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.
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