Part One
He was as beautiful as he was the day he started on the Ring Quest, as bright
and as nimble. He knew Queen Arwen was too, her long reign and many children
having taken nothing from her fair countenance and lithe form.
But time is ever a robber of Man, and Legolas winced in concern, hearing the
painful, strained breathing of the man lying immobilised on the bed.
Aragorn had been gloriously handsome in his youth, and the hawk like features
had aged well. But they were even craggier now, the well made limbs shrunken
with age, and the curly dark hair that had so softened the sharp, masculine
angles of his face was now less abundant and coloured an almost fragile looking
grey.
Legolas could smell the gangrene, and he knew from the awkward angle of the
King's leg that the broken bone was not healing. Even if Elrond had been here,
there was little the great healer could have done.
Aragorn was old and he was dying.
His mind was still fully with him, but Legolas suspected even a heart as mighty
as Aragorn's was hoping for some much deserved rest and ease after a lifetime of
hard struggle holding and healing lands so ravished by the war.
Aragorn had always said he would like to choose death before he fell insensible
from his throne, but Arwen's pleading and her timeless beauty always made him
reconsider. Then the riding accident, which had struck a terrible blow to both
the great king's pride and body. A blow from which he might not recover.
"Legolas, do not cry over me. I am not dead yet," Aragorn said. The force was
still there, but the voice was a shadow of the one that had commanded armies and
ruled so well for so long.
"Nor will you be soon, I am sure," Legolas tried to be optimistic.
"My leg is rotting off me, Legolas. The stink is profound," Aragorn snapped.
Legolas's face expressed all his sorrow at the recognition of the truth. He
looked down to hide his grief and pain—he had never been a man of fine
words.
"Forgive me for my harshness, my friend. It is just that I am so very tired,"
Aragorn said softly.
Legolas moved to sit down in the chair by the bed, occupying a seat that Arwen
had only recently vacated. The stench of the rot was terrible indeed to his
elven senses, but he was a warrior, and better able to bear it than the queen.
He grasped Aragorn's hand in his own, and bought it to his lips.
The two sat quietly for a while.
"She loves him doesn't she?" Aragorn asked abruptly.
Legolas started.
Aragorn chuckled grimly. "She is not ready for death, Legolas. I may be old but
I am not blind. I have not been a husband to her in years, and her new suitor is
beautiful, my friend. So handsome and brave and noble, he is almost as great as
his son."
Here the old king squeezed Legolas's hand.
"I never had the right to ask her for the next life, I have been blessed enough
with this one with her by my side," Aragorn said, his voice tinged with quiet
pleasure and joy, and only just a hint of regret.
"I am sorry, Aragorn, but my father never intended for such passion to grow, and
I am sure that Arwen would not turn from you now, no matter how great the
temptation," Legolas said.
"Love chooses us, Legolas, we do not choose who to love. You would know, would
you not, you and your Elf Friend," Aragorn smiled warmly at the elf, who flushed
with pleasure still at the thought of Gimli.
"Take your good friend over the sea to Valinor, Legolas, and take her with you
when I die," Aragorn said.
"But," Legolas started to object.
"I know we promised in the first bloom of our love that she would follow me into
death, that we might be united in the afterlife of Men. But it is the after
world of men. An elf never had a real place there, and she has kin here,
a
life here, a lover here," Aragorn said.
"My father would not be so dishonourable, or so bold. They are not lovers,
Aragorn," Legolas said emphatically.
"But they should be. It would hurt me deeply, Legolas, if she followed me into
death out of duty and a desire to keep the promise of our fevered youthful years
together. We are not in love that way anymore, and you must make sure to care
for her when I am gone. Let me give her the gift that she needs Legolas,
even
if she feels she may not want it now. Let me give her the freedom to return to
her people; for all the years we have loved each other," Aragorn said, some of
the old force and fire back in his eyes and age enfeebled voice.
"She will not leave you now," Legolas said, his eyes beginning to fill, even as
in his heart he knew the truth of Aragorn's words.
"She will if I ask her. She will return to her people for me," Aragorn replied
to the unasked question. "Promise me, Legolas. Promise me you will not let her
fade into death after me. I would sooner die on an Uruk Hai sword than to know I
have robbed her of her happiness."
Legolas nodded, kissing the hand he still grasped. "I promise you this,
Aragorn."
"I have failed him," Arwen said, her voice steady despite the tears streaming
down her face.
"I love him still, but I could never lie to him, he has such wisdom. Each day
that passes I long for my kin, for the peace of the trees, for the whisper of
the forests, for arms that are not his. Oh, Legolas, does this make me evil?"
Arwen asked.
"No," Legolas said quietly. He did not know what else to say. The grief in his
heart was heavy, but a part of him sang with joy knowing that his father,
Thranduil, who had mourned the death of his mother for centuries, would know
happiness again.
"He has many friends waiting for him beyond death, Arwen. And he will be happy
hunting orcs, drinking ale, smoking, hunting and laughing, without the burden of
fate and empire on his shoulders," Legolas said.
"Are you so sure the after life of men exists?" Arwen asked.
"I must believe it, or my tears would flood this place to think that Aragorn
might die—forever," Legolas replied, his voice thick with unhappy emotion.
"At least, he believes in it, and this gives him comfort," Legolas continued,
then fell silent.
"How many more days, Legolas?" Arwen asked, the sobs coming at last.
"Soon," Legolas said, and wrapped his arms around her.
The bold dwarf, older and gruffer with age, patted the golden hair of his love
tenderly as they sat side by side on the foot of the royal tomb.
Aragorn's death had brought so much grief to the land, and Gimli had wept his
heart out without shame at the elaborate funeral for the exalted and much loved
king.
When all the mourners had retired to their homes, and the elves prepared to
leave Middle Earth, Legolas and Gimli crept unseen to the magnificent tomb to
perform a secret task.
Legolas dug the shallow hole next to the large and ostentatious tomb—these
days the dainty elven limbs were surer than Gimli's though it was something they
never spoke of.
The dwarf lord pulled the precious package from its wrappings of fine velvet.
Aragorn had entrusted it to his dear comrade from the Fellowship on the eve of
his wedding. He would have liked to keep the items with him always, but the
sight of them in peacetime—when so many dreams of love could at last come
true—was like a knife through his noble, burdened heart. And it would have
hurt her
too, his beloved wife, his sweet Arwen.
They had belonged to Boromir, who had fallen before he could see Gondor restored
to glory in Aragorn's reign.
The king had worn the leather arm guards throughout the Ring Quest and in the
bloody battles that finally secured his throne and victory. He could not bear to
burn them, nor could he bear to keep them, so he asked the lovers to return the
arm guards to him when he passed into death and the next world.
"I wonder if he knew she would not be following him into death? Even then?"
Legolas mused softly, as Gimli reverently laid the arm guards in the shallow
hole by the tomb.
The dwarf paused, silent for a while. He ran a gentle finger across the old
leather. He remembered that big, strong, noble born Boromir always had a kind
word and a strong arm for the little ones, that it was Boromir who had laid a
gentle hand of comfort on his shoulder when he wept at Balin's tomb.
And it had been the Man of Gondor who had held the ringbearer safe as Gandalf
fell, and wrenched Aragorn back to his senses with his quick and wise actions
that the Fellowship might flee with speed. It was also Boromir who had stoically
refused to let him back into Moria to seek vengeance.
Gimli also remembered witnessing the kiss between future king and Steward's son,
which he had seen from afar by accident while walking through Lórien, his own
heart heavy with love and longing for Legolas. Then, his sweet elf had seemed so
beyond even dreams.
It had taken all of Aragorn's virtue to say no, and all of Boromir's courage and
nobility of spirit to accept his refusal without forcing the issue.
The Steward's son had truly loved his king, and Aragorn never forgave himself
for arriving just moments too late to save Gondor's most loyal son.
"I think he knew, even then," Gimli said sadly. "I hope for his sake that
Boromir is waiting for him, on the other side."
Legolas shovelled earth onto the arm guards, and then laid leaves on the small
earth mound. It seemed small and insignificant next to the majesty of the tomb,
but Legolas felt that Aragorn would have loved this personal, humble expression
of loss and love more than the pompous funeral ceremony.
"I have no words, Gimli," Legolas said, plopping gracefully down at the foot of
the tomb. "I never learned them, Elrond and Aragorn were always so much better
at ceremonies and councils and occasions."
The elf started to weep.
He had played ëorc raid' with fat little Estel, he remembered it like it was
yesterday, running through the halls of Rivendell with Isildur's heir clinging
to his braids and squealing with childish delight.
He remembered teaching a young pimply faced Aragorn to shoot a meal from the sky
with his bow while on horseback.
He recalled, through his tears, with chagrin and mirth, the ferocious earful he
got from Elrond when he tried to help a young Aragorn dye his hair blonde in an
attempt to better please Arwen. Thankfully for both man and elf, the project had
been unsuccessful.
And the battles, the nights under the open sky, the hunts—the quest. And
the
laughter—creeping from the towers at night with an Aragorn swathed in
women's
clothes so the king could take a quick holiday from his duties. That had
happened more than once, the Ranger in Aragorn had loathed the endless stream of
petitioners, adorers and warring lords who besieged him night and day.
"I cannot bear it, Gimli. Elves are immortal, how can we bear death? We have not
the heart to bear such a terrible burden," Legolas sobbed.
Gimli eased old bones down next to Legolas and patted his hair as he wept, not
knowing the correct words either.
The night wind blew across the pair, and it seemed that the night wept as well
for all that they had lost with Aragorn's passing.
Gimli's fingers curled around a braid, one he had helped plait just that morning
as they lay together in bed, and he knew in his heart, Legolas also wept for the
dark shadow that hung over their love.
Galadriel's magic was great, but Gimli son of Gloin was ultimately only a mortal
dwarf—and it was fast becoming autumn in the seasons of their passion. One
day
soon, by elven reckoning, Legolas would be crying at the foot of his tomb.
Gimli shivered in the still of the night, and a tear crept down his cheek, not
because he feared death, but because he would rather face down a thousand Uruk
Hai than have Legolas suffer the pain of losing him.
Who then would comfort his beautiful elf?
The windswept night had no answer, and wept quietly.
Embracing Sons of Gondor
by Dayast Joy
egolas entered the room quietly, his
delicate face pinched by despair.
