The flame of the candle we had left burning on the low oak table flickered slightly as I cast the coverlet aside. I made a move to blow it out, but then hesitated as my shifting weight made the strings of the bed creak in protest. I glanced over at him quickly. He did not stir, and that was as I wished it. I knew he must not wake. I knew he must not hear me leave.

More slowly, more cautiously this time, I eased myself from the bed and stood upright, casting a tall, thin shadow on the east wall of the tiny chamber. I took a long look at him lying there. I loved most to watch Aragorn as he slept, for the lines of care and worry – so prominent in his weathered skin during the day – found themselves smoothed away by sleep. He looked at least twenty years younger as he lay there before me, scarred yet beautiful; strong, yet weary. I was certain that my coming into his life was to blame for not a few of the lines that returned habitually to his face upon waking. It was as sure a thing as if I, as Eru Himself, had etched them into his very flesh.

But my cheeks grew warm at the sight of him there before me; my skin still smelled of his sweat from when he had loved me. And I knew, then, what a hard task I had before me that morning. The fairest, wisest, most valiant beings of all of Middle-earth had called me warrior, had called me hero, and yet the crossing of the threshold of Aragorn's bedchamber fell as a heavy burden on my shoulders, a more formidable barrier than the front line of any battlefield.

I began to dress soundlessly, moving swiftly with the utmost of care. I would not take the ring he had given me, for I knew he must believe that I had stopped loving him, that I cared nothing for him, dearest of Men. Then, perhaps, he would refrain from chasing after me. Better yet, he would stay in Minas Tirith and, in time, find a woman of Númenorean blood to replace me....Yes, that would do. That would do, I said to myself firmly, though the mere passing of the thought was as a dagger drawn across my chest. I could bear Aragorn no children. I could give him no heirs. The line of Isildur would fail if I stayed, and the White City would fall.

"My love," I murmured as loudly as I dared, pulling on my tunic as I spoke, "my dear love." But he heard me not, and it was just as well. If he woke, my resolve would falter, and all our hopes for the salvation of the race of Men would be in vain. He would leave his people for me; I knew that well. For in years he was still a child to me. In spite of all of Aragorn's wisdom, no mortal can match an Elf for foresight, and for judgment. And I knew that if ever I were to see him again after my desertion of Minas Tirith, never could I make him understand why I had done this to him. And so I could never allow myself to see him again, for I knew also that one quick glance at the pain I would leave in his face would break my heart. Then Legolas son of Thranduil would be no more.


The streets were still and peaceful as I walked, deliberately wandering very slowly and making more noise than is my custom, so that I might be mistaken for a Man if sighted. My long blond hair I kept tucked into the thick black cloak I wore to hide my shape from view. But I need not have worried. I saw only a few odd night watchmen as I passed; the Sun had not yet shown Her face, and Eärendil could still be seen glimmering in the dim sky.

I wished only that I might have sought guidance from one perhaps wiser and better versed in the affairs of Men than I myself had been. The pain I walked with upon leaving Aragorn was such that I would have been glad of any excuse, no matter how mean, to stay with him and allow the line of Isildur to end, just as a dying soldier mired in the trenches of combat will cling to any unfathomable hope of survival. Even as my heart bled, I believed its cause for grief to be ambiguous, and, perhaps, my sacrifice to be a mistake. Selfishness is no virtue, not to the Elves nor to any other of the races of Middle-earth – those, that is, that have not yet fallen into shadow. You must understand that never had I any real intention of returning to Aragorn Arathorn's son. But for an Elf to keep himself from diminishing in times of great sorrow, it is sometimes become necessary that he pacify himself, briefly, with memories dear and hopes that are, perhaps, not a little unrealistic. So that even as I left Aragorn I could almost believe that one day, I could still come back. And even as tears coursed down my face upon crossing the borders of Gondor into the stark barrenness of the East, I could nearly conceive of the possibility that I suffered needlessly.


Arda is, whatever my brothers in the Undying Lands might say, a land with the most exquisite of scenery in places, though large regions of it have been cursed with nameless darkness and fell shadows in recent eras. The South is still fair teeming with green, though, filled with animals and creatures of benevolent nature who managed to remain out of the Dark Lord's clutches during the days of his heightened power. It was here that I walked and wept, and nearly felt my heart lighten in the face of such kind breezes and unassuming beauty. I thought briefly on the good folk of our Company who had departed Gondor in the midst of the disquiet surrounding Aragorn's reign, and my place in the royal court as his lover. The hobbits, good Frodo and his companion Samwise, must have passed through these very lands, a brief respite before their trials in Cirith Ungol. It reminded me that I had strayed too far south of my intended destination, and delay in my journey was not all I had to fear. The dear hobbits had encountered Faramir's men in these wild lands. While I trusted that they would not harm me, I did not want word to get back to the City that the King's lover had been wandering aimlessly and tearfully about the Southern regions. That would not do.

But I tarried just a bit longer than I should have. I began to think on my first encounter with Aragorn. He had come to the Woodland Realm a Mortal Man unescorted by any Elf – a dangerous thing to do in those days, though I knew Aragorn not, then, and was woefully ignorant of his close acquaintance with many struggles in Middle-earth, all of them more dangerous than the last. He was fortunate, in any case, that I had been the one to find him. In the days of the growing Shadow, my father had given our guards unequivocal orders to capture at the slightest provocation. But I did not do this. I only watched him for a long while. He sat in a quiet clearing on a fallen log, whittling a thin piece of wood, raising it to his lips ever so often; for what purpose, I could not see. At long last he blew a clear, clean note from what had come to be a small flute, of sorts, and laughed aloud at his success. Then, unmistakably, his eyes met mine, and he smiled slowly. I realised that he had been aware of my presence the whole time. It was both that thought and the rugged handsomeness of his face that made me flush, slightly nervous at the thought of meeting his eyes.

---

"Who are you, and for what purpose have you come to the land of the people of Thranduil?" I say, more harshly than is necessary, drawing my bow and attempting to recover myself.

The Man rises before me, inclining his head slightly in a polite bow of deference. "Only to take a short rest, and indulge in an old hobby in these fair lands of you and your kin, Master Elf," he responds in a voice softer than his face. "And to beg your pardon, of course, for not having the leave of your liege to do so."

His words disarm me. The hand holding the bowstring drawn relaxes slightly, though I do not take the arrow from its string. "Thranduil has ordered his men to capture all unwelcome wanderers in his realm in Mirkwood," I tell the Man. "Were you aware of this?"

"No," the Man says, "I was not. But it would not surprise me. These are dark and dangerous days we live in. You know this as well as I. And if kings are more than suspicious of stray travellers such as myself in their lands they cannot be faulted for this. I hope, however, that I do not appear as one who wishes the Grey-elves any harm. For I assure you this is not so. And if you could show me a bit of leniency—may I say mercy?—I will go, with a promise not to trouble these lands in future." His smile deepens. "Without express invitation."

Suddenly I am taken aback, not by the gentility and the wisdom of his words, though they are both courteous and wise, but by the novelty of hearing this man address me in the language of the Elves, fluently and without hesitation.

"You speak the Fair Tongue well," I say after a moment, finally replacing the arrow in my quiver.

"It comes in useful," he replies, "when travelling through foreign lands – and when attempting to seduce the fair guards of Thranduil, of course."

At this, I feel my cheeks flame more furiously than ever before, and cannot think of a coherent response, but he laughs loudly again, saving me from my silence. "What a terribly uncouth way to speak to such a fair and dignified stranger. I do apologise. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and I tell you this only because you are a Grey-elf of Mirkwood. It seems I have decided to trust you to keep my secrets, and your silence."

"I am Legolas son of Thranduil," I respond slowly. "And I know how to keep the secrets of a king."

"Good, then." And before I know what is happening to me, he has extended his hand to me, which I take, and has placed his lips upon mine for the sweetest and briefest of seconds. As I stand before him, stunned, he kisses me again, twice, thrice, and on this last pausing to linger, allowing the tip of his tongue to trace my lips, which are frozen in place out of shock. Then he brushes my cheek with his hand and pulls away.

"Good, then," he repeats in a low voice. "Then keep that secret, if you will. For it is not in the manner of a Ranger to kiss the beautiful men he meets on his way. Even less in the manner of an heir to the throne of Gondor. But in this case I simply could not resist. Namárië." And with that, he disappears in the deep green foliage and leaves me in the clearing.

I stand there for quite some time. I know what I should be feeling and thinking. I should be outraged, insulted, hurrying to report the distasteful incident to my father in my rage, wishing to have the whole of Mirkwood after this Mortal Man, king or no king. But I am not entirely sure that I feel or wish for any of these things. I only know that I long to feel his lips on me again.

I knelt beside a rowan bush and allowed tears, both of happiness at the memory and sadness at the loss, to leak out of the corners of my eyes. He had been so gentle with me, so patient, so loving, even at first. And I – so much older than he, having spent thousands of years in Arda before he was even a thought in anyone's mind – I had never before felt any semblance of the lust and desire he had inspired in me: to be touched, to be held, to make love. I had thought of him unceasingly after that moment in the clearing. Never did I dream that I would, one day, travel with him and fight at his side; never did I dream that I would aid him to win his throne back. The Elves, on the whole, did not concern themselves with the War that ended the Third Age. They saw it as an affair of Men alone, and the destruction of Middle-earth as something easily avoided by flight to the Undying Lands. It was love for Aragorn that enabled me to see beauty and potential in a land where most of my kin saw only sadness and loss, and love for Aragorn that drove me to fight for the future of Arda.

---

It is only a few moons after my first meeting with Aragorn when he comes again to Mirkwood, this time only after speaking affably and peaceably with two of the border guards, all of whom have been given my leave to let him pass.

He has seated himself upon a fallen log in that same clearing, and as I approach, he extends his hand to me. Thinking of what had transpired the last time he had done this, I blush as I take it, but instead he leads me down a small path away from the clearing, moving nearly as soundlessly as I.

"Never before have I come this way," I say quietly, glancing over at his beautiful face. "Where do you take me?"

I use the Common Speech without thinking, but he replies in Elvish. "Never mind. You will see when you get there. There are parts of your own Mirkwood that I know better than you do, and it is high time you learn some of them." He returns my gaze, then drops my hand to place his arm about my waist. I tremble at his touch, hoping he does not notice.

Then he stops abruptly, and I gasp. He has led me to the very edge of a pool, into which pours a tall, glimmering avalanche of water. Forgetting him for a moment, I take note of everything around me, every flower, every tree, every bird-call; it is inconceivable to me that I have never seen this place before. I am starting to become very aware of Aragorn's arm, which remains around my waist, and of the warmth of his body so close to mine. Part of me wishes to step away, but the other part of me fears he will not touch me again if I do, and I cannot bear the thought of that. Joy spreads across my face as I stand with him in this blessed place. "How long have you known of this?" I ask him in a whisper.

Aragorn smiles. "Something I stumbled across many years ago, when I was exploring the Woodland Realm in happier times. I have never seen any Elves here, and I gathered you did not know of it."

"I did not," I respond in wonder, finally stepping forward – and away from him – to sink my hands deep into the cool, clear water. It seems to grow colder the longer I hold them in there. I remove my short boots and let my legs hang down in the water, not caring for the cold or the dampness of my tunic. Aragorn sits beside me but does not touch me again, watching only as I take it all in. The love he has for this small and secret place seems to fill me as I sit.

"I do love this about Elves." Aragorn's soft, gentle voice cuts into my thoughts. "Just now, as I have been standing here, outside his place, you have become part of it, and you have done it so swiftly and effortlessly that I cannot even tell how it is you have done it."

I draw myself up proudly. "My people are of this forest. We belong in this wood so much as so the trees, the birds, the wind."

Aragorn's smile does not quite reach his eyes this time; there is a hint of sorrow in it. "This I know," he agrees. "It is only the petty envy of a mortal Man that you see in me now. I grew up with Elves, thinking it made me one of them. In my travels it has become ever clearer to me that I am not."

"But you are of the line of Tinúviel," I say reverently – for it is reverence of the highest order that I feel upon speaking that name. "It is said her line will never fail."

He says nothing.

"Tell me of her."

"Of whom? Of Tinúviel?"

"Yes."

"You know the story."

"I do. But I would hear it from you."

He does not refuse, nor does he tell the story as the Grey-elves learnt it in their youth. Instead he begins to sing in a low, poetic voice, Sindarin words flowing as easily and beautifully from his lips as though he were Elrond Halfelven himself, great master of lore. I imagine him growing up in Elrond's care, a young man, learning the tales and poems, not of his people, but of mine. And as I see these things, a small, forbidden prayer creeps out of a dark place in my heart and says: aiya Ilúvatar, give this man the blessings and the curses of the Elves. And then, O Great Eru, and then, give him to me.

Aragorn stops singing. I take his hand without thinking and sense his smile brightening. The skin on his palm is weathered and callused, but his fingertips are strangely smooth. Calmly, as though I have been intending to do it all my life, I raise his hand to my lips and kiss it quickly. Then I let it go, allow it to cradle my face, and I feel him kissing me.

His hands tell me of harsh battles, cold nights, and long, lonely roads, but his lips tell another story. These are the lips that speak the Fair Tongue, that know by heart countless scores of songs and speak of happier times, eras without shadow; times I have lived yet know not, and times he knows, somehow, without ever having lived them. I feel I could go on happily like this for ever, half my body in this peaceful pool and the other half in the arms of Aragorn. But Aragorn is moving, now, after only a few moments. He rises, helping me to do the same, which I do, despite my intense disappointment.

"I only wanted – " I begin to say before two fingers place themselves over my lips, silencing me. Aragorn is not leading me back toward the clearing, but closer to the waterfall instead, out onto a thin stone ledge that juts out from the cliff. It leads us back behind the waterfall, where it widens enough for the two of us to stand next to each other. I wish to ask him how he came upon this, but I fear the rushing of the water to be so loud that he could not hear me if I spoke.

He drops my hand and turns to me when we are in the middle of the ledge, kissing me again abruptly and so passionately that I nearly lose my balance and would have fallen off the ledge into the pool below if he were not holding me up against him so tightly. I can feel every one of his muscles through his worn clothing; I can feel his pulse speed and begin to race with mine. In all the dreams I have had of Aragorn after our first meeting, never have I predicted that we would be this close so soon. For this is a place I have never meant to be, and yet now that I am here, it is inconceivable to me that I would ever wish to be anywhere else.


I am silent afterward, struck dumb from our daring. My beautiful Man, I think wildly to myself, my beautiful Man, you who show me to love with such abandon – how is it that you are not of my people? How do you honestly expect me to go back to them, to their solemn ways, their sadness – their inability to do wonderfully mad things, like make love on a perilous ledge behind a waterfall?

I wish only that I could breathe in all the fears I know and blow them out all at once: the guards' proximity; our vulnerability; his mortality. I wish that Aragorn's touch were enough to remove all my cares for such trivial matters. Yet his beauty only reminds me of them, instead of driving them away.

Aragorn lies still, exhaling deeply into my hair. I wish he would never move.

And then: "Legolas."

I say nothing.

"Legolas." His voice is tired, but wonderfully so, as that of a man at the end of a long quest, having found what it is he has been seeking all that time. "I love you."

So, too, do I love him, so dearly, and I do not say this – for his own good.

It had felt so pleasing simply to be alive just after that first time with Aragorn, I recalled, particularly to one who has lived too long, and so now takes for granted the small pleasure of taking a breath of cool, fresh air. I was leaving the far East of the land and passing through some areas of Middle-earth where the Shadow had held the most sway, and there was as of yet no clean air to be had there, not so soon after the fall of Barad-dûr. My memories sustained me as I walked. I tried to exist as one who had yet to suffer a loss in love and who, so far, had known only the exquisite pleasures.

I began to think on the ring Aragorn had given me, just after the One Ring had been cast into Orodruin and our battle in Mordor ended. He had pushed his way though the tired, rejoicing men of Gondor and Rohan to pull me close to him before kissing me deeply, no longer caring who would see him. "Keep this, and know that I love you," he whispered urgently, taking the ring from his own finger and placing it upon mine. We were both of us covered in blood and sweat and the wounds of battle, but at that moment he was the most beautiful thing in the world to me, and I to him.

And how the men had cheered us at that time – how they had delighted in our love! "Hail King Elessar, and his good Legolas, prince of the Woodland Realm!" good Gimli, son of Glóin had shouted upon the sight of us – good, dear Gimli, who had known of Aragorn's love for me since the inception of the Fellowship, and had never once looked strangely upon us for it. And the men had followed suit. "Hail King Elessar! Hail his good Legolas!" they had chorused loudly as one voice in vigorous approval. Aragorn kissed me once more, to great cheering and applause from the onlookers. In that battlefield, upon that valiant day, it was the bravest act he had undertaken. Never had I been more proud of him.

Imagining him waking to find me gone, as he would have by now – it was getting to be early afternoon – I wondered if he would find the ring; if he, too, was thinking on that day.



The landscape ahead of me lay dark and desolate, as though Sauron had never gone. My heart and body alike were already weary with the thought of how much more ground I had to cover. Yet out of the corner of my eye, something was stirring in the dead hills. A small speck of white seemed to be dancing amongst the brown reeds and dull grey waters, growing larger rapidly as it came. After a short while I could see what it was, but I did not dare to believe my own eyes. Surely great Ilúvatar could not have made two of him, most noble of beasts?

"Shadowfax!" I cried out, and though I was sure he could not possibly have heard me, he quickened his pace. I was much distressed to see that he was without rider. A few wise words from Mithrandir were just what I desired in this, most desperate of times, and it looked as though I would not be fortunate enough to hear his judgment after all.

The horse called Shadowfax rounded a small hill and rose up before me. I lowered my eyes briefly, involuntarily, in a show of respect to the great creature, whom I had come to admire greatly in our travels together.

Shadowfax trotted nearer me to stand next to me, watching expectantly as though waiting for me to mount. I surveyed his steady gaze disbelievingly, hardly ready to do such a thing in spite of my prowess as a horseman.

"But you belong to Mithrandir," I protested after his eyes did not leave mine for a spell.

Shadowfax snorted in disapproval at this, though he did not step away from me. I smiled, slightly ashamed of myself. "Forgive me," I said. "You belong to no one, I know that. I have been among Men too long....But I do not understand."

His only response was to step closer.

I debated quickly with myself over the wisest course of action. Shadowfax might well lead me to Mithrandir, I reasoned; he was one whom I did long to see before leaving these shores, particularly as he would be able to explain my cruel actions to Aragorn if ever the two did meet again. And so, with much trepidation, I mounted Shadowfax. He did not hesitate, not even a second, before beginning his tireless gallop westward. I held on as best I could, allowing his paces to rock me into a kind of reverie, where I could remember happier times with Aragorn. These were times before he was on the point of being crowned, when the only loyalties he held were to himself and to me.

---

I am not altogether comfortable with my fierce love for Aragorn, not at first. Often we meet in the place he has showed me to speak freely with one another, sometimes for only a few minutes and sometimes nearly all day, before I allow him to lead me behind the waterfall and love me, in all his passion and glory, as only he can. I seem to become a different person to myself behind that thin curtain of water.

On occasion we talk after lovemaking, him cradling me gently in his arms, offering me the warmth of his body as protection from the cold of the stone and water, and the words I utter there are unlike any that have ever passed my lips before. Gone is the slow and deliberate manner of speaking, so characteristic of the Eldalië, and it is replaced by a bold impetuosity, a bare-breasted honesty, that would be hopelessly out of place even in a hall of the most forthright of Men, let alone in the palaces of Thranduil or Elrond. He laughs aloud when I permit myself these times of complete and genuine clarity in speech, this unabashed frankness, and draws me closer to him as I speak, sometimes stopping my words with kisses and caresses and loving me all over again.

I know that my language may arouse him on those occasions as much as his strong body and steady hands excite me. It certainly brings us closer, and I often think to myself that never since the days of Beren and Lúthien has a Mortal Man been permitted to know and understand an Elf as Aragorn Arathorn's son knows Legolas of Mirkwood.

But in my father's palace, out of necessity, I am another person altogether. It is common knowledge throughout the realm that King Thranduil is less than pleased with his son's unwise friendship with a Ranger, one of the Dúnedain. And if ever it comes to light that I have sought out the embraces of a Mortal Man in the secret places of the wood instead of the advances of some of the fairest women in Elvendom, I would have to leave my home entirely. Yet I loathe myself for my subterfuge, for my unwillingness to bring Aragorn back to the palace with me, for my inability to be as honest with the outside world as I am with him.

"Sometimes I wish I could live all my life behind this waterfall," I exclaim to him once in frustration, after it has grown very late and we have begun the inevitable talk of dressing and leaving. He does not reply; he only continues running his fingers through my hair and kisses my shoulder, but I am sure he understands.

---

My thoughts of Aragorn carried me nearly halfway across the county, out of shadow and into a dark and quiet wood whose name I knew not. Shadowfax still moved swiftly among these trees, but quietly, almost respectfully, as if he did not wish to disturb the forest. The day had grown dark indeed, and so I was startled, and not a bit unsettled, to see a warm, faint light emanating from a valley up ahead. I wondered if Shadowfax would avoid it, but he seemed to be heading directly toward it instead.

"Well met, I say to you again, Legolas," came the mirthful, unhurried voice. It echoed all around me, but its owner, tall and white, stepped out of the murky gloom to my right, and the White Rider, good Mithrandir himself, stood before me.


His name leapt unbidden from my lips. It had been only a short time since he had left Gondor, yet long, too long. He had become dearest among all my friends and companions save Aragorn. I sprang from the back of his beloved Shadowfax to greet him.

"So soon gone from the East, Legolas?"

His admonishment halted my embrace of him and my light-hearted greeting. I cast my shamed eyes downward. "I have much to do."

"As do I," Mithrandir responded. "But even I have not yet forced myself to bid farewell to that which I hold to be fairest, and dearest."

I knew not his exact meaning—even the Elves rarely understood Mithrandir fully—but I knew that the sentence implied a reproach in my direction. I saw then that he knew what I had done, even if he did not yet understand why I had done it. "I do not suffer needlessly," I told him, but I could not tell if I meant it to be a statement or a question.

Mithrandir began to walk the path I had been following, uttering a low whistle to Shadowfax, who followed at a significantly subdued pace behind us. "And what of Aragorn?"

"He was to be King."

"And you were to rule at his side."

"The people of Gondor would not have stood for it. They would not have wished the line of Isildur to be broken, and for this I blame them not."

Mithrandir's laugh was short and entirely without humour. "The line of Isildur matters little to Gondor now, my friend, and the chieftains of Gondor know this as well as you or I. If we are to learn anything from the Ringbearer, it is that blood is all but inconsequential in determining one's capabilities. Dozens of brave men exposed themselves as leaders in the our last battle. Their blood knows little of Númenor, but their hearts much. Too much, if your exile is any indication."

I could not bear his steady gaze, his calm judgment. "I was not exiled."

"How came you here?"

"I left of my own accord."

Mithrandir's smile was bitter. "It is few of your people who have been called upon to make the choice of Lúthien," he murmured. "It is even fewer who have chosen as bravely as she."

I cried out in my pain and his condemnation, his damned unfairness. "I chose this for him!" I cried. "I chose this so that he could have his throne – so that he could fulfil the prophecy! I chose this for Gondor, for all the peoples of Arda, not for my own life. I care nothing for my own life when he is gone from it. I only wish to see him conceive the heir they all desire from him – how can you think otherwise, how can you – "

"You are a fool, Legolas Greenleaf," Mithrandir said calmly. "Do you really believe that Aragorn has simply risen this morning, taken note of your absence, and proceeded to set himself upon a careful search for a pure-blooded woman by whom he can conceive this ill-desired heir you speak of? Know you him not?"

I stared back at him wordlessly. I could think of no retort better reasoned than his, but I knew it was not so simple. The East had just survived an age of uncertainty, of growing shadows. Now there were things that the people needed to know. They needed to be sure of a future for the line of Isildur. Aragorn and I could promise them no future.

"Aragorn will die alone if he does not die at your side. He loves you. Do you not understand that?" Mithrandir's voice had turned incredulous. "Has he not taught you that, if nothing else?"

At this I broke down into familiar tears, and at last Mithrandir took me into his arms to console me, his face suddenly filled with mercy. I cried, for what exactly I do not know, but mostly for the loss I had inflicted upon both Aragorn and myself, the leagues I had placed between us that day. I cried for the dear King that Gondor would receive and the heir that they would be denied, for the uncertainty of Gondor's future, should I elect to place myself beside Aragorn on the throne. I cried for the stories Aragorn had told me of his days before me, of the brief night meetings he had spent with men and women whose names he knew not, and the emptiness they left him with, always. I cried until I feared myself to be on the point of weakening. Only then did I allow Mithrandir's calm hand to raise my chin from his shoulder and look straight into my eyes. "Legolas son of Thranduil," he said tiredly. "Do you hear me?"

I nodded slowly.

"Tonight you will stay with me here. You will eat and sleep well, and think on this no more. Tomorrow morning I will grant you the speed of Shadowfax one last time. You will mount him and you will ride east or west. East to Gondor or West to the Undying Lands. You need not tell me of your decision, nor of the reasons for it. But there must be a decision. Do you understand?"

I nodded once more. "I thank you."

Mithrandir dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "You can thank me only by making the correct choice."

I followed Mithrandir in subdued silence, feeling nothing so much like a child who has been chastised for doing something extremely foolish. Mithrandir was wisest among all the Wise, and never had I doubted his judgment before. But we had never come to an agreement on the merit of race. I could not help feeling that an heir of Isildur, a son of Aragorn, would have a far greater chance of uniting the race of Men than any other. Noble though our ranks had been, the Men did not know the wisdom of the Eldalië as did Aragorn. He could not fulfil the prophecies of prosperity among Men. Only Aragorn could conceive the children that would become the hope of the East.

But will he go on to conceive those children after you have gone? Mithrandir's voice seemed to question, though he spoke not. I had no answer. Perhaps he would, after all. Aragorn was a man who accepted duty readily, and did not quail in the face of tasks that were unpleasant yet necessary. Perhaps he understood already why I had left, and that it was my unfortunate duty to do so.

We had had no plan. The lords of Gondor—those who had survived the siege—had made it clear that they would, against their better judgment, allow King Elessar to wed me. But there were uneasy murmurings among the people in the White City that implied that this decision left them displeased. "Hear them not," Aragorn would whisper in my ear when we walked, hand in hand, through the streets, trying to ignore the confused glances and anxious mutterings. "The fools will learn soon enough that I will wed him whom I see fit to love, and that they have no choice in the matter."

Yet I was not at all certain that the people were treating us foolishly or unkindly. I was greeted with the utmost of courtesy by all the folk of Minas Tirith, even when Aragorn was not at my side. The gossip was not vicious; it was, as I have said, only anxiety that I heard in the hushed voices. I could not blame them. Against all the odds, they had lived to see the Fourth Age, after countless years of prayers for freedom from all troubles and doubts. With my coming, I had cast a new shadow upon them.


"Legolas," Mithrandir said, a note of irritation in his wearied voice, "have I not instructed you to think on it no more?"

I smiled inwardly. This was not the first time that Mithrandir had given me the distinct impression that he could sense my thoughts. "I must think on it," I said. "I must make a decision by morning."

"You will make your best decision without any careful thought whatsoever. Truthfully, my dear Legolas, I cannot recall a time when your head has chosen wisely. It is your heart, always, that has prevailed, to the best of my memory."

"So you say I should return to Gondor," I said carefully, not trusting myself to speak Aragorn's name aloud.

"I say nothing," Mithrandir muttered. "It is you who must say, and I have told you this already. I have brought you to something fairer still than what you have left, something which may give better advice than I can hope to give. But until we reach this point, you should think of other things, of brighter things."

But the comfort that memories of Aragorn had brought me earlier, I found, had turned to bitter grief and despair. I felt my face contort in pain. Mithrandir placed a steady, comforting hand on my shoulder for a few moments until I managed to put the thoughts out of mind again. "You may find it more pleasant to live in the present moment," he said quietly. "I have brought you to a place that you know and love well."

The light that I had seen faintly emanating from a point in the distance had now taken shape. I caught my breath, hardly believing my fair fortune, for if it was she—and I was certain it was—then Shadowfax had led me to two of the wisest figures in either Arda or Aman to assist me in this most difficult time. I was so troubled with my own worries and doubts that I had completely disregarded my surroundings up until that moment, but now that the Lady appeared to me, it was clear. Mithrandir had summoned me to Lórien. It was hardly recognisable in the wake of the destruction the Orcs had wrought upon parts of that bright land. But time still meant nothing there, in that wood where the most burdened of hearts could rest easily, if only they came in peace. I understood not why Mithrandir had taken refuge here, but I knew that it would be the best place for me to spend the long night that lay ahead of me.

"I believed she would have passed on by now," I murmured as the Lady Galadriel's tall, thin shape became clearer to me.

"It is not yet her time," Mithrandir replied. "She will remain until Lothlórien has been purged of the shadow that fell upon it during the War of the Ring. Not all of Sauron's forces remained in the East. Curunír, as well, following orders from the Dark Lord before he turned against him, sent many legions of Orcs to trouble the Elves. They fought bravely, but the soldiers sullied the land by their very presence before their defeat, and much work is needed to cleanse this place of their fell spirits. This is work that only the Lady can undertake with any certainty of success."

"Then some of the Elves of Lothlórien will remain?"

"Even I cannot tell that," Mithrandir said gravely. "For a time, yes. Whether or not their presence will remain indefinitely, I do not know. Many of them will leave these shores shortly. Many will depart with the Lady when her travails are ended. The folk of Arda may well remember the Fourth Age as the age of the Elves' departure, for few, if any, will remain to see it through."

"And supposing I do?"

Mithrandir's voice was gentle as he answered. "You will not remain, for you will fade with the passing of King Elessar, should you choose East. But I have asked you not to think on these things, Legolas, for I am certain that they have already crossed your mind many a time. It grieves me to see you weighed down with these cares and troubles. I cannot grant you further counsel. I have brought you to one who can."


The Lady Galadriel remained just as she was, at least in appearance, when last I had visited Lothlórien with the Fellowship. Though I knew well that Elves rarely change, and that any alteration in either their faces or their spirits takes ages before it becomes noticeable, I had expected the War to have left some physical mark or blemish upon her beauty. But her ethereal smile remained as bright as it had always been. She held herself with a grace that no other Elf had yet been known to match. It was only when I peered deep into her eyes that I saw a new sadness within them. The light around her seemed to fade slightly as soon as I had marked that small difference. I bowed my head to her in deep respect. "I greet you, O Lady," I whispered in the tongue of the Elves.

She responded in kind, and I heard the fair lilting accent of Lórien in her words. "I did not expect you to venture West again, Legolas son of Thranduil."

"Does it displease you that I have done so?"

Her calm expression was impenetrable. "It is a heavy weight that has been placed upon you," she said simply. "I have made my own choice since the end of the War, but I do not pretend that it was comparable to what lies before you now. For I gave up only a lesser love for a greater light, and I have sacrificed nothing in doing so."

I did not fully understand what she meant. I looked to Mithrandir for some sort of clarity, but he had vanished, disappearing with Shadowfax into the wood. The Lady laughed softly, but there was no joy in the sound. "It does pain him to see you in such deep despair. Did not you know? And his grief grows greater still when he allows himself to think on Aragorn."

The words fell as a blow that neither shield nor mail could deflect. "I pray you not to say such things," I said weakly.

"Yes, it is rather a poor use of our time. It is time that could be better spent in thought, and decision." She extended her hand to me. "Come with me, Legolas."

"Mithrandir told me to put it out of mind."

"Did he? Yet have you any idea of what you plan to do when the Sun shows her face in the morning? The delaying of action, the drawing out of a great hurt: these are things you have learned from our people, are they not? For it is because of these characteristics of the Elves that we are still here today. We mourn what has passed, and yet we cannot quite bring ourselves to leave the place where once it existed."

The Lady Galadriel's voice grew distant, and regretful. "The Elves move so slowly to the western shores, Legolas. They sing the songs of a place that no longer is. They dwell in memory."

I could not keep myself from speaking, for her words reminded me of the solace I had found in memory that day. "There are worse places to reside. For you know that to Men, dreams and memories are just that, and nothing more. We have been blessed with the ability to live in dreams as fully as we live in the waking world."

"Is it a blessing, then?"

"It can be." I paused for a minute to consider if I meant it before nodding slowly. "Yes. Yes, it can be."

Galadriel closed her eyes briefly. "Then I wish you to come with me. I wish you to accompany me one last time, that I may spare you some of what you are to face tomorrow, and ever after, whichever way you might go. I wish you to look into my mirror one last time, Legolas son of Thranduil. For I have a dream to give to you."


As she led me through the quiet wood, it was my turn to close my eyes, for my feet knew the paths well enough to travel them without my guidance, and I did not wish to see the damage that the Orcs had done. Talk of memory enabled me to call to mind, quite clearly, the visits I had paid to Lórien in lighter times and fairer conditions. I had walked with Aragorn here as well. We had, I realised in surprise, grieved for Mithrandir together here, not knowing that his time in Arda had not yet ended. We had listened to the Elves as they lifted their haunting voices in sombre song, lamenting for that wanderer whom they loved so well.

When we arrived at the small grove, I was greatly pleased to see that the land around the Lady's mirror had seen no changes at all. It could have been that the Orcs, despite all their brute strength, could not penetrate the inner core of this most powerful place. When Galadriel motioned me forward, I approached with not a few misgivings in my heart. It was only the thought of Frodo and Samwise before this mirror only a few months back, with the unpleasant task of witnessing much worse things than I could possibly have ahead of me, that strengthened my resolve to see what I needed to see.

"Will you show me what is certain, or only what is possible?" I inquired.

The Lady's laugh did hold a note of amusement this time. "You know as well as I that I can say nothing of what you will see!" she cried. "Do not deign to believe in these ridiculous notions of Men, these rumours of what I can and cannot do! I show you nothing, Legolas. I have only an idea of what it is that you may see, and I certainly will not share that with you as yet – for as it happens, I may be wrong." She gestured for me to come still closer. "Look, Legolas, and look beyond the water and stars, I pray you. See."

---

The Sun rises over the White City. Morning has come to Gondor.

I wake beside Aragorn, nestled in his arms. He watches me as I open my eyes. He twists the ring on my finger that he has given me, very gently. My lips curve in a sleepy smile at the sight of him before he leans forward to kiss me.

One morning he wakes me with a kiss. Another, he wakes me without even intending to do so, for he is forever singing those songs of his. He sings while wandering over hill, he sings under his breath on the way to his throne room.

We walk together in the gardens; we sit peacefully near the White Tree, my head against his shoulder, his fingers running absently through my hair.

Aragorn is a treasure with which the people of Gondor have entrusted me. They bow and curtsy as deeply before me as they do before the King Elessar, and they look at me in such reverence and awe when I pay them only small courtesies, when I smile in their direction. And I smile often in Minas Tirith. I feel joy such as I have never known before.

Yet a shadow hangs over Gondor.

I am renowned as a hero, as a leader, and as the wisest of Gondor; never before have they lived under the rule of an Elf, they whose thoughts dwell mostly on present, and future. I can give them their past. I spend days singing them the old tales and songs that they have long forgotten.

I am teaching the youngest ones the things that their parents never learned. I tell them much of Númenor, and the glory and light that is the West, that is the Blessed Realm. They know, too, of my people. They know me as the great love of their King, and anything I have to say, anything I have to give them, is treated as though it were wiser than the words of the Valar, more glorious than the triumph of Gondor over Mordor, more precious than the lost wealth of all the Dwarves.

Aragorn's years are drawing to an end.

I am losing him. We am losing him, and a shadow is fast approaching. It has no name as yet. It has no face. The people look toward me. I know not what to do. I know that I will fade when he is gone.

The people are singing their songs, are telling their tales, but old lore will not hold off what is coming to them.

What is coming? I looked deeper, trying desperately to see, wondering if we had any chance against it.

Aragorn throws his arms around me after I ride back to Minas Tirith. The people are glad for my return.

The strength of the people is fading. I am fading.

There was no coherence, no transition between events; there was nothing to explain what was happening and when. I began to see things from the past year. I watched Mithrandir fall in Moria; I saw myself putting an arrow to my bowstring at Helm's Deep. Then it would flash forward again, and I was back in the East. I am slipping away from them. I cannot take command. I am diminishing, losing myself to the grief that is Aragorn.

I am renowned as a hero and a ruler, as the love of the King, I feel joy such as I have never known—

I am fading, now. I have gone.

---

I trembled as I raised my eyes to meet those of Galadriel, but she was not looking up in my direction, nor down at the newly clear surface of the water between us. Her eyes were shut tightly, yet I had a feeling that she knew of everything I had seen. She seemed to be waiting for something; we stood there for such a long time.

The aura of Lórien, wounded yet unbroken, brushed its gentle winds against my face as I stood; the very air stirred with possibilities.

"Legolas of Thranduil," the Lady whispered at last.

"Yes."

I said it in the same manner that I had said it to Mithrandir, as though I were awaiting instructions, but I did not believe that Galadriel was about to advise me. She had not looked up; it was as though some tragedy were playing itself out before her eyes, and though she knew every bit of what was taking place, she could not bear to see it for herself. "Legolas of Thranduil, what did you see?"

"You know," I replied bluntly, wishing to experience neither the blissful scenes nor the darker ones all over again in front of her. I was terribly afraid of breaking down in front of the Lady Galadriel. To weep in front of Mithrandir was one thing; in spite of his high stature he was still a member of the Fellowship, and we had seen much together. But to weep in front of the Lady was unthinkable. I could not display to her any more of my weaknesses than she had already seen.

"You know that these are the things that may come to pass. Is it not so?"

"It is."

"Are these the things you wish for?"

"I wish only to love him," I heard myself saying, as though the words were not coming from me. "I do not wish for another shadow."

Galadriel's eyes snapped open suddenly. My heart skipped a beat at the sudden, livid flash of blue. "This is why I asked you to tell me what you saw, Legolas Greenleaf. I see much, but I do not see all. I am perfectly aware of all the good that you saw, and if you gathered anything about any sort of return of the shadow in all of these wretched prophecies standing before us, it is news to me."

"I saw only an appearance of the reasons I must not stay in Minas Tirith," I told her, attempting to speak around the hard anger forming in my mouth. "It was brief, but I have seen it. I have seen it and that is enough."

"You would do well to recall that these are only the things that may be." Galadriel chose her words very carefully, attempting to keep her own impatience out of her voice. "They may come to pass quite soon, or they may never come. I am not a seeress, Legolas, whatever the folk outside Lórien—and some of the folk inside as well—may tell you. I cannot tell you anything with any great certainty. I am afraid that this mirror is really unable to aid you in your decision, other than to give you visions of what may be. And, possibly, memories?"

Her last questioning word was spoken nonchalantly, but the suggestion still reached me.

"Is that why you brought me here?" I said with great effort. Words seemed to be growing more and more difficult to find and use correctly.

"Would it not be of comfort to you to look back on your life together?"

"It is a life we have not yet had."

"Did it not feel real to you?"

"It is a lie."

Galadriel's tone was soft and soothing. "The present time and the past, the memories and the wishes. Truth can be what you make of it, good Legolas."

"And a lie that eases your pain upon making a noble decision?" The shadows I had seen in the mirror seemed to beckon to me, inviting me to believe in them. "Is that such a bad thing?"

"So you say it. You say I should leave these shores."

Her eyes shut again. Her face became masklike, and without any trace of an expression. "I say nothing."

"You imply it, then."

"I say nothing," Galadriel replied. Her voice rose sharply at these words, and I was shocked to see her hands shaking. "I have implied nothing. It is your choice. I would remind you, though, that despite Mithrandir's words and wisdom, he has great personal stake in this matter, for he loves you both as sons, and cannot be expected to make a fair decision. Mine is a different point of view. And I would also remind you that if you think on Lúthien carefully, as Mithrandir has made you do, you will remember that much less hinged upon her decision. You hold the lives of thousands in your hands and in your heart, Legolas. Treat them well."

Never have I felt this wind on my face; never have I let this taste settle upon my tongue. Yet those who came before me knew them both well, and perhaps that is why I feel somehow as though I have known these things already. For I am warm with the blood of my fathers, and a memory runs thick in the veins of an Elf. And this is a blessing, sometimes.

The Sun rises over the White City. Morning has come to Gondor.

I have answered no questions, though many have been asked of me. When another inquiry is directed at me, I turn toward the impossibly bright light dawning above me, guiding my way, reminding me of where I am going and why. I want only to shut my eyes, to allow the rhythm of travelling to rock me into sleep. But I fear that I would dream of the very things I wish to forget. It is only in waking that I may guide these dreams as I wish.

I wake beside Aragorn, nestled in his arms. He is watching me as I open my eyes, twisting the ring on my finger that he has given me, very gently. My lips curve in a sleepy smile at the sight of him before he leans forward to kiss me. My bow stands propped up against the wall on which his sword is mounted, and our clothes lay in one pile at the foot of the bed, for this is no longer his room, but ours.

Lady Galadriel's words of the Elves moving so slowly toward the shore return to me. I can almost hear the lingering songs they sung, the songs of leaving, and I think on the songs I heard often in the house of Elrond. Never were they songs of present days, nor of great things to expect from the future. They were songs of days we cannot see; of a land we could not reach; of wars we have long since lost; of cities that have long since fallen.

One morning he wakes me with a kiss. Another, he wakes me without even intending to do so, for he is forever singing those songs of his, those songs of Elrond's, that canon of memories that every Elf is bound to learn by heart. He sings them while wandering over hill, he sings them under his breath on the way to his throne room. Some nights he murmurs them softly in his sleep. It is when he does this that I can almost believe he will live forever.

Tears spring to my eyes suddenly. I make no move to wipe them away. It is thoughts of Aragorn acting in the manner of an Elf that make me, somehow, behave in the most human of ways. I have no call to be in pain now, for I have been given two of the greatest gifts: one from Aragorn and one from Galadriel. I have surrendered the first, and now I have no choice but to use the other.

Before I retreat into the Lady's gift, I call to mind the vision that came to me just before turning away from the mirror. At first it was nearly indistinguishable from many things I have seen in my long past, and in my very recent present as well. For there was Shadow, and darkness; great fear, and a powerless leader on high in Minas Tirith. One could hardly see the White City through the gloom that hung over it. These things I had witnessed before. It was the faces of Men that were new to me. The weakness in their hearts I knew all too well.

We walk often together in the gardens; we sit peacefully near the White Tree, my head against his shoulder, his fingers running absently through my hair. When we speak, it is never out of necessity, for the silence between us is as precious and eloquent as words would be.

When we sit side by side in his throne room, the crown of mithril resting gently atop my head, there are often times when the doors at the very end of the hall are drawn aside, and I can see us together, reflected in the mirror of the room that waits beyond. The sight of us never fails to astonish me. I have loved Aragorn long, and still I cannot bring myself to take his affections for granted, as I hope it will always be. I do not know if he sees the reflection as well, but he turns often to me during the course of the mornings and smiles slowly, sometimes raising a hand to stroke my face, caring nothing for the muttered thoughts of those who might see.

Most Elves do not think it fitting for the Prince of Mirkwood to remain in Arda simply to assist in the governing of Mortal Men; yet, every day that I spend in Minas Tirith is a treasure to me, a treasure with which both Aragorn and the people of Gondor have entrusted me. They bow and curtsy as deeply before me as they do before the King Elessar, and they look at me in such reverence and awe when I pay them only small courtesies; when I remember their names, for example, or when I smile in their direction. I smile often in Minas Tirith. I feel joy such as I have never known before.

I wonder of Minas Tirith now, and whether or not there is any joy left to be found there. The ring finger on my left hand feels lighter than it should, and there is still a white mark around its base to show where Aragorn's ring used to be. I wonder if he has taken it back, if he has left it where it was, or if he could have possibly started looking, so soon, for another hand upon which to place it.

I know that the Lady Galadriel intended me to comfort myself with this one dream, this one fleeting memory, yet I cannot help but ponder another, for a moment. I think again on the first day that Aragorn took me to our small and secret place in Mirkwood, how I had listened to him singing the lay of Lúthien and prayed for great Ilúvatar to grant him the blessings and the curses of the Elves. This, clearly, He did not do, and I fault Him not. He, too, sees that Aragorn was a treasure that belonged to the free people of Middle-earth long before he belonged to me.

But I wish to give Aragorn two gifts as well, now, as I myself have been given. For if Aragorn has the blessing of being able to live a memory, then we can still speak with one another, we can still sing and make love, we can still sleep in each other's arms. He can remember me fully in waking, as I do him. "This is only one blessing of the Elves," I whisper quietly, not wishing for Frodo and Gimli, who are so close, to hear me. "Surely You can spare this one blessing."

And I would give him the memory that the Lady had given me. If it would comfort him to see these things, I would give that to him, for I draw little comfort from it now. It shows me only the good I have lost and none of the reasons for which I chose to lose it. Maybe he will see these things and choose to walk among them when he misses me most. If he can, he will be a rare Man, to be able to take solace in a shadow that will never be. But Aragorn is rarest and wisest of Men. It is for this, above all else, that I love him.

"Did you ever tell him?" Mithrandir says quietly. I did not hear him approaching me, yet he waits at my side for an answer, his soft gaze penetrating my face as I breathe deeply the air of the Sea.

"Legolas, I love you."

So, too, do I love him, so dearly, and I do not say this – for his own good.

"No," I respond quietly. "I never did."

I see neither judgment nor sympathy in Mithrandir's face. His intensely dark eyes harbour only a deep understanding, and when he takes my hand, I do not pull away. We stand together in silence. We can see neither Arda nor Aman now, and though it is but mid-morning, most of us are fast asleep, rocked by the rhythm of the boat, low in the water.

I raise a hand to wipe away a few stray tears. I press my lips to my own palm. I can almost imagine that they are Aragorn's lips; I can almost smell his sweet and wild scent on my skin.

These are the lips that speak the Fair Tongue.

I can nearly hear him singing.

That know by heart countless scores of songs, that speak of happier times, eras without shadow.

I can feel his wise words inside my head, comforting me and stroking me, filling me with a deep understanding. It may take him a lifetime, but I believe that he will understand why I have done what I have done. Perhaps they will sing of it, those remaining in Imladris. Perhaps in history, we will be remembered with more generosity than we grant ourselves now.

"I do love him," I whispered. "You know, Mithrandir, you knew him well; how could I have felt otherwise? He is the fairest thing in either Realm to me. The sound of my language in his mouth — he spoke so beautifully to me. And the way he sang, Mithrandir. When he sang of Lúthien, he made it sound as though he understood what was in her heart, and why she had chosen as she did."

Mithrandir's hand tightened around mine.

"May he understand my choice," I say. "May he receive my blessings, so that he might see, and learn why I have done this."

"Your blessings may matter very much, or not at all. Aragorn is a Man who learns much of things he cannot quite see."

For these are the times I lived yet knew not.

And these are the times he knows, somehow, without ever having lived them.