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One
Mirkwood have sent their best, Aragorn thinks to himself when the congregation from the Woods enters the Council of Elrond. A fair and stately group of advisors, led by a prince that has spurred many a would-be poet to pick up a pen or quill. Legolas, as always, is exceedingly fair, though a crease of worry rests between his brows.
The frown is familiar to Aragorn, for Legolas often wears the expression when they are together, at councils and trade meetings and conferences. Gandalf had once claimed that the Prince was better suited to outdoor pursuits, much like Aragorn himself, and the thought has long endeared Aragorn to Legolas, though they remain little more than familiar strangers at dreary conferences.
Aragorn wonders if he has done something to endear himself to Legolas, too, for almost as soon as the meeting begins, Legolas defends his name and honour with a fervour unsuited for such a staid council. Aragorn stops him with a gentle Havo dad, Legolas, and suspects it is the first time Legolas’s name has graced his lips - though it rolls across his tongue comfortably, as if his mouth were designed to curl around the name.
Aragorn cannot dwell on the exchange, for there are more important matters at hand. Gollum is free, and the One Ring has found its way to Rivendell. The company that will travel to Mordor to destroy the cursed object falls together as if it were pre-destined; all of the goodly races of Middle Earth represented, united in their quest to destroy the Ring.
A departure date is set, two months from the meeting. Elrond hopes that it will be enough time for the Hobbits to learn basic defence; enough time for all nine of the company to grow comfortable with another, also. Aragorn knows himself, knows in visage he is no friendly face, and so knows that the onus rests with him to reach out and form such bonds; thus, he dedicates himself to getting to know the company.
He had established a friendship with Gandalf at the tender age of five, when the wizard had offered him a jelly sweet and a firework show. There is no need for the fortification of their bond, and anyway, Gandalf seems busy enough in his preparations. Aragorn does not interrupt, and looks to the rest of the fellowship instead.
Aragorn finds himself familiar enough with the hobbits, too, after their journey from Bree, and so though he continues to pass time with them, he finds there is little need to overexert himself in the name of friendship. He teaches them swordsmanship, when he can, and endeavours to help them understand what they may face on the journey ahead. When possible, he dines with them too - for there is nothing hobbits seem to value more than a shared meal.
Gimli’s friendship is harder to earn, for he and Gloin often keep to themselves. Hunting them down feels like searching for Gollum once more, a wisp of a shadow that haunts the halls. Aragorn learns their routines, and positions himself accordingly, so that the pair trip over him at every chance. Soon enough, they grow familiar with him, and speak with him often.
Boromir is… complicated. Aragorn tries to speak of his time in Gondor with Boromir’s Grandfather, fifty years hence - but Boromir misunderstands, does not seem to comprehend that Aragorn was present for the events, and thinks that Aragorn is attempting to lecture him on his own family history. Subsequent conversation attempts leave Aragorn or Boromir or both frustrated, as if they were destined to never see eye to eye.
Aragorn chalks it up to a loss, for now. There will be time for them to know one another better on the journey.
Aragorn suspects Legolas will be the simplest of the Fellowship to befriend, especially after the other Mirkwood elves depart for their homeland and he is left alone in Rivendell, but there are more hurdles than expected.
The first challenge lies in tracking him down, for Legolas seems determined to learn every inch of the numerous gardens of Rivendell, and to speak with every plant and tree he finds. Unlike Gimli and Gloin, he does not keep to a routine, instead meandering through the halls unpredictably.
Legolas may be adept at finding every nook of Rivendell, but Aragorn is a ranger, and finds he enjoys the chase. However, despite his initial optimism, the first few times that Aragorn tracks Legolas down and walks beside him are steeped in discomfort; they are no strangers, for it has been decades since their first meeting, and yet neither could Aragorn call the Prince of Mirkwood a friend. It would be easier, perhaps, if they had not met before, for there are far too many stilted conversations littering their long acquaintance. Nevertheless, Aragorn persists, and with each meeting, the crease between Legolas’s brows grows fainter, and their conversation grows deeper.
Legolas grows in Aragorn’s esteem, too, for he is kind and witty and optimistic; a soft smile upon Legolas’s face is more beautiful than a thousand sunsets, and Aragorn fights to keep himself shielded from Legolas’s allure. Legolas speaks with the trees as if they were old friends - it is not a habit the Rivendell elves share, and so some stare as they pass by. Aragorn wonders if all Mirkwood elves speak so intimately with the trees, or if Legolas is considered strange amongst them also.
Aragorn knows he should dedicate more time to the other members of the Fellowship, and yet he cannot help but seek out Legolas. Their walks together become the highlight of his days, and grow longer with each new dawn. There is no finer elf in all of Middle Earth, Aragorn suspects, and even if Legolas is strange at times, he is more than worthy of his place in the fellowship.
No matter what Aragorn commands of his heart, he cannot help but desire for Legolas to see him as worthy also, and does what he can to connect to Legolas.
Once, and only once, Aragorn tries to speak with a tree in front of Legolas, a week before they are set to depart. Evening casts her shadows over Rivendell, and Aragorn finds Legolas in the inner gardens, where his own mother’s statue rests. Aragorn thinks that perhaps it is the memory of his mother that leads him to reach out to the nearest yew tree; to ask how the wildlife of the garden fare. He waits for an imagined response as Legolas does, and replies as Legolas does, and only at Legolas’s quizzical glance does he realise that perhaps wood elves do not speak to trees in the metaphorical sense; that perhaps the trees truly reply. His cheeks redden - no doubt to a dark burgundy - and Aragorn tries to dismiss himself from the terrible faux-pas, but Legolas stills him with a gentle palm on his arm.
“The yew appreciates your effort, and wishes you could hear her song,” Legolas says. The sliver of moon above illuminates his face, and for a moment, Aragorn could swear the night sky to be trapped in Legolas’s eyes. “I am heading for the kitchen for some honeyed almonds, if you would like to join me?”
Aragorn shuts his embarrassment in the deepest pit of his stomach, no doubt to be revisited in the darkness of his room that night, and nods, following Legolas away from the yew tree.
They make it as far as the garden’s entrance, only to find the way blocked by Elrond, who wears a strange and marvellous look upon his face. His eyes are trained on Legolas. They wait a moment for him to let them pass, but Elrond makes no attempt to move. “My Lord?” Aragorn asks.
Elrond’s visage breaks and he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good evening Legolas, Strider.” Though his greetings are addressed to them both, he does not look away from Legolas.
“Are you well?” Legolas asks, tentative. When Aragorn glances to him, the crease between Legolas’s brows is back in place - though Aragorn cannot blame him, for Elrond is acting most strange.
“Most well indeed.” He looks between them now, the small smile playing at his lips. “The crisp winter night brings with it a tender smattering of starlight.”
Aragorn looks to the sky, but there are no stars above him, only the crescent moon. A thousand questions rest on the tip of his tongue - most pressingly, whether the Lord of Rivendell should seek out a healer - but then Elrond steps aside and lets them pass.
Two
Gandalf had spoken true, those years ago. Legolas belongs in the outdoors, not in chamber meetings, and he springs like a buck through the forests they pass through, serving as their scout on the trek towards the Misty Mountains, for his energy is endless.
The clothing he wears is simple and practical, and enhances his beauty more than the finest robes of Rivendell.
In the evenings, he sits beside Aragorn and entertains himself with little songs. Legolas sings quietly, to himself alone, though Aragorn can hear the occasional couplet clearly, and they dig into his gut, sending him back to a childhood in Imladris.
One rainy evening, a week after departing Rivendell, when dinner has finished and sleep is soon to follow, Legolas’s tune is too familiar, and Aragorn can see his mother’s shadow sitting beside him. He lets himself join in, the words to the old lullaby tripping across his tongue. Legolas’s rhythm staggers, for only a moment, and then picks up again, clearer and louder than any night previous.
The two of them singing together is enough to bring the whole camp to a pause. The tune is common across Middle Earth, though the words differ by region. Soon enough, the hobbits sing along with their own version of the song, and then Gimli too in dwarfish. Gandalf and Boromir remain silent, though Aragorn thinks he sees the Steward of Gondor smiling to himself, as if trapped in a fond memory.
The merriment lingers, even after the song finishes, and the rain grows heavier, challenging the thin tarpaulins that they are using as cover.
The corner of Merry and Pippin’s cover does not hold, and Legolas springs across the camp to aid them, bidding the pair to remain seated and dry as he sets about reattaching it. His golden hair grows dark with water, and his forearms flex with the effort of keeping the tarpaulin taut. He is talking with Merry and Pippin, words unheard over the rain, and his smile lights up the clearing.
A scuttling noise, close, interrupts Aragorn’s staring, and he jumps, worried he has been caught looking. When he glances across, Sam is sat beside him, having taken Legolas’s place, a few drops of rain clinging to his hair.
“Mister Strider?” Sam says, face full of curiosity. “Why do some elves glow like fireflies in the night?”
It is a strange time to bring the topic up, for it has been many days since they left Glorfindel and Gildor in Rivendell. Nonetheless, Aragorn pauses, thinking back on the old stories. He would need all night to fully cover the sundering of the Eldar, so he kept his story simple; how in the First Age some elves travelled to Valinor, and those who saw the Light of the Two Trees of Valinor would carry the light within themselves. “Few elves in Middle Earth carry the Light of Two Trees,” he says, as the story comes to a close. “Perhaps ten remain, including Gildor and Glorfindel, who you have met.”
“And Legolas,” Sam says with certainty.
Aragorn shakes his head. “Legolas is too young to have seen the trees.”
Sam looks across the clearing, and then back to Aragorn, bafflement scrawled across his features. “But he burns as bright as a freshly lit candle!”
Aragorn looks over sharply, and realises with alarm that Sam spoke true. Even in the rain, Legolas is as luminescent as Glorfindel; he is as brilliant as the sun on a hazy day, a bright mist encasing him. It only serves to illuminate his beauty; Aragorn’s yearning grows in his gut, until it encases him wholly, for Legolas is resplendent.
“Mister Strider?” Sam calls, uncertain, and Aragorn looks back to him. “You see his glow too?”
Aragorn nods. “Aye, Sam. I know not what it means, for from my understanding of the elves, he should not posses such light,” he says, and returns his gaze to Legolas. “I am as much in the dark as you on the subject.”
Sam nods, and smiles to himself. “Perhaps Legolas might illuminate us?”
“I will speak with him soon on the matter,” Strider agrees, though he does not know how to broach such a subject. “Worry not, Master Gamgee. I am certain Legolas is well.”
Three
Aragorn does not speak with Legolas about his newfound shine.
How might one hope to bring up so delicate a topic?
Instead, he turns to his oldest friend in the fellowship, and the one most likely to have answers. They are in the shadow of the mountain Cadharas, taking their final pause for rest before they begin the climb, when Aragorn broaches the subject with Gandalf.
“You have noticed the change in Legolas,” Aragorn mutters, keeping quiet to avoid the attention of the rest of the company, who were hungry for any smidgeon of hearsay to make the days pass more swiftly.
Gandalf hums- a vague noise of agreement that held no commitment at all.
“He holds an inner light, though he has not seen the Light of the Two Trees,” Aragorn elaborates, keen to push Gandalf to speak further.
“Well, he is part-Silvan elf,” Gandalf says, as if that might answer a thousand questions. Gandalf has a twinkle in his eye, for as always, he knows more than he was willing to reveal. Aragorn waits with furrowed brow for the Wizard to elaborate, but instead Gandalf draws his pipe, and sets about blowing a great many shapes into the air, a full menagerie.
“You would tell me if it were an ill omen?” Aragorn asks, glancing over at Legolas. The shine of Legolas is bright enough now to show during daylight hours, and Aragorn cannot tear his gaze away.
“There’s nothing to be concerned about, old friend,” Gandalf promises. Before Aragorn can ask a single question further, Gandalf stands, and bids they begin their journey upwards.
Four
Almost as soon as the fellowship reach the top of Cadharas, they are descending again - back the way they came, instead of down the other side of the mountain, and Aragorn laments the lost time.
When they have reached the bottom, they stop for another pause; this time, while Gandalf tries to remember the passcode for the gates of Moria, in a deep, dank cave.
Aragorn sits alone for a long while, but then a heavy presence comes to sit next to him. Boromir glances at him only once, and then looks to Legolas, who sits away from the group, on a rock. He's shining, still, illuminating the small cave.
“Has he always -“ Boromir starts, though does not continue the thought, instead waving a hand towards Legolas.
Aragorn shakes his head. “I do not believe so.”
“He looks as though he no longer belongs upon this plane.” There is longing in the tone of Boromir, as if the light of Legolas calls to him as strongly as the Ring itself, and Aragorn is much aggrieved, for yearning for Legolas is his domain alone. Aragorn mutters something - he cannot, in truth, remember what - and then stalks away, leaving Boromir to look and yearn in peace.
Five
Moria is a tomb, and Aragorn laments to find himself within it.
They have found a quiet ledge to pass the night, and though Legolas protests the thought of stopping, Gandalf insists that they rest. “We will not make it through the mines in one night alone. We must rest.”
Legolas does not argue, though he expresses his discomfort to Aragorn quietly, in Sindarin. “This place makes me long for the trees of my homeland,” he whispers. They are standing a small distance from the rest of the fellowship, and the hobbits' eyes are all trained on Legolas. “Nature is quiet in these caves. I miss the ever-present hum of the woods.”
Aragorn replies, some meaningless platitudes, and Legolas huffs and turns away. Aragorn lingers a moment longer, and then returns to the others, sitting down amongst them.
Legolas paces, and he paces, and he paces. The hobbits watch him, tracing his light in the air as he moves back and forth within the cave.
Aragorn lets him pace for nearly an hour, before he brings it to a close. “Legolas,” Aragorn implores. Legolas sighs, but takes a seat at the edge of their group, letting his long legs spread out before him and cross at the ankles.
The hobbits still look, but now they move too - a slow shuffle towards Legolas, with Pippin at the front, leading the charge. Aragorn wonders if they think themselves subtle - they are not - and what their aim might be. Legolas watches them from the corner of his eye, but does nothing to slow their approach.
Pippin arrives first, and sets about lying his bed roll as close to Legolas as physics might allow. Sam, Frodo and Merry all follow his lead, until finally, a halo of hobbits surrounds the legs of Legolas. They all quickly fall quiet in slumber.
Legolas’s brow is creased, and for a moment Aragorn is transported back to a Mirkwood conference hall, when Legolas was staid and serious. Legolas looks down at the hobbits, and then across to Aragorn. “This is a new development.”
It is true. The hobbits all seem fond of Legolas, but the sleeping arrangements of the fellowship on previous nights have fallen into a familiar pattern, with Merry and Pippin sleeping near Boromir, and Sam and Frodo sleeping near Aragorn. By proxy, the latter means they are often near Legolas, for when it is Legolas’s turn for rest, he takes Aragorn’s other side, but that is irrelevant to the current situation.
Aragorn thinks on what to say - does Legolas not know why they gather to him? - but finds himself beaten to the punch, for Boromir speaks before he can form further thought. “They are scared, and it is dark. You are a source of light far stronger and more pure than any torch we could hope to burn,” Boromir states. The divot between Legolas’s brows deepens, and Boromir’s brows raise. “Surely you know that you have lustre?”
Legolas looks to his hand, and though subtle, Aragorn can see the surprise written upon his face. He flexes his hand to a fist, and then looks to Aragorn, and then away again, tucking his hand beneath his sleeve. He looks to Gandalf next, and then down to his lap, where his eyes squeeze shut.
The glimmer about him seems to dim with the flush across his cheeks, and Gimli grumbles behind, “Brighten yourself, elf. I cannot read in dim light.”
That spurs a laugh from Legolas, if nothing else, and soon enough the others shuffle off to bed, group discussions of Legolas's lustre delayed - for the night, at least.
Aragorn, however, is less willing to let it lie. He and Legolas are on the watch together, and it is there, in the eerie quiet of Moria, that he asks another question, one that has been on his mind since Sam first mentioned Legolas's glow. “Do I need to worry?”
Legolas shakes his head. “While it is rare amongst my kin, I am far from the first Silvan elf to exude light,” he replies. “It has unnerved me, for I did not expect it.”
Aragorn hums to himself. Though he does not look at Legolas, his shine infiltrates the edges of Aragorn's vision, warming the scene from haunting blue-black to gentle amber. “I think it a blessing, for it has brought us all comfort in the darkest of places,” Aragorn confesses, and Legolas smiles. “Boromir thinks you resplendent.”
“Resplendent,” Legolas repeats. “That does not sound like a word the Captain of Gondor would use.”
“He put it in different terms,” Aragorn admits. “Something about the shining kiss of eternity on your brow.” Aragorn turns to Legolas now, taking in his visage fully. “You look untouchable, as if blessed by the Valar to a state above even the Istari.”
“I am not above you.” Legolas replies, though his light shines a little brighter.
Plus One
Not even Legolas's light could defeat the Balrog of Morgoth.
The journey on to Lorien, which should be filled with joy, is instead bleak with sorrow, for Gandalf is lost. The hobbits lament as quietly as they can, but such creatures were not designed for silent sorrow, and the sound of their cries infects the rest of the fellowship, cutting them to the quick. Even Legolas's light is dimmed, though not extinguished.
Within two days, they are presented to the Lady of Lorien. She is no stranger to Aragorn, and yet treats him just the same as the rest of the fellowship. For this, he is thankful; he does not wish to be an honoured guest, not under such circumstances.
Galadriel's gaze does not settle on him; for she has eyes for only Legolas.
Galadriel says something in Silvan, the language only vaguely familiar to Aragorn. She repeats herself in Quenya, eyes shining. “There is no sight more healing than the light of a Silvan elf. Your eyes do not need to be granted the light of the Two Trees in order to contain stars, for there is no greater brightness than the one locked within the hearts of tree-keepers, that might only emerge when their heart is pure and full.” Her own resplendence is equal to that of Legolas, and together, they look untouchable. “Does your father know yet that you shine, my child?”
“No, my Lady,” Legolas confesses, and Galadriel nods.
"He shall know soon enough," she replies, and then her attention is pulled away - downwards, to a little hobbit with a heavy burden.
That night, the camp of the fellowship is down two members. Gandalf cannot be recovered, but Aragorn is certain, if he looks hard enough, that he might find Legolas, hidden amongst the branches.
Aragorn climbs, though his heart is wrought with fear, for it is higher than he would usually dare venture. As he ascends, he curses the Silvans and their love of the treetops, for Legolas has no qualms about brushing the sky with his brow.
Soon enough, there are two halos of light above Aragorn; one that curls about the moon, and one about Legolas. They are indistinguishable from one another, for Legolas is celestial in the Lorien trees.
“I have never seen a Ranger with his feet so far from the ground.” Legolas smiles, sitting lithe upon a branch, whilst Aragorn presses his back to the trunk. Legolas turns his face away from the stars, and Aragorn is cradled within his gaze.
“One must climb to the stars to catch an elf imbued with light, it seems,” he replies, reaching out a foot to nudge Legolas gently.
“Congratulations. I am caught,” Legolas says. His eyes remain soft for a moment, but then he looks sharply away, turning his face back to the dark sky. In profile, he looks younger than Aragorn has ever seen him, his light merging with that of the stars and moon above.
“Will you explain it to me? Your light?”
Legolas remains silent for long minutes. When he does speak, his voice is quiet; so quiet that Aragorn must strain to hear him. “It is said to be a gift from our forest; instead of taking The Great Journey to Valinor, our people instead remained with our own trees, and in turn, they gifted us their light - less grand than that in Valinor, but no less pure. It is not often that the light emerges. My mother was the most recent to shine.”
“For her heart was pure and full,” Aragorn repeats Galadriel's words, and Legolas closes his eyes against it. “You did not shine until after we left Rivendell.” He does not ask the subsequent question that springs to his lips, for it goes without saying that one of the Fellowship must have illuminated Legolas.
“That is not quite true,” Legolas admits. “Elrond. Looking back, I suspect he saw the light emerging, that night in the garden.” Legolas glances at Aragorn, and then away, eyes looking to the stars. “My mother gained her shine when she met my father.”
Aragorn hums, light. “Which of the hobbits has captured your heart, then?”
At first, Aragorn mistakes the sound that comes from Legolas as a sympathetic laugh at his poor attempt at humour. It is only when he sees the shimmer of tears in the eyes of Legolas that the heart of Aragorn clenches uncomfortably in his chest. Legolas shakes his head, and his voice is wet and angry when he speaks. “Do not tease me. I cannot bear it.”
Heedless of his fear of their height, Aragorn moves along the branch until he is beside Legolas, his hands ghosting along an elven shoulder, for he is not sure if his touch would be welcomed. Legolas turns to face him, and though no tears run down his cheeks, one drop of liquid glistens upon his eyelashes, and Aragorn reaches out to catch it before it falls.
The light around them seems to grow, until Aragorn suspects an onlooker might accuse Aragorn of shining also.
Legolas spots the expanding light and shrinks away from it, for there can be no doubting its cause, his eyes screwing shut and his mouth tightening into an unhappy thin line. Before he can spirit away across the treetops, Aragorn clasps his wrist, firm. Legolas’s eyes spring open, and his gaze drops to where Aragorn’s hand is coiled. When he looks back up, Legolas is guarded, but Aragorn can see within his eyes a small spring of hope.
Aragorn lets his grip shift from Legolas’s wrist to his hand, bringing their fingers to tangle together and their palms to kiss. He leans towards Legolas - and Legolas leans in towards him also.
When their lips are about to brush, Aragorn finds he cannot resist one final tease. “It is not Boromir, is it?”
Legolas pulls away. “Aragorn -“ He starts, but Aragorn is faster, curling his hand around the neck of Legolas and bringing him in, kissing him deep and long and thorough.
Legolas's light could illuminate all of Gondor.