Title: De Profundis
Author: Milady Hawke, Le Fay 
E-mail: juliebgood001@hotmail.com 
Website: www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=miladyhawke  
Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas
Status: complete, 6/6 
Rating: NC-17 overall
Genres: Angst, Romance, First Time (sort of), Canon-friendly
Archive: Sure, just let me know where it’s going.
Feedback: Turns me on.
Author’s note:  I’ve heard A/L is trite and done.  I don’t think so.

Overall summary: Some loves should not be forgotten, and some can 
never be.  For land, for honor, for love, Legolas gives Estel to the world - 
but can he keep any hope for himself?

************************************************************

Author’s notes Chpt. 1:  “De Profundis,” meaning “Out of the Depths,” is 
the Latin title of an ancient Christian prayer that was and still is said at 
twilight for the relief of suffering, and this story is my response to the 
attitude that obscure canon pairings are “highbrow” while well-known 
pairings are passé.  The biggest exception to canon here is that my 
Aragorn resembles movie Aragorn somewhat more so than book Aragorn.  
Lastly, major props and lots of cookies to anyone who knows where I got 
the name of Trystan from and why it’s an appropriate choice for the name 
of an elf (hint: it’s in literary and linguistic keeping with what Tolkien 
might have chosen).  

Summary Chpt. 1:  A little push and a lot of wine loosens Legolas’ tongue 
as to the secret of his grief, but does Aragorn really want to know?


Chapter 1: A Twilight’s Tale

“Love,” said the elf lowly in a deep, drawn out tone sickened with 
contempt.  “Humph.  Would you like to hear a little story about love?”

Wide-eyed with dismay, Aragorn took mental note of yet another topic of 
conversation not to be broached with the unusually temperamental elf.  

Upon finding Legolas precariously perched on the rail of the balcony 
outside the elf’s chambers and looking coldly out into the motley-colored 
veil of twilight spreading softly over Gondor, Aragorn had thanked the 
Valar that he thought to bring with him a bottle of wine.  And then, as he 
approached his friend with cautiously measured steps, he noted the several 
bottles already strewn haphazardly about the terrace and the many 
fragments of what had been bottles.  Odd, indeed, that one of the fair folk 
would imbibe so imprudently.  He could count on his hands the number of 
times he had seen an elf truly drunk, his twin brothers accounting for 
most.  

Though, he bethought, by now nothing should surprise him in Legolas this 
time of the year.  It was again that time when all the world bedecked itself 
gaily, rejoicing and singing in memory of the victory over great evil.  And 
Gondor added to this joyful noise the remembrance of a king’s coronation 
and the wedding of his bride, and Legolas came to the festivities from his 
neighboring elf colony in Ithilien – and withdrew into himself utterly.  
There was little that Aragorn could say in these summer months that did 
not seem to displease his friend.

“Legolas,” he had called gently, “come down from your height and deign 
to have a glass with me.  Do not pine for the forest.  I am sure you shall 
soon enough tire of my company and be back in your leafy bowers again.”  

Aragorn’s attempt at levity had no apparent effect on the elf’s demeanor, 
though Legolas did swing his legs around and down to meet the floor, 
allowing the man to exhale the breath he had not realized he held.  
Sauntering up slowly, Legolas sank next to Aragorn, drawing his knees up 
and pressing his back tightly to the wall, his shoulder almost grazing the 
man’s.

“What shall we drink to?” he had said.  

“Let us drink to Love.  Tonight it is the tenth anniversary of my wedding,” 
offered Aragorn, attempting to steer the conversation to light-hearted 
subjects.  

How wrong he had been, judging from the elf’s coldly questioned reply.  

Pouring for the two, Aragorn settled back and offered a glass, sickened at 
heart but eager to take advantage of his friend’s loosened tongue and to 
hear what might perhaps hold some clue to the secret of Legolas’ grief.

“It is a long, sorry story that may pain you to hear.  Are you sure you wish 
it?”

“I have time enough and interest,” said Aragorn.  “Be the story worthy of 
song?”

“And lament.” 

“Is it sublime?”

“It is pathetic.”

“A story of valor?”

“And fear.”

“Hope?”

Here, Legolas froze suddenly, deathly still.  When he spoke, it was slowly 
and in a deliberate voice.  “Oh, yes.  It is of that.  And despair.”

“Well, go on then,” the man urged, breaking under the intensity of the 
elf’s level gaze and looking away to the horizon.  “I am riveted.”

________________________

For header info, see Chapter 1

Author’s note:  The gods forgive me for naming Trystan’s horse after a 
Valar.  Oh, and in this chapter, the love scene by the falls was inspired by 
Elisa’s manip, "Rauros,” at Lassegalen’s Laire.

Summary: Beware snakes, witches, and elves offering apples.


Chapter 2: Once Upon a Time

“Well, go on then,” the man urged, breaking under the intensity of the 
elf’s level gaze and looking away to the horizon.  “I am riveted.”

“Once upon a time, during The Watchful Peace it happened that an elfling 
was conceived in a woman of The Great Wood who had tried long for a 
child to occupy the empty days in her chambers, her husband’s high 
position leaving him little time for her, and her three fine sons already full-
grown and busy with their duties and families of their own.  Into the 
making of this child she poured all of her longing, her loneliness, her love, 
and her hope.  She was rewarded with a baby boy, but she was not to 
enjoy him.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died,” Legolas said blankly.  “Giving her child life.”  The golden 
head bowed.  “Even the strength of elves is not proof against nature.”  

“Before the spirit fled her wracked body, she held him in her arms briefly, 
and a moment came upon her of intuition.   She prophesied that, birthed in 
sorrow, her son would die like she, for want of love.  And so she named 
him Trystan, which means ‘Sorrow-born,’ but the father would later not 
call him by that.  The woman went on to say that the boy would honor his 
father’s house and be one of the great heroes of his people, but in the end 
he would be brought low by his love for one outside of his race and his 
reach.”

“Aye,” Aragorn mused.  “Oft are such loves doomed in the history of 
Arda.  Arwen and I are very lucky.”

“Yes, you’re very bright.”  Crossing his fingers behind his back, ‘Not 
really,’ Legolas thought to himself.  

“The husband was beside himself in his grief, and he determined not to 
fail his new son as he had failed his mother.  He lavished his attention and 
all his love upon Trystan, who grew up strong in body and mind, true of 
heart and tongue and bow, skilled in the arts of both war and scholarship 
and more in love with the woods and waters wild than in his rank.  But 
ever mindful of his wife’s pronouncement, the elf sought to shelter his son 
from the outside world, sending instead his other sons to run his messages 
and to carry out his business.”

“ ’Twas not over long by elven standards when after his majority Trystan 
grew restless.  ‘I am as capable as they,’ he thought, ‘though less 
experienced.  And my heart does yearn to see a little of the world outside 
the borders of my home.  It is also time that I eased my brothers’ shoulders 
of responsibility and proved myself useful to both them and my father.’  
And so when ‘twas time for to carry another message, Trystan went to his 
father and begged the bearing of it.”

“The elf-lord bethought himself that it was a reasonable request, though a 
warning knell sounded deeply in his heart.  He could reckon no harm in 
letting his youngest carry a missive to another elf kingdom.  He was brave 
enough for the journey, he was swift and fell in combat, and no hurt could 
come of letting his son visit his cousins to the west.   He could not, after 
all, expect to keep his son locked in a bubble forever.”

“And so Trystan rode forth with the exuberance of his first real adventure.  
Orc skirmishes were not unknown to him in guarding the borders of his 
kingdom, nor were the monstrous spiders and other dark creatures that 
haunted his land.  With a stout heart he set out on his travel, dispatching 
quickly what few orcs he encountered and reveling in the change of 
scenery as he passed through forest and dale, mountain and plain.  He 
arrived somewhat bedraggled and feeling very manly for it.”  

“Trystan scarcely heard what was said to him by the being who offered 
greeting into this new kingdom.  The land was welcome to his eyes and 
rivaled the beauty of his home, so different, but so wonderful.  Its 
mountain peaks kissed colorfully as they touched the very firmament of 
heaven and it’s wide, open valley shadowed in what seemed a veil of 
comfort and peace after long weeks on the road.  Intricately carved knot-
work snaked along the columns of its houses while fair elf youths flitted 
about the many lawns and fruit groves that adorned the valley.  A very 
paradise, he thought.”

“As the other man grabbed the reins of his horse Nienna to take her to 
stable, Trystan turned for the first time to appraise this person.   A man, 
young, fair of face and form with the earthy look of a warrior but the 
gentle eyes and hands of a healer.  And no elf, he noted with shock, but a 
human man in truth.  And such a man.  Trystan had seldom seen and less 
often met one not of his race, and yet here was a human man of what 
seemed to him rare quality, greeting him and offering to take his horse.  
‘What a wondrous place is this strange elf kingdom with such beautiful 
beings in it,’ he bethought himself.”

“He loved the man, didn’t he!  At first sight!” exclaimed an open-mouthed 
Aragorn, now clutching tightly to Legolas’ arm. 

 A deep, simmering growl welled up from the elf.  “Why don’t you pour 
yourself another drink?  Now be quiet and listen.”

“If I might continue, as time passed for Trystan in this enchanted realm, he 
observed the man’s honored position, sitting near the great lord at table, 
conversing with the land’s ministers, walking the gardens as if he owned 
them. ‘Twas not long before Trystan found himself seeking out the 
company of this engaging creature who seemed a solitary specimen of the 
wider world and who yet had the run of the country.  The sound of his 
laughter, it was deep and rich to Trystan as the spiced taste of honey mead 
.  His eyes held all the mystery of the depths of the ocean and drew 
Trystan inexorably to him as the sea calls to his kind.  The man’s hair was 
an unruly swirl of burnt autumn leaves falling about his face with the 
disarray of some semi-wild creature.  The man was intoxicating.   

And one day, stumbling across the man as he sat bathed in a spray of light 
refracted from the mist of one of the many waterfalls adorning the land, 
Trystan was startled to realize that he did, indeed, love this human.” 

“Oh, I knew it!”

“Yes.  Good for you, Aragorn.  Now as I was saying, as he eased himself 
down next to the man without breaking their locked gaze, it felt the most 
natural thing in the world to cup his beloved’s face to his.” 

“They made love by the water that night, slow and deliberate, learning the 
hard and soft contours of each other, the heady tastes and scents of 
arousal, what places that when touched or licked made the other mewl 
with satisfaction or keen in desperation.  Their joining was like fire and 
black powder that when kissing consume each other in a brilliant 
explosion of light and heat and sound...”

“...but in the shadows watched the lord of the realm, and he had other 
plans for this human.”

Aragorn had almost forgotten the way this story started.  It had turned out 
delightful thus far, but here came the inevitable perversion from Legolas.  
He set his jaw and waited.

“The lord was kind to Trystan the next day, but unrelenting.  The man had 
a great destiny before him that Trystan could not forever be part of.  The 
human would learn of this soon and meet the lady he was to marry, for 
much depended upon their joining.  Trystan must let the man go.” 

“‘Is he to have no say in this?’ pleaded Trystan, upon his knees then in a 
tear-stained heap on the floor.”

“‘His destiny is greater than the both of you.  Would you deny him this 
future?’ spoke the wise one before him.”

“And there was no argument Trystan could tender, for love is not selfish 
and bears all things.” 

“The lord then withdrew from the folds of his robe an apple that looked 
like any other. He circled Trystan, who still knelt on the ground, and 
holding the apple out the lord said, ‘It is my gift to you. Taste of this, and 
then offer it to your love; I would not have you both suffer without need.  
One bite, and you both will forget all that has passed between you.’”

“And for better or worse, Trystan took it.  He went to his lover’s chambers 
that night, and thought on the apple, and looked at his love.”
______________________

Header Info & Author’s Notes – See Chapter 1

Rating: Plenty of NC-17 action in the next chpt.  Such a tease, I know.

Summary: Realizations and rash promises leave Aragorn honor-bound.


Chapter 3:  An Indecent Proposal

“And for better or worse, Trystan took it.  He went to his lover’s chambers 
that night, and thought on the apple, and looked at his love.  ‘Yes, I would 
spare him the pain of separation,’ he thought, ‘but I will bear it myself.  I 
refuse to forget my love for him.  He has much to look forward to but I 
will forever look behind me at him.  Though he lies in another’s arms, the 
memory of us at least will be mine.’”

“And so thinking, Trystan closed his eyes tightly and bit the apple, passing 
the piece from his mouth to his love’s in a kiss that would haunt him 
through all the ages of Arda.”

“Trystan left at first light, concealing his grief with great care as the lord 
looked on when he left, suspecting nothing but that Trystan and his love 
had both eaten of the fruit.”

“The days turned to years, and from thence, decades, and still the memory 
of the man veiled Trystan’s heart like the lengthening shadows o’er his 
woodland realm.  But ‘twas not only his land threatened by this menace 
but many that felt the dark looming near.  When the summons came to a 
parlay addressing the great evil creeping back into the world, Trystan 
went, back to the very elf kingdom where he’d met the man.”

“Legolas...” said Aragorn, canting his head to the side to appraise his 
friend for the first time.

A fell spark that Aragorn had not seen save only in battle burned in 
Legolas’ eyes, and his whole face seemed intensely clenched against a 
flood of warring emotions threatening to spill.  As if squeezed by the grip 
of bone-chilled fingers, Aragorn felt his heart contract and his breath stop 
abruptly in his chest.  This part of the story was starting to sound too 
familiar.  

Catching breath again, he said, “My friend, pardon my discourtesy, but I 
begin to feel unwell from the wine.  If you will forgive me, perhaps you 
can finish your story later.”  

Legolas’ arm flew to bar Aragorn’s chest, halting him as he made to rise.  

“Ah, yes, I’m sure the queen will ease you, but if you would have my 
story, you must hear it now or never,” said the elf, his voice coming 
rapidly, gaining a tremoring octave, his arm remaining firmly across the 
man’s chest.  “I will be quick, then.” 

Aragorn’s eyes closed slowly while his hands compulsively clenched and 
unclenched.  This was not happening - this could not be true.  Surely... 
Legolas did not mean... this was madness!    

“Trystan was reunited with the man, and when in council ‘twas decided 
that a band would be sent forth on a secret mission to undermine this evil, 
and the man pledged himself to...”

“Do not aggravate yourself, friend,” Aragorn said with trembling restraint 
as he stood, turning his face away and stepping through the balcony arch.  

In a second, Legolas was upon him with lightening speed, with feverish 
strength holding Aragorn’s arms to his sides tightly and forcing him 
against the wall with a grip the man could not hope to break.  Legolas was 
up in his face then, inches away and following the movement of Aragorn’s 
head with his own as the man tried to look away, the elf’s searing gaze 
pursuing him as if he were quarry.  Aragorn could feel Legolas’ moist 
breath caressing his cheek warmly and the heat of his body radiating 
between them.  His heart raced wildly with excitement and fear, urging 
him to fight or flee, but knowing neither would avail him against an elf, he 
sank back limply against the wall. 

“The elf was helpless not to pledge himself to the quest – for the sake of 
this man who had forgotten their love,” came the passion-racked voice that 
refused to stop but kept coming in broken, raging torrents.  

“Through dangers unnumbered Trystan fought his way alongside his love 
to the very mouth of hell itself, to protect the man.  And do you know 
what his reward was,” the elf nearly shrieked, “when the quest was over 
and the two were great heroes?  Do you?”  

“Among all the things the two fought for,” he sobbed, “the man fought 
most for the love of a lady, who he married.  And the elf watched with a 
broken heart and yet stayed near his love until he could bear it no longer 
and he began to fade with the weight of his grief.”

A tremor ran through Legolas then that threatened to buckle his knees, 
forcing him to grip more tightly to Aragorn.  Then suddenly, he backed 
away.    

“But I can watch this no more, Aragorn,” said the elf in a low voice.  “I 
will leave these shores for the Undying Lands, before my mother’s words 
can bear fruit.  It is funny, is it not?  That though I have fought to save this 
world, there is naught left in it for me?  
Farewell, my friend. We shall not meet again in this realm.”  

As Legolas said this, he touched his hand to his head and then to his heart, 
sweeping out from it in a final farewell.  In that moment a mist covered 
Aragorn’s eyes and it seemed to him as if nothing of Legolas remained 
before him but a faint afterimage dying in the cool night air.  He reached 
out a tentative hand, let it fall again.  Unchecked, Aragorn’s tears ran 
rivulets down his cheeks.  

“Legolas...”  

The elf turned slowly as if to leave.

“It is... much... that you ask me to believe and accept,” the man spat out 
quickly.  “I don’t know what to think of this story you’ve told me, but I do 
know this, that you have been my strength when my own failed and my 
dearest friend.  You know this,” his voice trailed.  “I have cherished you 
above all others, you and she alone – you mean no less to me.”  

A thin smile twisted the corners of the elf’s mouth and his head nodded 
slightly in acknowledgment.  Before the elf could turn away, Aragorn 
bridged the distance between them and found the back of Legolas’ neck 
with his hand, tilting their foreheads together.

“I am truly sorry I do not love you the way you wish.  I cannot regret my 
love for Arwen, but if a part of my heart could love you now, it would.”

He wrapped his arms around the elf, holding him tightly as if his life 
depended on it and pressing his forehead into the crook of the elf’s 
shoulder and neck, burying it in the silky drapes of hair.  He inhaled.  It 
smelled like newly washed foliage after a summer rain.  Aragorn wanted 
to memorize it, the scent, clean and new - a young, green scent that had 
soothed him to sleep many times in the wild as they lay wrapped together 
under one blanket.  It could not be that this was the last time he partook of 
the strength and grace that was the true beauty of his friend.  How could 
he deal with the loss of one dearer than brother?  And he was indebted for 
so much but had never truly repaid that debt.  Legolas deserved so much 
more than he could give; he must let his friend go.  

But long moments passed, and Aragorn still held the elf to him, long 
enough to let the selfish fear well up in his heart, even as he hated himself 
for that weakness in his blood he was so well aware of.  He looked up at 
Legolas, his arms still wrapped about the elf tightly.     

“Is there nothing I can do to make you stay?” he said.  “Must it be you or 
Arwen?”

The elf looked at him as if he were daft.

“Aye, but there is no choice,” he said.  “You cannot abandon her now.”

Releasing Legolas, the man paced to the balcony rail and gripped it 
tightly, leaning slightly over.

“What about what I want?” he retorted.  “Perhaps I am tired of always 
being noble.  No one has ever asked me what I want.  Not Elrond.  Not 
you.”

Legolas’ brow furrowed in on itself at this.  The man had a point.  Was it 
not what he himself had said to Lord Elrond all those years before?   Was 
he wrong then not to give Aragorn a choice, to let him be a mere pawn in 
the hands fate?  His face tilted up to the sky in question.  Earendil shone 
down from the far horizon.  Sighing, Legolas steeled himself and turned 
the man around to face him.

“What would you give for the chance to keep me near?” he said.  “Think 
well on it, Aragorn.”

“For the chance?”  Aragorn looked puzzled at this.  “If there is ought in 
my kingdom that might ease your heart, you know it is yours.  I give you 
my word; you have only to ask.  Speak on,” he urged.

“One night,” replied Legolas.  “Give me one night with you, and mayhap I 
can teach your heart to remember, though your mind does not.”

A stunned look passed over Aragorn’s face, his mouth hanging open in a 
way that would have been comical under other circumstances.  This was 
evidently not what the man had in mind.

“You are a king, Aragorn.  Kings take lovers.  It is your right.” 
 
“But... it is my anniversary,” stammered Aragorn, “and I,” he mumbled to 
his boots, “haveneverlainwithaman.  AtleastnotthatIremember.” 

“Would you go back on your word?  You promised me anything.”

 “So I did,” said Aragorn.  “So I did.”
___________________________

Header info:  See Chpt. 1

Rating: NC-17 this chapter!  Last chance to turn back before the sweet 
A/L debauchery.

Warning: Brief mention of A/A het.  It’ll be ok - I promise.  We’ll get 
through it together.

Milady’s Note:  I owe a great debt of gratitude with this chapter to that 
inestimable author, Elfscribe, who invited me to play with the big kids.  If 
she hadn’t been looking out for me, Chpt. 4 would have fallen completely 
flat and made no sense whatsoever plot-wise.  I also bow to Christine 
Fireheart and Larien Elengasse, delightful authors and careful betas who 
graciously lent their sharp eyes to this chapter as well.  I’ve been so well 
looked-out for!  Also, special thanks go to Elisa, The Muse.  The image of 
Legolas’ luscious behind was inspired by Elisa’s invaluable visual 
contribution to the fandom, her A/L manip, “Lover,” at Lassegalen’s 
Laire.  How d’ya like that, Elisa?  Your vision of Legolas’ butt is an 
artistic treasure! *Huggles*  Also also, special thanks go to the Aniron 
archivist, May, for inspiring me to revise the love scene.  Because Legolas 
does not belong on top.  Unless he’s riding Aragorn’s member.  *ducks as 
tomatoes are thrown*  
Summary:  “This is the night that I will be made - or undone quite.” – Iago 
in Othello.
Chapter 4: One Night 
After departing from Legolas for a short while to take leave of his lady 
with his humblest apologies and pleading the dire need of his presence that 
night at a dying friend’s side, Aragorn wound his way through the many 
dark corridors of Minas Tirith, back again to Legolas’ chambers.  He had 
not exactly lied, but he was nevertheless certain that a special place was at 
the moment being prepared for him in hell.   
His hand hesitated in the air, but before it could fall, the door swung 
inward and there stood Legolas – who grabbed Aragorn’s shoulder and 
pulled him inside quickly.  The elf stepped backward then to face the man.  
It was hard not to notice how the elf was now attired.  The cobalt grey 
leggings molded to his curves as if they’d been painted on, and what the 
man supposed passed for a tunic rippled and swayed lightly over the 
contours of his chest and arms as he moved, an airy blue silk.  The elf’s 
nipples were peaked through the flimsy fabric.   Legolas quirked an 
eyebrow at the man.
“I prefer something more comfortable in the evenings,” the elf stated off-
handedly.
Right.  
Forcing his eyes to settle elsewhere, Aragorn let his gaze wander the 
room.  Dominating the room was a large canopied bed with sheer, chiffon 
curtains, and sweet-burning oil lamps hung from the ceiling around it.  In 
the middle of the room stood the balcony arch, framed with drapes that 
fluttered like his heart in the cool evening breeze, and the scent of lilacs 
wafted through them.  A writing desk of rich cherry wood stood next to 
the window, some parchments scattered on it, gold embossed books 
stacked neatly on its shelf, a porcelain vase of lilies – so like his friend, 
their natural beauty standing out amidst their costly surroundings.  The 
light was dim in the room, shed only by a few artfully arranged candles 
and a crackling fire in the hearth.  So many elegant rooms in his castle, he 
had never taken much note of this one.  Simple and elegant like the elf, but 
it must have been chosen for the view they’d shared earlier.
Aragorn allowed himself to be led by the hand to the rug in front of the 
fireplace, settling down as comfortably as he could and inhaling deeply to 
calm his quick, shallow breaths and the thrumming blood in his ears. 
Legolas left him then to fetch more wine, and he was grateful for it. He 
would need it. 
Glorious as his friend was, he had never before looked upon him with lust.  
He had studied Legolas with objective admiration in the detached way an 
artist would a painting- the pleasure of his mind’s eye having already been 
fixed on the beauteous Evenstar.  But then, he had never actually looked 
with lust on her either, more in worship, lending a chaste quality to their 
lovemaking.  If he had gone to her tonight, she would have welcomed him 
to her bed in quiet obeisance, just as she had on the first night of their 
marriage.  She would lie still on her back, silently, allowing him to love 
her as best he could while she waited for his completion.  He could not 
imagine her igniting with the passion he so secretly longed for in a lover 
as he stroked himself in the dark watches of the night, alone in his 
chamber as he often slept. He could not imagine her taking his need into 
her mouth and moaning around it until his whole body quaked with the 
tension and unbearable need. No, and he was not sure he wanted that from 
her.  
Legolas, he was certain, would do that.  He was impassioned in combat 
and would likely be so in bed. He thought of the times he had seen his 
friend disrobe to bathe, the lean, muscular curves of his chest that tapered 
to a delicate waist, the full, rounded buttocks that enticed one to cup them 
and taste. Any other man in his place now, who had sense enough and 
eyes to see, would surely fall on his knees and thank the Valar for his 
fortune. But the thought of his friend touching him intimately, the elf 
thrusting those pert buttocks into his entrance while Legolas’ sweat-
slicked stomach glided over Aragorn’s back, moving on top of him... 
Aragorn’s breathing quickened again, beads of moisture forming on his 
brow. The Valar help him - he had given his word.  ‘For no one else would 
I let this be done,’ thought the man to himself.  If there was a chance he 
could keep Legolas...  What else was he to do but submit to the elf’s touch 
and save his friend from dying of grief or sailing West, leaving him 
forever?  He needed Legolas, would always need him.  And what secrets 
did he not know of himself?  His view of the elf was already beginning to 
blur seductively, confusing him with a challenge to everything he had 
always thought he had known about their relationship.  ‘For no one else,’ 
he thought again.
Legolas chose this opportune moment to return with the wine.  
“Drink,” he said as he eased down next to the man.  Aragorn complied 
with alacrity, downing the glass in one long draught.  
“Have another glass and come sit here in front of me,” said Legolas, who 
was met with a tentative look. “You are too tense,” he replied to the 
unasked question. “Let me work some of the knots out of your shoulders. 
Legolas spread his legs and Aragorn complied, settling between.  Panic 
seized Aragorn’s chest tightly and his breath froze as the archer’s arms 
enclosed him. The nimble fingers began slowly, slowly unlacing the ties 
of his tunic. With effort he willed his arms to rise and allowed the shirt to 
be brought over his head, leaving his upper body exposed to Legolas’ 
hands and gaze. He could feel the heat radiating from the elf’s chest, so 
near to his back. He drank more wine.  
The fingers danced lightly at first along his shoulders and then kneaded 
with firm pressure, building into a slow, soothing rhythm. He had to 
admit, it did feel good.  Despite himself, Aragorn felt his shoulders 
relaxing into the elf’s touch, heard little moaning sighs escaping his lips as 
those knowing hands worked him.  Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps the 
effect of those practiced hands on his back; whatever it was, the man was 
surprised by the bold question he heard himself ask.  
“What were we like when we were together?”   
Aragorn could not help being curious, despite the lingering fear of his 
current situation that still licked at the corners of the man’s mind.  The elf 
chuckled softly at this, a light silvery sound that was good to hear once 
again.  
“My friend, for that brief moment in time we were like fire meeting ice, 
our passion sublimating into a whole new state of being uniquely our 
own.”
“That sounds lovely,” said Aragorn, “but, hard for me to imagine.”   
Despite his protestation of ignorance, an array of disturbing - yet stirring - 
possibilities shot unbidden through Aragorn’s mind.  He felt the red heat 
rising in his cheeks, but he just had to know.  “What do you mean?” he 
said.
Legolas leaned in close to the man’s ear, silken hair falling over Aragorn’s 
chest.  “I mean, my friend,” the elf whispered slowly, “that when I found 
you that day by the waterfall, I loved you on its bank many times, long 
and languid, and then with increasing need until Ithil rose high in the arc 
of heaven and I had wrenched fevered screams from your lips again and 
again.”  
Images like the afterglow of a dream, of limbs tangled in moonlight and 
hands sliding over flesh, flitted through Aragorn’s mind.  He tried to 
clutch at them before they fled like wisps of pipe smoke on an evening 
breeze.  Their whole affair was suddenly becoming very real to him.  It 
was confusing, frightening, but also... intriguing.  And he had been the 
submissive one?  
“You make me sound as if I were easily bent to your will,” Aragorn said 
with a hint of amusement.
“Well, you did bend over easily enough... my little man-slut,” the elf 
replied, only to be summarily slapped on the thigh in answer.  
“Really,” said Legolas, “I could sense your desire for me the moment we 
met.  And as I came upon you that day by the river bank, I know you 
would have promised on your knees anything I asked for the chance to 
touch me.”
“Oh, gods,” Aragorn groaned in mock disgust, failing to keep the grin out 
of his voice.
The elf’s hands smoothed down his back firmly now, then traced a light 
path up along his sides, coming down the center of his back once more 
and gliding lower. Aragorn did not know when Legolas had removed his 
own tunic; all he knew now was that it felt good to lean back into the elf’s 
warmth and let him work magic with his hands.  
 “Do you wish to hear more?” the elf whispered into Aragorn’s ear, 
caressing it with his breath and the barest brush of his lips.
“Yes,” came the trembling, hardly audible reply.
“The forest sang for us, Aragorn, as we kissed deeply and I lay you down, 
covering you with my body, exploring with hands and mouth all your lithe 
contours, learning the feel of you, the way you taste, your unique scent, 
like warm earth after a summer rain.” 
Outside, larks sang the fading of evening, and Earendil shone brightly 
above the horizon in silent agreement with the elf.
 “When our bodies joined for the first time and you wrapped your legs 
around my waist, I was overwhelmed and lost myself completely in you.  
The world melted around us as we moved together and our gazes locked.   
Can you imagine the beauty of looking into each other’s eyes the whole 
time we made love?  Your lust-blackened eyes seemed to widen 
impossibly and your mouth fell open as I stroked your pleasure between 
us.”
The man’s lungs labored to draw breath.  He felt his eyes slowly closing 
as those lithe hands stroked along his biceps and the warm stream of 
whisperings kept flooding his mind with images.   
“Your lids lowered to half mast when I found that secret place deep in 
your body... and kept driving into it over and over.  And I have never 
heard any music so sweet as when we climaxed together and my name 
was born on your lips, proclaiming your undying love for me.”      
“But that was long ago.”  Sadness had crept back into Legolas’ voice.  
“Though you do not now, you found me beautiful once.” 
“I still find you beautiful.  And if I were blind, I would still find you 
beautiful.”  
The words came before Aragorn had a chance to think on them - but yes, 
they were true.  What elvish bewitchment he was under, he cared not.  If 
he turned his head to look, he was sure the elf’s eyes would sear into his 
soul and pool heat lower in his body.
Those strong hands slid to his biceps and pulled him back flush against 
Legolas’ chest, warmth in front of him from the fire, and warmth 
enclosing him from behind.  And then, a moist heat replaced the elf’s 
hands, Legolas' lips pressing into his shoulder and mouthing in a way that 
sent a sudden bolt of pleasure through every part of the man’s body.  All 
conscious thought fled.  There were only soft kisses on that sensitive 
place, the warmth of Legolas’ chest and arms encircling him.  Aragorn 
was only vaguely aware of his head tilting back to rest on the elf’s 
shoulder, the now deeper groans that must be coming from him, the hands 
as they trailed lower down his front, massaging the inside of his thighs 
before one hand slid slowly upward and caressed his hardened need. The 
man’s eyes opened wide and he sucked in a gasping breath at the feel of 
the delicious hand encircling him.  He arched into it unconsciously, 
begging.  The hand squeezed again.  
His whole body was wrapped in velvety warmth.  The man writhed 
against Legolas’ chest, felt hair like corn silk brushing his cheek as he 
turned his head into a pillowy shoulder and moaned his pleasure.  No one 
had ever touched him like this.  He ground himself back into the elf’s 
welcoming heat, and something hard pressed into his back. The man 
snapped upright and leaned forward.  
‘How?’ he wondered to himself.  He had allowed his friend to suckle his 
flesh.  He moaned for his friend as the elf stroked his desire.  ‘How had he 
lost himself to this elf?’  And it felt so amazing.  So easy, so natural, but - 
Arwen.   
“Give in to me, Meleth,” breathed Legolas softly, a firm caress to 
Aragorn’s shaft emphasizing the command. “Let me give you pleasure.” 
Aragorn turned his head then to his new lover, whose eyes had gone a 
deep shade of indigo. His own eyes closed.  There was a soft pressure on 
his lips as the pad of Legolas’ thumb dragged slowly across them.  It was 
soon replaced by the elf’s mouth moving sweetly against his.   Had he 
ever felt his heart stop like this, and all the world fall away around him?  
All that he knew centered on the sensation of those silken lips flitting 
against his, then on the honeyed tongue coaxing him open, stroking him 
inside even as the elf’s hand moved over the cloth of his breeches, on the 
vibration of moans passing between them as they devoured each other. He 
was fast losing all reason as every inch of his mouth was painted with the 
taste of Legolas. 
Then hands and tongue slowed as the elf pulled gently away. Legolas 
stood and offered his hand to Aragorn, who rose and trailed behind him, 
moving like one who has just awakened from sleep. Through his daze, he 
saw what that they had moved toward - the bed.  The king’s eyes widened.  
Knowing full well what was expected, he climbed atop and lay down 
obediently, trying to keep his eyes from clenching shut against witnessing 
what a part of his mind still held out from accepting, that he was about to 
betray his wife, that his best friend, another male, was about to take him.  
He felt the bed dip, heard those satin sheets sliding, and then there was the 
warmth of Legolas’ whole length pressed against his side.  
 “Shh, Meleth,” Legolas murmured into his ear along with other soft 
Elvish endearments meant to soothe him as the elf would calm a 
frightened colt he intended to ride.  His hand began rubbing circles along 
the man’s chest before trailing lower to touch Aragorn’s waning arousal.  
With those long and languorous strokes to his member, that desirous 
mouth caressing his ear, tasting him...  resistance was beyond the bearing 
of mortal men.  The gods forgive him.  The part of the king that still held 
back caved in with a resounding echo that welled up from deep in the 
man’s chest, parting his lips in an anguished cry.
He was being kissed deeply now as his lover’s deft fingers began working 
at the laces of his breeches. In moments his shaft sprang free and was 
stroked again by a masterful hand.  Aragorn arched into the touch, then 
moaned at the loss as Legolas slid his tongue down his body, leaving a wet 
trail. The elf delved into his navel and swirled around inside it.
“You still like that,” said the elf with an almost smug smile. “I remember 
well how to give you pleasure.” 
“You will drive me mad with your words alone.”
“Oh, I will drive you mad with more than words, Melethron.”
Aragorn quickly acquiesced as Legolas raised the man’s hips and pulled 
down his leggings. He could not stop himself from rising on his elbows to 
look at the golden head now poised inches above the tip of his shaft. Gods, 
it was a maddening sight. How could he ever have wanted anything but 
that luscious mouth wrapped around his length?  The elf looked up with a 
devilish smile.
“If I remember rightly, I can make you scream with one swift movement.”   
The thought alone was nearly enough to undo Aragorn, but it was only a 
shadow of the reality as the elf bent his head to the tip and took his whole 
length in a quick swallow, wrenching the desired cry from his throat.  
Aragorn had thought their kisses inflaming, but they were nothing 
compared to the all-consuming intimacy of this.  The reality of the act was 
beyond his imagination, the heated mouth working up and down in a 
steady rhythm, the beautiful head rising and falling between his legs as 
Legolas’ tongue stroked his flesh. His knuckles clenched around the bed 
sheets and twisted in frustration as he felt the elf's hands restrain his 
bucking hips. He was so near to release he could cry with the want of it - 
but that teasing elf stopped his movements and backed slowly off the 
man’s weeping arousal.  
“Ah,” groaned the elf, “you still taste heady on my tongue.”
The man found out in a moment what Legolas now had in mind.  The elf 
slipped his hands under Aragorn's buttocks, canting his hips upwards until 
he felt a warm wetness begin lapping at his entrance, swirling around the 
sensitive flesh as if savoring it.  
“When I used to lick you thusly,” said the elf in a low, smoldering voice, 
“you keened for me wantonly as you are doing now.”  
“Oh, yes – I believe it,” breathed the man.  “But oh please, for the love of 
Eru don’t stop!”
The elf chuckled.  “Still impatient.”
The golden head bent again to its task, the tongue soothing, circling, 
teasing for long minutes before finally beginning to push slowly inside 
him. Aragorn whimpered at the intrusion and felt tears leak from the 
corners of his eyes, but the tongue stopped abruptly, and after a few 
moments, he willed himself to relax.  Soon, he felt the movement begin 
again inside him, swirling around in slow, widening arcs and caressing his 
opening like the seductive movements of Legolas’ tongue inside his own 
mouth earlier.  Yes, he wanted this.  He wanted it badly, the warm flesh 
thrusting in and out of him, giving him a shallow fucking, driving him 
wild with the need to be filled completely. 
 “Please, A’mael!” he fairly screamed.  “Now!”
Aragorn ached at the absence of the skillful tongue, but it was soon 
replaced by an oil-slicked finger that slid in and out smoothly, promising 
greater pleasure to come.  The second finger burned a path through 
Aragorn, but the pleasure-mingled pain only inflamed his desire.   
“Ah...” said the elf, “you are so tight for me, Meleth.  Just like I 
remember, like our first time,” he breathed, with a wistful smile 
overlaying the huskiness of his voice.
Then a strangled cry was torn from Aragorn’s chest.  That spot Legolas 
spoke of -  the elf brushed it with his fingers buried so deeply inside him, 
setting mad sparks of light dancing behind his eyes, soothing away the 
pain with a cascade of pleasure that sent his fingers clawing into the elf’s 
shoulders and hair, urging Legolas on.
“That’s it,” said the elf. “Cry for me, Meleth.  I want to hear you.”
“Please!”  Another brush of fingers, more insistent.  “I need!”
Then, the fingers were gone, and something much larger pressed against 
the man’s entrance.  
“Relax, my love,” whispered Legolas as he lowered his chest to Aragorn 
and claimed his mouth in a searing kiss, thrusting his tongue into the man 
just as he meant to breach him.
Breaking the kiss, the elf asked, “Are you sure you are ready?” 
 “Yes.  I do want this,” breathed Aragorn.  “Have me.”
“Oh, A’mael... I never thought to be blessed twice in my life with a night 
such as this.”    
The sight of the man below him aching with need and finally looking up 
with complete trust was enough.  Legolas wrapped his lover’s legs around 
his waist, the better to mount the man.
He pushed slowly forward and breached the tight muscle, heard his lover’s 
sharp intake of breath.  Though open now and nearly black with desire, the 
man’s eyes were also glazed with pain.  Legolas sighed.  No, this was not 
how he wanted it... and there was something more perfect than this.
“No,” said the elf as he withdrew from Aragorn, who was now gripping 
the elf’s biceps and trying to pull Legolas down upon him.
The elf smoothed his hand across the man’s dismayed brow.  “What I 
mean,” he said as he leaned down, mouthing the words silkily against 
Aragorn’s ear, “is that it would be far sweeter to give myself to you, for I 
have not yet done so and would feel you fill me.”
Aragorn shuddered at the words, could only nod as he struggled to draw 
breath, a most gratifying picture. 
Legolas drew himself up and straddled the reclining man, positioning 
himself above the straining shaft and feeling the tip of the member 
pressing deliciously against his tight entrance; he hadn’t been prepared, 
but he needed Aragorn now.  The elf’s neck arched back, straining as he 
sunk down upon his lover’s thick flesh and it split him almost unbearably, 
as if he had never been penetrated before.  He looked back down at 
Aragorn, whose face was the picture of ecstasy, his mouth hanging open in 
a silent groan, his head thrown back, and then Aragorn’s eyes were upon 
him again, blazing with lust.  The elf’s hips rose and lowered slowly, 
rising and sinking on the shaft in an indecently wanton rhythm, driven by 
those burning eyes to take a little more of the man each time until he had 
ripped a loud grown from Aragorn’s throat as the man was sheathed fully 
in Legolas.  “Perfect,” the elf barely whispered.  “I love you.” 
Legolas set a steady rhythm, building in intensity and rocking the man 
towards the bed’s headboard, riding and riding the man’s hardness with 
increasing abandon as his lover began bucking below him.  
The sculpted hips rising and falling on his organ, sleek chest gleaming 
with a sheen of sweat, the heady smell of sex so thick on Legolas’ skin 
Aragorn could taste it as he pulled the elf down and tongued the moist 
throat, and that tight little mouth of the elf’s entrance throbbing around his 
swollen length - the elf was a vision of passion in bed.  The man was lying 
with a debauched god.  
“Ah Legolas,” Aragorn growled lowly, guttural. “You are unspeakably 
luscious.”    
“And you were meant to fill me,” came the breathless reply, the elf 
panting, his eyes glazed in delirious rapture.  
Aragorn ran his hands up and down Legolas’ quivering thighs, felt the 
elf’s hot little channel tighten impossibly around him, milking him 
desperately and sending a burst of excruciating pleasure throughout his 
whole body.    
And dimly through the silent yet deafening explosion of pleasure, Aragorn 
felt the elf’s hips move into their final, ecstatic rhythm.  He snaked a hand 
between them to fist Legolas’ arousal in time to his thrusts.  The elf’s 
breath was coming ragged now.   
“Come for me, Meleth!” Legolas desperately pleaded as Aragorn 
increased his strokes to the elf’s arousal and the elf worked himself harder 
on the shaft impaling him, forcing maddening friction against his center of 
pleasure.  “I am overwhelmed in you – I cannot last!”
Soon, Aragorn felt the tension building in his core, the imminent release.  
His back arched nearly off the bed as he climaxed in violent convulsions 
deep inside his lover, crying the elf’s name in a drawn out howl that died 
slowly on his lips. 
“Ah, yes,” the elf moaned, “to hear you again... glorious... like a dream.”
A few more tight fists of the elf’s member, and Legolas followed the man, 
throwing back his head and loudly crying to Elbereth as blinding pleasure 
burst in his loins and shot through every vein in his body.  
Passion exhausted, the elf crumpled limply upon Aragorn’s chest, 
murmuring nonsensically in his own tongue, something about it being 
even better.  
Aragorn groaned at the loss as Legolas raised himself off the man’s sex 
and rolled next to him on the bed, but he was immediately soothed by 
limbs draped lazily over his own.  A hand came up to tenderly brush a 
stray lock of hair back behind the man’s ear, and the elf brought their 
mouths together in a gentle, lingering kiss.
When the elf pulled back, a distinctly smug smile played on his lips.  
“Now, it was not so bad to make love to me, was it?”  
Outside, on the far horizon, Earendil shone brightly through the balcony 
arch.  _____________________
Header info:  See Chpt. 1

Milady’s notes:  I bow low to that wickedly delightful author Khylaren 
and the archivist Aliyah (of LBES fame) for suggestions with the 
denouement of the story.  Also, there’s a little hint of W. B. Yeats in the 
second paragraph.  Cookies for you if you get it.  And wow, folks, I’m 
nearly ready to implode with the pressure of my own angst.  You didn’t 
think my melodramatic tendencies would allow things to be resolved so 
easily with a little sex, did you?  Well, ok, a lot of sex, but still...

Summary:  “More light and light it grows, more dark and dark our woes.” 
- Romeo


Chapter 5: In the Half-Light

Aragorn shifted in his sleep, a suspicious moan escaping the man’s parted 
lips.  The elf noted his lover’s rigid length pressed against his thigh, and 
smiled.  The man was obviously replaying the previous night’s events.  

How long Legolas had watched his love sleep he could not say, but the 
first whisperings of morning were beginning to creep into the room, 
softening the shadows into the grey in-between of night and light and the 
half light.  He had prayed to Elbereth for the dawn to remain at bay, for 
the dark to stretch on into endless night, cloaking the lovers in its secret 
embrace, but the lightening of the hour came inevitably like the certainty 
that autumn would follow their summer.  Soon, soon, too soon he would 
leave his lover’s side, or his lover leave his.  One or the other would 
happen he knew, such was the nature of Arda that everything beautiful 
passes away.

The elf tucked a stray tendril behind Aragorn’s ear and then pulled the 
sheets further up over the man’s chest.  Legolas’ eyes half closed in 
contentment with the view, even as his protectiveness of his lover kept 
him awake. 

What had the elf done last night but undo all those years of purposeful 
sacrifice?  In one drunken night of transcendent love-making, those years 
were gone, his decision to spare Aragorn the pain of separation with one 
fateful bite of an apple, all gone.  And the honor of both was lost.  
‘Arwen,’ the elf nearly groaned allowed.  He had not been thinking, only 
feeling, letting the wine give vent to long-kept frustrations.  He had cared 
for no one but Aragorn last night, and in the growing light of day he 
wished he could not care for anyone else now.  

Legolas stretched a slender finger out to lightly trace a path along the 
man’s lips.  They were weathered, and yet somehow softened by their 
experience.  In this sleep, the toll of mortal years seemed to fall away from 
Aragorn’s face, leaving it with the supple glow of the youth Legolas had 
known all those years before.  His love was beautiful, glorious, as if the elf 
had shared a part of his inner light with the man.  This was how he wished 
to remember Aragorn, one and at peace with the world and himself.

Legolas brushed the barest whisper of a gentle kiss to the man’s mouth, 
but not gentle enough, for Aragorn’s lips came alive under the elf’s touch.  
The man stirred and opened sleepy eyes.

“Legolas,” said Aragorn with a dreamy smile as his hand rose up to cup 
the elf’s cheek. “My heart remembers.  How could it not?  I do love you, 
Legolas, my elf, I love you.”  

The windows to his soul were soft and warm with love as Aragorn brought 
their mouths together then in a slow, tender kiss.  Tears began to seep 
from the corners of Legolas’ closed eyes, and Aragorn wrapped his arms 
around the elf, rolling his lover on top of him.

Licking the tears away, the man asked, “Why do you weep, love?” as he 
stroked the elf’s cheek.

“Because under Earendil’s light, all things are possible, but in the light of 
day, you are king, and you are married, and I haven’t tears enough for the 
wrong I’ve done you, for the position I’ve put you in by forcing you to 
choose.  In my wine I was weak and selfish not to care for Arwen.”

A stricken look passed over Aragorn’s face.  “Is that not for me to decide?  
Was that not what last night was about?”

“I will not be a kept lover, and even if you would choose me over her, you 
cannot just send her away now - though if she knew of our love she would 
sail West, I am sure.  She is so much nobler than either of us.”

Aragorn could no longer meet the elf’s gaze and looked down at their 
chests pressed tightly together.  “I need this day to ponder what is to be 
done, A’maelamin, but I will come to you tonight when Ithil rides high in 
the arc of heaven.  But whatever we do, I promise we will make the 
decision together this time.”

******************

In the soft orange light of the hour before supper, a hunched figure sat at a 
writing desk facing a window, occasionally signing, stamping, and sealing 
the mess that had lain in front of him for hours.  Outside, a warm summer 
breeze that hinted of lilies drifted in past his cheek, drawing a little sigh 
from his lips and a faraway look.  He rested his head upon his hand as he 
stared out the window, giving up all pretense of trying to work.

In another part of the castle, the same breeze whipped long strands back 
from a golden elf’s face as he sat unmoving on the rail of a balcony high 
above Minas Tirith.

Several corridors away, a dark beauty in rich wine-colored velvets lay 
sprawled on her bed with heaving chest and a hand clasped over her heart.
   
----------------------------------------------

Header info: See Chpt. 1

Milady’s note: There’s a quote from the Anglo-Saxon poem “The 
Seafarer” in the second paragraph.  And a hint of “Princess Bride” near the 
end of the story.  Cookies, anyone? 

Summary: ‘Death cannot stop true love – all it can do is delay it for a little 
while.’
                                                                                  - Wesley from “The 
Princess Bride.”

Chapter 6:  Forgive us Our Sins

The waters lapped at the little coracle as the prow dipped and bobbed on 
the waves.   Ragged shreds of clouds could not obscure the haloed moon 
that shone a straight path of gold upon the water, stretching westward to 
the Undying Lands.  As a mother would cradle a new-born babe, Arda 
rocked the elf gently in her soothing sea-arms, in a tender embrace like but 
unlike a comforting bower of trees.  And Legolas allowed himself to 
remember, to remember a night more than a hundred years passed.

Aragorn had come as he’d promised that night after their lovemaking and 
found Legolas still sitting on his balcony perch as he had all day, but the 
elf had not turned to greet his love.  In the frosty light of Ithil, he had felt 
like he’d been set adrift alone in a world blown clear of love.  

After a stretch of silence between himself and the man, Legolas found 
himself scooped into strong arms and set down to stand in front of 
Aragorn.  His hand’s were brought to the man’s chest and held there.

Long minutes passed as they looked into each other’s eyes, divining 
without words what was in the other’s mind, until finally all that was left 
to do was to give and hear the explanations.

“Legolas,” said Aragorn, casting his eyes to the floor.  “I went to the lady.  
And she knew.  Even before I had opened my mouth.”     

“Of course.”

“She said to me that she was not so much nobler than the both of us.  She 
knew, Legolas.  She knew all those years ago as she prepared to leave 
Lorien and meet me for the first time in Rivendell.  Her grandmother-
mistress led Arwen to her mirror of clear water, and Arwen looked, and 
saw you loving me under the moon.  On arriving, she said that Lord 
Elrond assured her that all was well, that he had washed away our 
memories, and so she acquiesced because she wanted me for herself.  
Though she knew,” Aragorn said in a hitched voice.  

“And she knew that part of my heart would remember my golden lover 
and never be hers.  She wished she could hate me, but she knew.  And so, 
she said, she had set the stage for our betrayal but that she had played a 
greater part.  Her betrayal was far greater than ours could have ever been.  
She knowingly prevented true love, and for this, she said, she is punished.  
All are punished.”

His own he could stand, but the elf could not bear the sight of tears 
streaking a path down Aragorn’s cheeks.  He wiped them away gently 
with the pads of his thumbs and cupped the man’s face upward to look at 
him.
 
“Does she love you still, Aragorn?  Will she still have you?”

“Yes.”

“You must be kind to her, Aragorn, and both must learn to forgive.  We 
have all suffered enough.  You must remember why you married her, for 
part of you loves her still, flawed as she is, as we all are.”   The elf’s next 
words were barely a whisper.  “I ask only one thing for myself, for your 
forgiveness, that you remember me without bitterness.”  

“A thousand times granted, Meleth-nin.  And unburden your heart of this 
guilt - for all the pain it has caused, I would still have you remind me 
again of our past and love me once more.  Our time I would not give up 
for the world.”  

Aragorn’s hands firmly held the elf’s face then with the fierce 
determination to be understood.  

“You know that in my heart I choose you,” he said.

“I know.  And may you know that I will carry my love for you to a place 
where it will ever grow green.”   

He had not told Aragorn that no grey ship would bear the elf west over 
water till his lover’s passing.

In the moment that followed his last words to his love, Legolas knew that 
the meeting of their mouths surpassed in purity all other kisses that had 
ever been recorded in the history of Arda. 

A fresh gust of wind billowed his sails, and Legolas returned to himself, 
for the moment was over.  The corners of the elf’s mouth turned upward 
slowly, and tears of relief slid down his cheeks as he spread his arms wide 
and released to the waters the great weight he had carried near two 
hundred years, receiving in that moment a glowing benediction as the 
moon wreathed him in light.

For certain, Aragorn had known the pain the elf carried, of separation, of 
remembering what was and dreaming of what would never be.  But surely 
Elbereth had granted his lover the same peace he had found?  This 
separation was a pain they could both cherish, a decision they had made 
together.  Bittersweet, yes, but he and the man had both remembered, and 
the memory of their love was the fire that warmed the rest of their days, 
strengthening the man in the face of life’s onslaught, and in Legolas’ heart 
set to flourish in Valinor.  Their loving was as one ripple forever 
stretching onwards in the waters of time, Aragorn’s own immortality.

And who knew what fate awaited the second-born of Eru, to what place 
men went after they passed from this world?  Though the elves sailed west 
to their eternal home or else passed in death to Mandos’ halls, and naught 
was known of man’s final destination, surely the two races would not 
forever be separated where bonds of love were strong. 

The elf steered his wandering prow back again towards the horizon.  
Earendil, The Mariner, that ancient symbol of hope, shown a glimmering 
path of light along the dark waters ahead, and the elf steered his course by 
it.