Chapter Text
Looking at an elf, you would never guess what is hidden within, somewhere behind the clarity of his gaze: whether gnawing pain, quiet sorrow, or genuine joy — for all of these he equally conceals behind pride.
Elves are a strange folk, but even among the strange there are stranger still.
Know then: elves are for the most part melancholic and grave. Eru sent them in the First Age to guide Men, who came later. Legolas was… not quite so. He was always carefree, and, despite his age — nearly nine hundred years — he often did not understand the customs of other peoples. Rarely did he leave the borders of Mirkwood — nor was there need; with other races he had scarcely any dealings, and the books of Mirkwood, unless one delved into ancient scrolls, said nothing at all of foreign customs.
When first he journeyed with Aragorn — and that was, perhaps, the year 3000 of the Third Age — he marvelled ceaselessly at the Ranger's behaviour: how he would fall into sleep after a long march, how he chewed dry food without pleasure, how he rubbed his eyes, how he felt the cold. Seemingly common things for a Man, yet so alien to an elf. And in this Legolas found something of his own… perhaps, too, the thought that this Man would sooner or later die, despite his being of the line of the Dúnedain.
The Prince always saw in him a certain riddle, and at his silence and coldness he was often irritated and would leave the camp. Well, for half an hour, no more. Of course, afterwards, out of pride, he would not speak with him as before for at least three days.
Aragorn, too, was sometimes driven to distraction by Legolas — by his self-assurance and his lightness. The Ranger, pondering to himself, did not even deny that he admired the elf's skills: that lightness with weapons, grace in battle, his hearing and his sight.
And indeed, Legolas astonished Aragorn no less. The Ranger knew the elves of Rivendell — that very elegance, majesty, and elvish wisdom incarnate of which was spoken at the beginning. Legolas was different. He laughs, he chatters, he is curious as a child, and he asks about Men, about their customs and oddities — and does not pretend that he already knows all. The Wanderer had not expected that an elven prince would not only not look down upon him, but would even be so respectful toward him. Aragorn was not accustomed to such elves; for him it was strange, even excessively so. He was used to elvish aloofness, not to elves who themselves thrust into conversation, jest, and laugh. Legolas behaved like a youth, though he was hundreds of years old.
He was also surprised that Legolas… had basic needs? Yes, precisely so. That he, too, wished to eat, and that he, too, grew weary — that truly surprised the Ranger. In all his life in Rivendell he had never once seen elves show their weaknesses. But Legolas was different nonetheless.
Legolas trusted him at once. And to this day, now in the eighteenth year, he follows him, listens to him, does not argue — or argues, but without malice. He protects him — not because he must, but because he wishes to. And Aragorn to this day sincerely fears this — he is not accustomed to such openness and does not know what to do with it.
That summer of the year 3000 of the Third Age of Arda was the beginning. Perhaps even the beginning of the end for Legolas.
***
The sun had long since set, and through the branches of the singing trees of Lórien moonlight made its way. The whole Fellowship slept — all save Aragorn and Legolas, who sat by the campfire. The fire was gradually dying, but no one hastened to add kindling.
The Ranger sat with his back against a mallorn, gazing at the flame, though his thoughts were far away. The elf sat opposite and likewise gazed silently into the fire. The silence was an ill one, as though a wall had been raised between them.
"I keep thinking of Gandalf," said Aragorn at last, while his body ached with weariness.
Legolas nodded, but did not answer. He knew this mood of the Ranger's from before, and had seen it many times. Aragorn would speak, and Legolas would listen. As it had always been, and as it had long endured.
"I failed him," Aragorn continued, and his voice sounded hollow. "I should have…"
"You could not have saved him," Legolas interrupted, raising his eyes to him. Aragorn silently arched a brow.
"You cannot know that for certain."
"And why not? I can. He chose his own path. It was not you who cast him into the abyss," the elf shrugged.
Aragorn laughed without mirth, paused a moment, and glanced at the elf.
"You always say the right things. How do you manage it?"
Legolas answered nothing.
"Because I have watched you," he thought, "Because I know you better than you know yourself. Because for years I have studied your silence."
The elf looked again at the fire.
"I think also of Arwen," the Ranger continued, not raising his eyes from the fire.
In Legolas's chest it grew cold, but he gave no sign. Aragorn was silent a while, and then, at last adding kindling, went on.
"She deserves better. Not one who exposes her to danger. Not one who…"
"She is your sister, Aragorn. Not your wife."
The Strider looked at him.
"I know. I meant… that I am not good enough for those I love. For any of them."
These words pierced Legolas like an arrow loosed from the hands of the foulest orc — and perhaps envenomed, too. The reason he did not yet know, nor did he wish to know, but merely ascribed it to weariness.
"You are mistaken," Legolas cut in, and raised his eyes from the fire.
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"You are kind, Legolas," Aragorn's lips stretched into a weary smile, and he laughed softly.
"I am honest," the elf parried.
The Ranger reached out a hand, and it came to rest upon Legolas's knee. A simple, ordinary gesture. As though it meant nothing — and as though, for some reason as yet unknown to the elf, it burned. Legolas froze.
"Thank you," said Aragorn. "For being here. And for listening. I do not know what I would do without you."
Legolas sincerely wished to say: "With you all would be well, and doubtless you would find someone better than I — someone who would not…" — he broke off. No. This cannot be love, for a man cannot love another man. He had not seen such a thing before. In Mirkwood no one spoke of such matters. But does that mean it does not happen? For Legolas — it does not, and so there was no explanation for this pull toward Aragorn.
"You should sleep," the elf continued, gazing at the hand lying upon his knee. "I will take the watch."
Aragorn's hand lingered another second, and then was gone.
"Wake me when you grow weary," said Aragorn, and lay down, placing his cloak beneath his head and closing his eyes.
Legolas looked at him long. The fire crackled and spat, the night was cold and breathed with night's freshness.