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Pieces of what we could have been
Pieces of a shattered dream
Child, take your dark memories
Like seeds and plant them far from here
Sow them, feed them, through shine and rain
Your love will be born again
“I hope you know what you are doing.”
Thranduil’s voice echoed through the hall, thick and stentorian. Legolas halted his steps before turning to face his father. Although his expression was vacant, doubt lingered in his eyes. The King rose from his throne and walked toward him slowly, his feet barely brushing the floor. The younger elf watched him, maintaining his silence.
“The Ranger,” Thranduil said, as if it weren't obvious what he was referring to. “He may be a Dúnedain, but that does not strip him of his mortality.”
Legolas inhaled slowly. He let the stagnant air of Mirkwood flood his lungs while searching for a response that would not spark an argument. He could hear his own heartbeat—a reminder that, if there was one thing he wished to avoid entirely, it was this conversation.
“I am aware, Father,” he responded in a thin veil of a voice. “In fact, I think of it often.”
Thranduil raised both eyebrows, tilting his head slightly. Apparently, that answer had taken him by surprise.
“Oh, is that so?” he asked with incredulity. “Then why do you do it? Why do you wish to inflict such suffering upon yourself?” he inquired. Legolas looked away, knowing his glassy eyes would betray him. “That is the only thing you will achieve if you continue down this path. Perhaps you do not see it now. You may be happy, but you are only delaying the inevitable agony.”
The Prince did not know how to respond. He was aware that Thranduil’s reasoning was backed by experience. The Elvenking knew what it was to love someone and lose them; he understood the pain and, above all, he understood that time did nothing to ease it. It was a suffocating void he would carry forever.
“I understand your concern,” Legolas began softly, speaking slowly as if weighing every word. “I truly regret causing it. But… I want this for myself. I often struggle with those terrible thoughts, but I feel it is all worth it when I am with him. Yes, perhaps a miserable fate awaits me; but, with luck, that will happen in fifty, a hundred, two hundred years… perhaps more. If I renounce him now, misery would overtake me this very instant.”
“You do not know that; it could happen at any moment.” Thranduil shook his head while closing his eyes. He was vexed by his son’s blindness toward the inevitable. One would think that thousands of years of existence would have granted him wisdom, but apparently, that was not the case. At least not in these matters. “And even if you were right, what are two hundred years to our people? Nothing more than a blink of an eye.”
Legolas swallowed hard as he let his gaze land on the floor. It was a futile conversation; neither was willing to yield.
“I will think on it,” he finally said. The words escaped his mouth like a weary breath.
And without another word, he left. He left Thranduil alone in the middle of the room, watching him walk away, knowing that his son's promise was a lie.
…
A shiver ran down Legolas's spine, acutely aware of the eyes fixed upon them at that moment. It was night, and though summer had ended, it was sweltering inside. The wooden table where his elbows rested was uneven, causing an uncomfortable wobble. Aragorn, sitting beside him, ate a stew and drank a pint of ale in silence. Legolas was neither eating nor drinking; the smoke filling the room made him lightheaded, and he knew he wouldn't find anything decent to ingest in such a place anyway.
“Why do you like this place?” he asked suddenly, unable to contain himself. He looked around cautiously. It didn't surprise him that so many people were staring—he guessed they wondered what a Wood-elven prince was doing with a Northern Ranger—but it didn't make the situation any less uncomfortable.
“It is not that I like it,” Aragorn replied, emphasizing the word. “It is on our way and it is accessible, that is all. Are you sure you do not want anything?” Legolas shook his head, wrinkling his nose. The dark-haired man offered a lopsided smile. “It does not meet the standards of Elven fare, but at least it warms the belly.”
“I still have lembas; I shall not starve,” the Elf replied, a trace of indignation in his voice. Aragorn laughed.
“Do not look at me so; it was you who insisted on joining me,” he said as he lit his pipe. He had finished eating. “It is ironic that you look more uncomfortable here than you do out there.”
Legolas frowned at the sight of him smoking. More smoke.
“Well, yes,” he conceded. He knew Aragorn was always traveling here and there; he had been aware of that when they decided to begin their relationship. Being apart didn't usually bother him—after all, Elves perceive time differently. Sometimes the Ranger would return pouring out apologies for having spent five months without a word, while Legolas felt only a couple of days had passed. But that was before; now, his perspective had changed. He paused briefly before continuing. “I thought it would be pleasant to accompany you. You know... to have a small adventure together. Just you and I.”
“But...?” Aragorn asked, anticipating the complaint.
“Entering a godforsaken inn was not among my plans,” Legolas said with a soft laugh. He was very uneasy, but he didn't want Aragorn to feel he was regretting his decision.
He felt the grey eyes upon him, scrutinizing him as Aragorn inhaled from his pipe. Legolas looked down at the table, fidgeting with his fingers in a nervous gesture.
“I’ll finish this ale and we’ll head up to the room, shall we?” Aragorn asked. Legolas sighed. He had hoped to hear "finish this ale and we'll leave this place." “We have spent several nights sleeping in the wild; I believe it is a fair trade.”
He stroked Legolas's forearm affectionately, a gesture that made the Elf smile almost without realizing it. The gazes around them became more piercing.
“Are the rooms better than the tavern?” he asked, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes.
“I promise you they are.”
No sooner said than done. Half an hour later, the two were upstairs, shrouded by the darkness of the room, accompanied only by the light filtering through the window. The sky was clear, and the moon was a waxing crescent. There, they could finally appreciate the coolness of the night, and the voices and songs from the tavern were nothing more than a distant echo. The room had two beds; upon one lay their provisions and travel gear, while upon the other they both reclined, entwined in an embrace.
“You were right,” the Elf murmured. His eyes were closed, but his senses remained sharp. “It is pleasant to be here.”
Aragorn looked at him. Seeing his beautiful figure silhouetted against the white fire of the night made him smile. His hair and skin seemed to reflect that radiance in the same way the moon reflects the sun. It was a quality of the Elven race, but in Legolas, it appeared even more magical—at least in Aragorn’s eyes. He leaned toward him and kissed his cheek.
“Do you no longer regret joining me?” he asked. His voice was playful, clearly not in earnest, but Legolas’s face darkened.
“I never said I regretted it,” he whispered, opening his eyes. “No matter the situation, I only care about being with you and seizing every moment while... you are here.”
The Dúnedain frowned. He understood he had chosen those words to avoid saying “while you are alive.”
“Well, I am here, meleth nîn,” he assured him. He sought his lover’s hand, which rested upon his chest, and interlaced their fingers. “And that will not change for a long time.”
“It is not enough,” Legolas murmured, stroking the back of Aragorn’s hand with his thumb. Then he looked him in the face, meeting a pair of grey eyes watching him with concern. “Forgive me. We are already exhausted enough without me bringing up such depressing matters.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” the Man assured him. He drew closer, letting Legolas rest his head on his chest. “I think of it sometimes as well. There are several similar tales: Beren and Lúthien, Túrin and Beleg... they do not have happy endings.”
Legolas nodded slowly, remembering his father’s words. Love between a Mortal and an Elf could only end in sorrow.
…
It was not common for a Wood-elf to visit the valley of Imladris. Legolas dismounted his horse as soon as he crossed the bridge, surrounded by the golden light of dusk. In one hand, he held a folded letter Aragorn had sent him, stating he was free to visit Rivendel whenever he wished; he kept it with him in case they sought to deny him entry. Fortunately, it was not necessary; the other Elves greeted him as if they already knew him, and even Elrond himself welcomed him.
“You come in search of Estel, I imagine,” he said. Legolas nodded, masking his unease. It was evident that Aragorn had spoken of him, and the thought brought a flush of embarrassment. Were the people of Rivendel aware of the nature of their relationship? He was not certain. “Go on, then; he is in the garden.”
Legolas thanked him before following the path pointed out to him. Shortly before reaching the spot, an Elven-maid passed him by. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders and back, and the sleeves of her gossamer gown seemed to float with her every movement. She walked with a hurried pace, though she slowed slightly as she passed him. Their gazes met for a brief instant, and he did not know how to interpret the expression on her face: a mixture of confusion, sorrow, and hostility.
Soon she looked away and continued on her path. Legolas did the same.
He found Aragorn sitting on a bench with a book upon his lap. The Elf watched him in silence for a few seconds, taking advantage of the fact that he had not yet noticed his presence. A wave of emotion washed over him; he loved him, but seeing him after a time always caused his heart to be overwhelmed by the sheer force of that feeling.
“Why are you staring so?” Aragorn asked when he realized. Legolas blinked, as if waking from a very brief dream. “At least come and say hi,” he added, his tone mocking and affectionate all at once.
“I was thinking that this is the first time in months I have seen you in clean clothes,” the Elf replied in kind, playing along as he approached him.
Aragorn let out a soft laugh at the remark. He set the book aside and stood before embracing Legolas tightly. It was not common among Elves to embrace, much less as a greeting, so the gesture always caught him off guard. Even so, he returned it, but did not let it last too long. Many eyes were upon them.
“What brings you here?” the Ranger asked. He was happy to see him, but he could not prevent a shadow of concern from flickering across his face. “Is it some matter of importance?”
“I wanted to see you,” Legolas replied with a shrug. “You said I could.”
Aragorn smiled, feeling a sudden urge to kiss him.
“Of course, I am glad you came. Shall we find somewhere more private?”
Legolas nodded and followed him, guided through corridors and balconies that felt unknown yet strangely familiar. They reached a room that contrasted sharply with the rest of the dwelling; it was untidy, with rumpled sheets upon the bed and a sheathed sword leaning against the wall. The only elegant garments were in the wardrobe in the corner; everything else consisted of boots, jackets, and travel cloaks.
“May I ask…” Legolas began, looking around, “who was the lady who was with you before I arrived?”
It was not a question born of jealousy. He was simply curious about the inquisitive way she had looked at him.
“Lady Arwen,” Aragorn replied, his brow furrowing slightly. “I fear she finds it difficult to accept that my heart belongs to another.”
The Elf said nothing; he let his actions speak for him instead. He stepped toward Aragorn, took his face between his hands, and kissed him tenderly on the lips. The Ranger yielded, but he was too caught up in his thoughts. Legolas noticed and pulled back just a few inches.
“It is for the best, I believe,” Aragorn whispered. The golden-haired Elf looked at him, puzzled. “She will go to Valinor with her people and will not have to suffer when I die.”
As he said this, he stroked Legolas’s cheek with his fingertips. He did so with such gentleness it was as if he feared he might break him. The Elf held his breath, feeling his heart sink in his chest under the weight of those words.
“Do not do this,” he whispered in a voice so low it almost blended with the leaves stirred by the wind. “I did not only come because I wanted to see you; I also sought to escape my father’s lectures. He will not stop telling me that I am doing wrong, and that being with you will only bring me misery.”
“Perhaps you should listen to him,” Aragorn replied, drifting. His words sounded hollow; he was not being sincere.
“I will pay whatever price is necessary,” Legolas countered, placing a hand on the Ranger’s chest. “But I will not listen to him.”
He kissed him again, and this time the kiss was returned. Aragorn wrapped his arms around his waist while Legolas’s hands slid up to his shoulders. With a firm movement, the Elf pushed him back, causing the Ranger’s legs to stumble against the edge of the bed.
He would not allow his stay in Rivendel to be depressing.
…
A stinging silence had taken hold of the city. Dawn had already broken, yet the sky remained utterly dark, with black clouds blocking the sun’s rays. Minas Tirith lay in a lethargy, as if numbed by a sedative. No one spoke; everyone wept for the fallen, worried for the wounded, and waited in fear for what was approaching.
It was the calm before the final battle.
They were determined to follow Aragorn’s plan: to distract Sauron and his army so that Frodo might have a better chance of success. No one was certain it would work, but it was the last hope they had left. The general mood was somber, and everyone tried to hide the dread settled in their hearts.
Aragorn was preparing himself. After the death of Denethor, he had assumed the position of the city's leader. He could not lead them into battle looking like a mere Ranger of the North. He donned clothes befitting a Captain of Gondor, with the White Tree climbing across his chest like a declaration. He encountered Legolas as he stepped out of the room, dressed in his usual green and brown attire, his hair adorned with braids.
Aragorn sometimes wondered where he found the time to do his hair.
"Wait." Legolas caught him by the wrist. "Are you going into battle like that?"
"I thought it most appropriate," Aragorn replied, gesturing to his clothes.
"Precisely," the Elf countered. "Your hair is tangled and disheveled. Come with me."
The Ranger relented. Throughout the castle, people were scurrying to and fro, arming and organizing themselves for battle. They would set out for the Black Gate in a couple of hours, so they had a little time. They returned to the chamber, and Legolas asked him to sit upon the bed.
Aragorn complied, though confused, and soon felt a comb passing through his hair. Legolas had seated himself behind him and hummed softly as he brushed. He detangled the knots with ease, stroking his head in such a way that the Ranger soon felt dazed and sleepy.
"Do not go to sleep on me," Legolas said playfully. Aragorn huffed.
"I am trying, but you are making it difficult. At least stop the humming," he retorted. Legolas laughed. Aragorn did not know why, but in that moment, his laughter seemed more beautiful than usual. "At least one of us is in high spirits."
"I am an optimist," the fair-haired Elf said. He had set the comb aside to style the hair with his fingers. "I have faith that this entire nightmare of the Ring will soon end and we can move forward. Frodo is close to succeeding; I feel it in my heart."
A small smile tried to flicker on the lips of Isildur’s heir, but it did not feel sincere. He wished with all his might to share the same hopes, but he could not prevent a shadow of doubt from taking hold of him. He could not bear the uncertainty.
"What will you do afterward?"
"What will I do?" Legolas repeated, as if he could not believe the question. He gathered half of Aragorn’s hair and began to braid it. "Be the consort of the High King of Gondor, of course. If he allows it."
The braid was not even halfway finished when Aragorn suddenly turned around. Legolas frowned, frustrated that he had ruined the hairstyle, but he could say nothing as a kiss silenced him.
"And after that?" Aragorn pressed. He looked intently into his eyes, his meaning clear.
Legolas sighed.
"Whatever comes, I shall face it," he said. Aragorn saw no doubt in his eyes. He was in earnest. "Do not worry for me, meleth nîn. I have already made my choice," he continued, tucking a strand of dark hair behind Aragorn's ear. "Now turn back around; I want to finish this braid."
The future King kissed his forehead before obeying the request. He turned his back once more to let Legolas finish grooming him and decided not to bring the matter up again. He could not choose for Legolas, no matter how much he fretted over his future. All he could do was decide what to do with the time that was given to him.
…
After a dull explosion, time seemed suspended in the air. Every gaze turned eastward, where the tower of Barad Dûr was collapsing to the ground. The shrieks of the Nazgûl pierced the air as they fell. Orcs, trolls, and Uruks fled in terror, while the army of Men stood in silence, holding their breath at the sight before them. The One Ring had been destroyed, and with it, all of Sauron's malice.
For a few seconds, cries of celebration were heard. At least until the volcano erupted, with lava and rock gushing from it as if the earth itself were bleeding. The hearts of the Company sank, thinking of the slim chances that Frodo and Sam might have survived. Nevertheless, the Eagles flew in their search.
In a moment of confusion, Aragorn turned to look at his companions. All bore the same distraught expression, unable to hold back their tears. The first ones he looked for were Merry and Pippin, for despite their courage and relentless determination, Aragorn could not help but worry for their safety. He saw they were well; battered, perhaps, but alive.
However, there was one face he could not find. A sudden heat struck his face when he failed to locate Legolas. It was not until he lowered his gaze that he spotted a golden glimmer upon the ash.
He ran toward him. The Elf lay face down, and when Aragorn desperately turned him over, he noticed the dagger buried between his ribs. He was still alive, but his breath was a broken hiss.
“Legolas,” Aragorn whispered. His voice trembled with an anguish he could not hide. “Legolas, look at me.”
The Elf opened his eyes and looked at him. The ghost of a smile flickered on his lips, already lacking color.
“Aragorn,” he said in a thin thread of a voice. He had no strength left for more.
“Easy, do not speak,” the Ranger pleaded. “It is over now. You are going to be alright.”
He made a move to lift him, to get him out of there as quickly as possible, but Legolas stopped him.
“No.”
“Say nothing,” Aragorn insisted. Tears began to well in his eyes without him realizing it. “I am taking you to the city and you will be healed, do you hear me?”
Legolas gasped in a sort of bitter laugh. His body suffered slight spasms he was unable to control, and despite the intensity of the battle and the oppressive heat of Mordor, he was cold.
“It is too late,” he exhaled. He tried to raise his hand to reach Aragorn’s, but his strength had failed him. Fortunately, the other understood and interlaced their fingers, pressing them against his own chest. “But it is well. Middle-earth is safe. I go without regrets.”
Finally, the tears overflowed. Aragorn shook his head again and again, consumed by guilt. Legolas possessed the innate agility of his kin; he was a formidable warrior, and because of that, Aragorn never allowed himself to fear for him in battle. He always expected to see his Elf at the journey's end, smiling and covered in the blood of enemies, bickering with Gimli. He had never contemplated this possibility.
“I love you, Aragorn.” Legolas’s voice faded with every syllable. “Thank you for…”
The sentence remained suspended, incomplete.
Aragorn closed his eyes as he tried to stifle a sob that tore at his throat. He pulled the lifeless body close to his chest, as if by some miracle he could transfer his own life to him. He stroked his hair tenderly and, slowly, withdrew the dagger. Blood welled out, mingled with poison, but it no longer mattered. With trembling fingers, he closed Legolas's eyelids.
He kissed his forehead for a long time. He did not want to let him go.
…
Ten years had passed since then. The Fourth Age brought with it a peace Middle-earth never believed it would see again. Gondor returned to its former glory as the White Tree of Minas Tirith flourished as of old, and the War of the Ring had passed into history. Everyone spoke and sang of the four hobbits who, unexpectedly, had changed the world.
King Elessar ruled with a fair hand.
During the day, he attended to his responsibilities and maintained his role as regent. But during the nights, he would lock himself in his chambers, requesting that no one disturb him. Only in those moments could he remove the heavy crown from his head and the heavy garments that, deep down, did not define him.
He would put on his most comfortable clothes and step out onto the balcony to observe the moon and the stars. He often caught himself wondering if Legolas was watching him from wherever he might be.
“I miss you,” he whispered one night, his gaze fixed upon the sky. He heard nothing but the wind in his ears. “But you already know that. Perhaps it sounds selfish, but I truly thought I would be with you until the end of my days. I never prepared myself to be the one who had to let you go...”
A knot in his throat prevented him from speaking further. Legolas had been willing to face eternity alone after Aragorn’s death. In comparison, the years of life he had left were nothing, yet the thought of spending them without his Elf felt suffocating.
He wanted to hold onto the slight hope that he would find him again when his time finally came.
But of that, he was not certain.