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.
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