will catch him if he stumbles. He holds a hand out, waiting, and Legolas puts the soap within it, and he returns the favour. He runs the soap over every inch of skin available to him, frowning as he comes across cuts and scrapes that blemish the once smooth skin. Legolas raises a hand and smooths the frown away, and then leads him back to deeper waters to rinse. The elf buoys him on his arms, and they float there a while, looking at one another.
He looks at Legolas and sees forever.
The last fragments of light fade and disappear, until the only glow Aragorn can see is from the end of Gimli’s pipe. Legolas leads him back to shore, and they dress in darkness. Gimli does not put his boots back on, for his feet are swollen and deserving of rest, but otherwise they are ready to depart in the morning, as soon as their eyes awaken.
Legolas offers to take watch for the full night, as he always does, and on this night Aragorn agrees to it, for he knows the elf will not find rest regardless. Gimli leans back against a tree, eyes closing. Any other night, Aragorn would take a similar berth, but now, he looks to where he knows Legolas to be, and remembers how it felt in the water, how close it felt to salvation. His hands reach out, searching until they connect with an elven arm. He follows the arm down its length until he feels an elven leg, and then guides himself down, until his head rests upon the top of a warm thigh, his face towards its owner. It is pleasant, but he wishes to feel the elf, to touch his skin and know that in spite of all else, the elf lives. He shuffles inward and edges the tunic up, until a sliver of skin is exposed. He caresses it, and kisses it, and rests his forehead against it.
“I am fatigued,” he confesses into the hip, letting his breath warm the skin.
“Then sleep,” Legolas replies lightly, as if it were as simple as that. “I will be here when you awake.”
“You will not try to run ahead, see if you cannot find the hobbits alone?”
“I will remain,” Legolas promises. He raises his knees slightly, and Aragorn finds that he can no longer shift away from the soft skin of the hip, cocooned as he is in the dip of Legolas. “Saruman hides the path at night so thoroughly, and even if he did not, you both tire, and this is not a quest for one being to take alone. We three must stick together.”
Aragorn sighs and nods, falling silent. The stream trickles in the distance, and the night air is cold against his skin, a pleasant contrast to the warm, soft skin beneath his forehead. Aragorn lets his body grow heavy in the grass, the lingering smell of soap soothing him, and lets himself sink, until finally, if only for a moment, he is at rest.