Chapter Text
The music room was quiet at this hour, filled only with the hush of old instruments and the faint shimmer of wind chimes stirring on the terrace. Beyond the open arches, the gardens of Imladris glowed with late sunlight—silver leaves, narrow paths, shadows deep as river-stone.
Aragorn stood at the carved window, wrestling with a knot of thoughts he would rather have left untouched. Gandalf, settled in Elrond's favorite chair with his pipe, watched him with the mild patience of one who has seen many proud men cornered by their own hearts.
"You've got that look about you," the wizard said, smoke drifting between them. "The sort a man wears when an elf has unsettled him—and he won't admit it even if asked."
"Is it so plain to see?" Aragorn asked.
"To my eyes—yes," Gandalf replied, touching flame to the bowl of his pipe with slow, deliberate care. The first tendril of smoke rose soft and pale, wandering upward like a thought half-formed. Aragorn turned from the terraces of Imladris below—paths of grey stone and silver waters he had walked in his youth. They felt both familiar and strangely far-off, as if seen through a thin veil of time.
"What of it?" he said quietly. "And if an elf did unsettle me—what then?"
"The breach between you and Thranduil's son must be set right," Gandalf answered. His voice was even. "And soon." You are to travel side by side, and in the days ahead, trust between you will be no small matter."
Aragorn drew a slow breath, feeling the truth settle upon him like the cool mountain air. Gandalf had merely spoken aloud what he had tried not to dwell upon. He did not answer at once. The smoke drifted between them, delicate and fleeting, as though urging him toward a path he had long avoided. He would have given much to let the matter lie untouched, buried where old grievances fade into dust. He had hoped—both for his own sake and for the elves'—that it would not rise again to trouble him.
"Of all the Elven-kind beneath the stars," he murmured, the bitterness softened into a weary edge rather than a sharp one, "why must it be this one, Mithrandir?"
"I have known Legolas for many long years," Gandalf said. His voice held no censure, only the weight of long acquaintance. "He is headstrong and stubborn as ancient stone. Reckless, too—for he will follow the urging of his own heart before he heeds any counsel. Such is his nature."
Aragorn heard the quiet thread of fondness beneath the wizard's words, tempered by patience and the slow understanding that comes only with time. A few moments passed in silence, broken only by birdsong from the gardens beyond and the soft rustling of leaves stirred by the wind.
"We have a little time yet in Rivendell before we set out upon our road," Gandalf continued at last. The smoke from his pipe drifted upward in thin grey spirals, as though it sought some answer in the high air. "Use it well, Aragorn." He turned his gaze to the gardens below, the wind stirring the leaves in slow, thoughtful patterns. "You and Legolas must come to some understanding. It is a hard thing to walk beside one with whom your heart is unsteady. Harder still when the world waits upon your joined strength. I think Legolas would meet you halfway," he said, softer now, almost as if speaking to the wind. "If you would cease bristling long enough to see the truth of him. He is not your enemy, though your pride might tell you otherwise. And perhaps," he added, "you are not his."
"Well, in truth," Aragorn said, "he had me wrongly imprisoned for a week in Thranduil's dungeons. Accused me of theft, and would not take the charge back."
"How curious," Gandalf sounded more amused than surprised. "And not much like the Legolas I know. Perhaps there was some misunderstanding—could it be?" He tapped the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully. "In any case, have a proper talk with him while you are both here in Rivendell. Some truth may yet come to light."
After Gandalf left, Aragorn remained seated in the music room, alone with the dimming light. He had spent many hours here as a child, listening to Elrond's musicians weave their songs through the arches. He had never imagined he would return to this chamber to speak of war, of perilous roads, and of old acquaintances who had become—if not enemies—then something far from easy friends. Perhaps, he had thought, when all gathered for the Council and he saw Legolas again, some quiet resolution might come of its own accord—without the need to drag old grievances into the light.
But no.
He understood that the moment he took his seat at the long oak table and looked upon the company assembled there. Legolas had turned his gaze from him almost at once, pretending they had never met. So much for easy resolutions. There was also a dwarf—already muttering under his breath, arms crossed like a barricade. Hobbits—wide-eyed, hopeful. A wizard—thankfully—though Gandalf's presence was never quite the comfort one imagined; more the steady reminder that matters were every bit as grave as they appeared. And Boromir, of all seats, had chosen the place between the wizard and the elf—that elf—and that, Aragorn thought darkly, was where the true trouble began. He kept his expression carefully schooled, though his pulse betrayed him with a single, traitorous beat. Legolas sat with the kind of effortless poise that belonged only to the Eldar—still as a carved figure, yet never truly motionless. There was a readiness about him, a subdued tension beneath the calm, as if this serenity could, in the space of a breath, unsheathe itself into a warrior's ferocity.
Aragorn felt a small prickle of irritation—at Legolas, at fate, but mostly at himself. Of course, it had to be an elf who joined them on this journey. One from each race—so the Council had decreed. He would sooner have taken two dwarves. And naturally, it had to be this elf. The long and troubled history between them lay like a stone in the current of his thoughts, never worn smooth, no matter how many seasons passed. For all their shared battles and the wary respect that had grown between them, they had yet to find any path that led toward easy peace.
He'd nursed a quiet, persistent dislike for the Woodland folk for years now. They were nothing like the Elves of Rivendell, who'd raised him with gentleness and impossible grace. No, the Silvan Elves were another matter entirely. Wild as their forests. Untamed, unpredictable. The sort who'd loose an arrow first and consider the finer points of diplomacy sometime after the burial. And yet they wrapped all that fierce, ungoverned energy in the illusion of elven serenity—silver voices, poetry in the branches. A theatrical performance, as far as Aragorn was concerned.
He should have been prepared for one to show up here. He should have been prepared for Legolas. He remembered the moment from the past with painful clarity: the creak of the gate closing behind him, the thin torchlight quivering against damp stone, the low murmur of guards who did not bother to hide their suspicion. It had not been danger that unsettled him—he had lived with danger all his life—but the indignity of being judged before he had spoken a single word. And all of it because one high-born elfling had dared to name him thief.
He watched Legolas across the table, watched the elf trying not to watch him. There was a knowing curve at the corner of Legolas's mouth—so slight it might have been a trick of the light—but Aragorn sensed he had read his thoughts, or at least the shape of them. Elves were like that: they listened even when no words were spoken. He let his gaze wander, watching how Boromir spoke to the prince—calmly, with a kind of easy indulgence, none of the stiff caution men so often carried in the presence of the Eldar. Boromir's voice held no awe, no careful distance. Only ease, as though he addressed a comrade met beside a roadside fire. Or perhaps something more. Legolas answered in the same manner. There was history there, if one knew how to look for it—not the kind written in battles or treaties, but something smaller, finer. A thin thread of understanding drawn between them, near invisible unless the light touched it just so. Aragorn saw it. And unbidden, something uneasy shifted beneath his ribs. Heat rose in him—sharp, unwelcome, almost startling in its force. He felt his blood stir, then burn.
Legolas inclined his head at something Boromir murmured. The gesture was small and graceful yet carried the faintest glimmer of wryness—the sort of flicker one might miss unless one watched closely, or knew the ways of elves well enough to read meaning in the shift of a single breath. Boromir caught it.His stern expression eased—barely, yet plainly. His shoulders lowered; the tight line of his jaw softened, as though some private understanding had moved between them. Familiarity—quiet, steady, lived-in. A thing that should have been impossible between two who, by all rights, ought to have been strangers. These were not allies by custom. Gondor and Mirkwood seldom crossed paths, and when they did, their dealings were shaped more by courtesy than kinship. There was no natural bond between them, no reason for trust to root itself easily in such soil. And yet—here sat the Steward's son and the Woodland Prince with a subtle ease between them, an undercurrent of recognition that did not belong to the familiar politics of their realms. It showed itself in quiet things: in the way Legolas's gaze lingered a heartbeat longer when Boromir spoke; in the way Boromir's stern countenance softened, as though he had already taken the measure of the elf and found something there that merited regard beyond formality. It struck Aragorn like a murmur of some hidden current. They looked, he thought, like two streams that had met once beneath the tangled underbrush of the world. A thread, faint, yet undeniably present.
Long after the Council had broken and its echoes drifted away, Aragorn remained seated in the empty chamber. The last murmurs of debate thinned in the high rafters like smoke losing its shape. Unwelcome thoughts moved through his mind. His history with Legolas, the part of it that had never truly found its end. He had done his best to keep distance after the bitter business in Thranduil's cells, yet their paths had crossed now and again. Each meeting had been awkward, strained—the sort of encounter both wished to escape as quickly as courtesy allowed. And now they would be thrown together for who knew how long. The thought carried its own weight, and its own quiet consequences.
"Aragorn." The familiar voice drew him back from his thoughts, light as a hand upon the shoulder. “Why so glum?”
"What is there to be merry about?" Aragorn lifted his eyes and met the steady, ice-blue stare. Legolas had dressed for something fine, it seemed—far finer than the hour or the company required. For what occasion, Aragorn could not guess. After such a troubling council, where in all Rivendell could the elf possibly intend to go?
"Enjoy the hour you are given," Legolas have answered. "Tomorrow will come whether you dread it or not." He lifted one shoulder in an elegant, effortless shrug. "But today we are in Rivendell—under a peaceful sky, with no shadow chasing our heels for a few days yet. There is no wisdom in mourning early."
Aragorn looked away, unsettled by the elf's ease. By the way his face caught the soft amber light, drawing out every flawless line. His long hair, unbraided and unbound, fell in a bright sweep over his shoulders—shown openly tonight, in all its quiet splendor. Aragorn wondered for whom he had done this.
"You speak as though the future holds no weight for you."
Legolas's smile deepened, though his eyes remained steady.
"It holds weight enough. But despair answers nothing. And fear—" He paused, letting his gaze rest fully on Aragorn, unblinking, unjudging. "Fear steals more from us than any enemy could."
Aragorn huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh.
"Spoken like one who has never doubted."
"On the contrary," Legolas said softly. "I doubt often. That is why I choose to stand in the light while I may." A beat. "I suggest you do the same. Now—will you show me around? I have never been to Rivendell."
"Yes." Aragorn cleared his throat, recovering some measure of poise. "I will be a gracious host and show you my favorite place. And I promise not to drag you to the dungeons."
A soft, incredulous snort.
"You are still troubled by that?"
"Very."
Legolas's brows lifted, just a fraction—enough to suggest thoughtfulness rather than defensiveness.
"I had my reasons for what I did," he said softly. "Let us leave it there."
"For wrongly naming me a thief?" Aragorn asked. His voice came out lower than he meant, carrying more hurt than heat. A breath of silence passed between them, thin as a blade's edge.
"Yes," Legolas replied at last. "If you truly wish to settle this—once and for all—then let us speak plainly."
"As if you knew how to speak plainly, Legolas."
"I always speak plainly," Legolas said, and for the first time his composure wavered. A shadow crossed his features. "Unlike some I could name." He paused, if choosing his next words with care. "I was younger then—too easily swayed by feeling. And I do repent the words I spoke… and the judgments I made." His gaze slipped aside before settling on Aragorn again, clearer, steadier. "When first I met you, I lost my footing. After that day in the forest, I felt things I had never known in all my long years." His voice gentled, though the truth in it still carried a keen edge. "And then I learned who you were. I was wounded. The jewels were missing. I spoke out of bitterness, and by the time sense returned to me, the words had already gone too far." He drew a slow breath. "You should know," Legolas continued, eyes narrowing with a frankness that left no room for doubt, "I told my father you were to be released. I admitted my error long before Lord Elrond set foot in Mirkwood."
"It eases my heart… though only a little."
"Friends, then?" Legolas asked. Aragorn glimpsed the mischief gathering in the elf's eyes and knew he should move. He did not. That was his mistake. Suddenly his arms were full of elf. Legolas stepped forward in a swift, unguarded motion, wrapping him in an embrace that was all lightness and impossible warmth. He smelled of wildflowers—yes, even in this season—just as Aragorn remembered from the first moment their paths had crossed. Aragorn closed his eyes briefly, willing himself not to remember too much. Not the forest's hush, nor the curve of a smile that had undone him once before.
"Friends," he said at last, sighing the word into the elf's hair, though he kept his hands carefully in check, permitting himself no more than the moment required. "Provided you swear never again to cast me into your father's dungeons."
"The dungeons have been improved, I'll have you know," Legolas said with a soft laugh.
"Oh?" Aragorn raised a brow. "In what manner?"
"There is lamplight now, and the benches have cushions." His smile widened. "But I would not do such a thing again. Surely you have done deeds in your life that you deeply regret?"
"I have," Aragorn said quietly. "More than a few."
Legolas gave a small huff of breath—almost a laugh, almost not. "Then best not linger on them. Come. I've little time tonight, but enough to let you show me a corner of Rivendell."
Aragorn studied him.
"Where are you going?"
"I told you. I'm meeting a friend."
"A friend?" Aragorn's voice slipped before he could stop it. "When exactly did you find the time to make friends here?" He wanted to ask something else entirely, something sharper and far more revealing. He swallowed it.
"It is an old friend," Legolas said.
"You've never set foot in Rivendell. I would know if you had."
Legolas turned to him then, eyes unreadable. "Does a friend need to live here?" A faint shrug. "Or be an elf, for that matter?"
The words were light, but something beneath them wasn't. A quiet challenge. A reminder that Legolas had histories Aragorn had never been invited to hear. Yes, he had done deeds in his life that he deeply regretted. His encounter with Legolas years ago was one of them—an ill-fated clash they had both played a part in. Starting an argument neither had borne well. Challenging the elf to a quarrel. Refusing to admit his own fault even when he knew better. And yes—he had been thrown into the dungeons afterward. But could he truly lay that at Legolas's feet? Probably not. Pride had guided them both.
Yet. Beneath all that reason, something small and sharp still caught at him—an edge he would rather have smoothed away. But some wishes were not granted so easily.