You stare blankly at the pale stars, noting how they turn continually no matter that they constantly chase the moon in a hopeless plight and other presences surely haunt them. Something haunts everything in the universe, and always will. There will always be some sort of desire, hunting and hungering, but for some, for many, desire will never be anything more, anything less. For you it is there, and will be always.
You cannot stop watching him; his strong chin, hard nose, the lines around his mouth and eyes as he smiles. He is the most beautiful of anyone in the world to you. You love to watch him, because of the glory and the pain in his eyes that so strongly reflects your own heart. The pain of watching him turn his head to listen to her, to smile at her, to be with her. And in being with her, trying not to let it show. That in front of her father, what Aragorn wishes is—
You can't think about that. Mostly because you do not believe in love. Partly because the pain grows immense when you think of it. And while some of you cherishes the pain, you don't think drowning in it would be such a good idea. And so you simply watch him out of the corner of your eyes, turning the liquid light of Imladris upon him in a silent plea that cannot be spoken, that no one can decipher except perhaps Mithrandir, but he does not turn his head to look back at you; he is in conversation with Frodo.
And Aragorn does not say anything. He is not smiling now, and has a look of longing on his face that makes your heart twist in ways you previously thought impossible. You want to touch him on the shoulder, to tell him that all will be well, but you know it will simply be worse than if you stay where you are. So you watch him, and speak to him little, although your mouth becomes slippery with unsaid words threatening to burst forth every time you face him. Instead you let them come from your eyes, directly into his own. And perhaps, once or twice, he understands.
The Bridge of Khazad-dum
Your heart is barely beating irregularly, but you can see the others panting for breath, and the beginnings of tears are welling up in their eyes. Aragorn's are already flowing.
You step over to him, making no noise, and try to put your hand on his shoulder. Instead, he tells you, "get them up." He will not look at you and, with untold sorrow for both him and Mithrandir, you raise the hobbits to their feet. Boromir starts arguing with him, but you pay him no mind. But looking up, you find Aragorn watching you with sorrow and desperation in his eyes and, when the two of you watch each other long enough, you find longing there, as well.
The Golden Wood
Lothlorien. You have been there often enough, watched the Lady of light in her crystal mirror, seen things that perhaps you did not want to have known about yourself, and discarded the pain disguised as some other emotion.
The Lady turns her gaze upon you, and immediately you memories come flooding back, one of them standing out among the rest:
You were fighting another elf, a traitor of Mirkwood. He was a strong opponent, with more battle experience, but you were not so tired of running away. You had a knife hidden up your sleeve, and perhaps you would need to use it. Arrows were too close at this range for fighting anything or anyone. Instead, your knives flashed and danced in the cool darkness of Mirkwood.
He was pressed close against you now, teeth bared and neck beading with sweat, his skin made of spider-webs of blood and rough patches of skin that tore easily at the edges. Your own body mirrored his, your blood flowed faster than your magic could stop it and you could feel the effects.
There. An advantage. Thrusting upward, you flipped out your knife and allowed it to slice across his neck, exposing the fragile life within that began to emerge with the beat of his heart. The knife dropped in shock; he slumped forward into your arms, and the last thing you knew was his blood mingling with your own before the dark and the pain took you away.
The lady is turning her gaze upon Aragorn now, and you see his eyes slip up to yours before looking quickly away again. You want to tilt the head back to you again and interpret the intense look in the eyes but find you cannot break the Lady's spell. Aragorn tilts his head down, his black hair shading his face, but you spot a tiny triangular tear as it flashes through the air. The pain rises in your throat, but you force it down before it can come tumbling out of your mouth and into the ears of all the Fellowship. The Lady glances at you and for an instant you wish that she could pass on your thoughts to the other man, but you then regret it when she immediately looks to the man. Her eyes meet yours. They say it's too late, but Aragorn does not look up, or even turn his head in your direction. The Lady looks away to Boromir. You know she will not tell your secret.
It is most likely later than you think it is, but you continue to sharpen your knives, thinking. About Aragorn. The way his tear dropped upon the stone floor, and the Lady glanced at you. Now you are sitting in a secluded glade, watching each knife flash naked in the moonlight and wishing. Wishing that somehow things could be different. That Aragorn-
Aragorn.
Something is moving behind you, soft footfalls that are too quiet to be human, but not quiet enough to belong to any elf. You turn and catch the man moving toward you out of the corner of your eye. Then he comes around into your full vision, eyes blazing with their midnight colour and clothing rustling softly as he moves with satin grace.
And he sits down. "Gone," he says.
You want to ask him, what? You want to ask him what is gone. You want to say, is it my opportunity for you, because it certainly seems that way.
You open your mouth to say one of those things, or maybe all of those things. What comes out is, "I'm sorry."
Sometimes you wish you had the courage to kill yourself.
"I..." Aragorn seems to think you said the wrong thing too. And now you have no idea what you're going to say.
You decide to continue on anyway, rushing like a stream. You'll feel the pain of your regrets later. "I'm really sorry. That I haven't—that I never-"
When it comes to pouring out feelings, it doesn't look like elves are very adept.
"That you never spoke out?" words said softly, gently.
So the lady did tell him what you had been thinking. You turn back to your knives. They've been cleaned enough, you begin to test your bowstring.
"Legolas..."
A new string is needed. You start looking around for your pack before realizing that you didn't bring it with you.
"All this time you have been hunting," says Aragorn's voice, and you feel his arm against your shoulder, you see his long legs come into your range of vision, "and now your quarry turns to you; why do you try to escape?"
And the pain comes flooding back: because, you want to scream. Because I love you and cannot believe in love, because Arwen does not understand you and I do. Because that is the only reason you pursue me now. You want someone who knows you and who wants to know you more.
"You cannot run anymore, Legolas," Aragorn says, and you feel his fingers bringing your face up to meet his own. "You could not run even if you wished to." And he turns your face upwards, and his words melt together in your ears and run into your mouth, sliding off his tongue and into your throat, he slides you down onto the grass and you give in, your last resolve slipping away painlessly.
It is late now, the moon has danced away in the pale night. He is still lying beside you, and you reach out to touch his smooth chest.
Upon contact, you know. When your fingers meet his flesh, it becomes clear to you, blinding you.
Arwen watches the rain alone, silent. Tears are fresh upon her face; she knows of your betrayal. She knows, and knows she will still follow the King to his death, and will still look you in the eye. And she knows that Aragorn will follow her as well.
And you open the floodgates and let the pain run through, a mad torrent. And you do not try to hold them back. Because the bittersweet pain is all you have left.
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Pain by Nevatarwen
Story notes: I dearly love getting reviews for my stories; not only does the praise from some people inflate my ego, but the flames from other people brings me back down to earth and helps me to figure out what mistakes I am making. I am also warning you that this will most likely be very cliche, and I am trying to struggle free of the clicheness of fanfiction. I'll notify people when it actually happens (don't expect to be plagued by me for a couple of years at least). Happy reading (and please review with praise or flames or whatever you want)!
