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You were the brightest shade of sun I had ever seen
Your skin was gilded with the gold of the richest kings
And like the dawn you woke the world inside of me
You were the brightest shade of sun when I saw you
The morning dawned clear and cold above what remained of the fellowship. The dwarf snored loudly on his bedroll and Aragorn sat alone in the silence, polishing Andúril. He had been able to see his reflection in the steel for a while now, but the repetitive motion soothed his racing thoughts. He did not see Legolas approach but he felt a presence at his back, and made no move to look as he continued his quiet work. The rising sun did nothing to warm the grey sky of morning, and the two remained there, eyes fixed on the vast firmament that stretched above their heads. It seemed a portent of the coming battle, a reminder how small they were in the face of so much power.
Finally, Legolas spoke. “Estel.”
“Hm?”
“If this is to be our last battle-”
“It will not be. It cannot be,” replied Aragorn, not turning away from his work.
Legolas pressed on. “If this is to be our last battle, even if it’s not, you should have the hair of a warrior, of a king.” Legolas made a small move to touch him, and then stopped, as if remembering himself. Hair was sacred to elves and those who had lived among them. He would never touch another’s without permission, no matter how much he wished to.
Aragorn finally met the elf’s piercing blue eyes, which were trained earnestly and unblinkingly on his own. “Legolas,” he began.
“Allow me this. Please, mellon nin.”
Aragorn’s eyes flitted between both of Legolas’ searching for some deeper meaning to the request. He was less familiar with the customs of the Silvan elves, but among the elves of Imladris, braiding was an intimate practice done only by oneself, family, and lovers. It was certainly not unheard of for such a thing to take place between the closest of friends, but it was far, far less common. Still, Aragorn nodded, turning his back and shaking out his hair.
Legolas gently began combing his fingers through the brown locks, deftly coaxing out the numerous knots he came across. After untangling a particularly bad one, he sucked in a breath through his teeth and sighed disapprovingly.
“Is something wrong?” Aragorn asked.
“You need to take better care of yourself. This is more akin to a bird’s nest than hair.”
The ranger scoffed, chuckling softly. “My sincerest apologies, mellon nin. Ensuring the future of Middle Earth can be distracting,” he replied, cutting off his sentence with a sharp hiss as Legolas tugged at a tangle near the nape of his neck.
The smile in Legolas’ voice was evident even though Aragorn could not see his face. “Ah, I’m sorry, Estel. Did that hurt?”
Having made his point, Legolas continued to work, the combing of his fingers finding a rhythm with Aragorn’s polishing of his sword. Though he admonished Aragorn, Legolas couldn’t help but admire the roughness of man. As elves were touched by Eru, men were touched by time. When Legolas was a young ellon, he relished the concept of immortality. He cared for nothing and took great pleasure in the knowledge that he would never die. As he grew older, however, he began to feel more dead than anything. For he was ageless and unchanging, like a tree watching countless flowers bloom and wilt and bloom again.
Eventually, the ranger’s hands finally stilled, coming to rest in his lap as his eyelids fluttered, then fell completely. The tension in his body continued to ebb as Legolas parted his hair and began to twist the strands together in an intricate pattern. For elves, each kind of braid meant something different. How they were combined could signify anything from one’s military rank to their marital status. It was a language of sorts, one that Legolas spoke as easily as Sindarin or Westron. The pattern he wove designated Aragorn as a king, a warrior, and a man who was deeply loved.
Legolas refrained from telling Aragorn of the meanings. He had said enough through the gesture itself, and hoped that the care and tenderness he felt was conveyed through the way he tucked Aragorn’s hair behind his ear, or the way his hand brushed the bare skin of the ranger’s neck when perhaps it did not need to. In the end, Aragorn looked every bit a king about to ride into battle, standing as Legolas fastened and released the last braid with a note of finality.
Aragorn turned to face the elf, bringing his hand up to touch one of the braids that snaked across from his temple and dropped off just behind his ear. “It looks- well, it feels like yours.”
Legolas nodded. “It is the style of noble blood, of strength, resilience,” he swallowed, forcing down a curious sensation that brought heat and moisture to his eyes, “and protection.”
The sun was gaining height in the early morning sky, chasing the daytime moon from the sky. Its pale, cold light lit Aragorn from behind, casting a halo behind his head as he smiled softly, sadly. “Thank you, Legolas.”
The elf did not stop himself this time, and moved forward to press a hand to Aragorn’s chest. “Your heart beats to the song of a warrior. Follow it.”
A chilly spring wind blew past, lifting their cloaks and casting strands of hair across Aragorn’s jaw, He brought one hand up to cover Legolas’, bringing the other up to cup his jaw. The elf looked at him with something like reverence, and instead of replying with words, he leaned in and closed the distance between their lips.
Aragorn’s kiss was soft and unhurried, making Legolas’ chest tighten as a painful lump rose in his throat. How could Aragorn kiss him like this- like they had all the time in the world? Even if all went according to plan, they would never enjoy such a luxury. Legolas had dreamed of touching Aragorn in such a way since they had first met and now, when he finally got his wish, the ranger’s life was nearly half finished, maybe closer than that if they did not succeed. He was no stranger to loss or fear, but still Legolas returned the kiss as if he was dying of thirst and Aragorn was the last bit of water at the bottom of a drying lake.
Aragorn broke away and leaned his forehead against the elf’s. “Fight well, Legolas,” he whispered, giving the other’s hand a squeeze before removing it from his chest and letting it fall as he turned to fetch his sword.
“Fight well, Estel.”
At last, at last
And you will surely be the death of me
But how could I have known?