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.
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The Choice of LĂșthien by Moriquende
Story notes: Book canon, sans Arwen. Beta'd by dear Calaquende – hantalĂ«!
