Work Text:
The Battle of Helm's Deep was over. Legolas sat motionless, his gaze fixed upon the flames that had been kindled in the depths of the Hornburg.
His weariness was not so much of the body as of the spirit, and it is that weariness which settles upon the soul after every slaughter. He needed silence and stillness of thought — time to mourn the fallen and to grasp the measure of their loss.
Through the long hours of battle, the elf's hair had grown tangled, darkened with soot and blood, and the braids woven at dawn had loosened; one of the side braids had come entirely undone. But if he did not sink into meditation now, the mental stain of bloodshed would grant him no peace in the days to come. And so he sat before the fire, eyes closed, his thoughts flowing silent and sorrowful.
Even the quiet footsteps that drew near did not stir him from his reverie. The elf did not turn his head, only opened his eyes and fixed them once more upon the fire. Yet at the edge of his vision he caught the familiar features so dear to his heart. Legolas had known the ranger before he ever settled beside him: Aragorn's tread could not be mistaken for any other.
The man sat down next to his beloved, leaving scarce an elbow's breadth between them, and set upon the ground two bowls: one with an infusion of athelas, the other with warm water. Slowly, strand by strand, he began to wash the long, near-white hair, cleansing it of the traces of battle, and to comb through it with care. From time to time he would casually tuck the damp strands behind the pointed ears, wishing to linger upon the fine, weary profile of the elf. He looked haggard indeed, but Aragorn spoke not a word, knowing there was no need for them.
Then he set about undoing the old braids and weaving new ones. His hands moved with spare, measured motions. Perhaps the work of a man's hands fell short of elven craft, but Legolas had never once complained of his attempts — only guided him in a low voice, speaking of the different kinds of braids and styles of weaving. It seemed all those lessons had truly come to use at last, for now the elf was in no state to manage his own hair. And the braids this time came out better than all the ones before, which the ranger took secret pride in.
When the work was done, Aragorn smoothed the elf's hair one last time and seated himself so close that his shoulder nearly touched Legolas's. At last the elf surfaced from his thoughts, lifted his hand, and ran his fingers along the new, tightly woven braid at his temple. A faint smile touched his lips. Lowering his hand to the ground, he found the ranger's palm, laced their fingers together, and gave the faintest squeeze.
"Hannon le¹," Legolas whispered, raising his eyes to his beloved's face for the first time that evening. Quiet gratitude stood in his gaze.
Aragorn turned his head toward him.
"Nad dithen²," he answered in the same tongue, and with the same soft smile.