The return to the dust and gold of Edoras is marked by a sort of frantic joy in the Rohirrim who have survived Helm’s Deep. Upon flying through the open gates and through the winding streets and to King Théoden’s Golden Hall, the ale begins flowing. So do the tears, the singing, the scrapping among the Men. Even as night casts Rohan in long shadow, the din of bittersweet victory continues clamoring throughout the city. This energy will, Legolas surmises, likely last as many days as they have before King Théoden asks for their bravery once more.
Legolas loses familiar faces in the press of smiling, grieving Rohirrim who spill out of Meduseld and into the streets. He counts the spaces of quiet in the rugged settlement’s corners: the bathhouse, Meduseld’s balcony that overlooks the hardy little structures of Rohan and the plains beyond, and his party’s rudimentary shared accommodations down the hall where he had gently set his quiver and bow earlier. He feels foreign to himself without his weapon slung across his person, an extension of the promise he had made to Frodo only a few months past in Imladris. More foreign still for the pint of ale he holds now, which he sips diplomatically despite its hefty, acrid taste. Gimli, wherever he may be within the busy throng of Rohirrim, would not stand to see him without one after all.
Somewhere in the crowds, in the King’s expansive halls, is Isildur’s heir; Legolas’ thoughts drift toward him inevitably. Legolas wonders if Aragorn is not already conferring with Théoden about the next steps to lasting peace in Middle-earth. He wonders next if he is not with Éowyn, the winsome and noble lady who smiles at Aragorn in much the same way, perhaps, as Legolas does. Or maybe Aragorn is simply counseling Merry and Pippin now that they have reached the tail-end of their trials.
Instead of ruminating, Legolas asks himself what stars the overcast night sky may yet reveal. He wanders with his obtrusive pint past the merrymaking and shouting, to a little window with a commanding view of the plains. Perhaps a constellation would peek through the clouds as though to catch a glimpse of this city, a city of joy and sorrow. Life, Legolas recognizes. A city brimming with life.
The city is indeed brimming with life and vigor, but there's an undercurrent of grief and regret mingled with respect for the dead. It's as it should be, because with every victory comes great loss, and while the conflict at Helm's Deep ended favorably for the Rohirrim and those who took part in the battle, there were many who did not come back marching through the gates.
And while the ale is flowing and people are celebrating life and the memory of those who did not return, for the moment, Théoden and his advisors are having a brief meeting to plan out their next steps. Of course, Aragorn is present as well, but he keeps his thoughts largely to himself unless directly called upon. The king is no inexperienced soldier, and neither are his advisors. Eventually, the meeting ends, and Théoden dismisses those in attendance, giving them leave to join the festivities.
Aragorn too takes his leave, but he doesn't immediately join the throngs of people drinking and reveling in their triumph. He will, of course, make an appearance as is expected, but first, he retreats to a far rampart where he knows no one will be. Solitude is a good companion, and while the victorious dead deserve their due, Aragorn would rather pay his respects in private, without an audience. There will be time for a more public observance, but for now, the sky and the stars are audience enough.
On his way to the outer parts of the Golden Hall, he passes through a corridor, fully intending to go on his way, but he can't miss the unmistakable figure of his friend Legolas standing at the window, pint in hand and expression pensive. It isn't surprising that he'd find him here, away from the clamor and chaos of the celebrations, and a part of him is loathe to interrupt his contemplations.
But then, there's another part of him that wishes to inquire as to the well-being of his friend, and it's with that in mind that Aragorn quietly clears his throat.
"It is quiet out there tonight, is it not?" Outside, the noise of battle has faded and peace and solitude has crept back in, even if, for some, the clash of swords on armor and the screams of the fallen still ring out loudly.
That is Aragorn's tread behind him, steady and already kingly in its bearing to the Elf’s ears; he recognizes the sound of it just before Aragorn clears his throat to announce himself. Legolas moves aside a pace, inviting Aragorn to join him at the window with a tranquil smile.
"It is yet raucous in the stables near to us," he observes, leaning just so toward the window to listen closely. "Those fair horses whinny and hoof the earth eagerly, as though sharing tales of deeds done and seen on the plains." He turns to Aragorn, his eyes exacting. "What kinship with their intrepid Rohirrim masters they share.”
He is, throughout this small narration, watching Aragorn for any signs of pain or apprehension in the Man. Aragorn is no stranger to struggle, Legolas understands this -- and yet he wonders if journeying to the carnage of Helm’s Deep, the collapsed Isengard, and arcing back to Edoras is time enough for strife to catch up with a Man. That is precisely why he wants to ask before the next bit of trouble steals away his chance: "How fare you, Aragorn?" And he presses his neglected pint of ale into Aragorn's hands, a rather paltry offering in the face of all they have just done.
Of course it's unsurprising that Legolas' keen ears would pick up on his arrival long before he audibly made his presence known. Aragorn can't hold back a fond smile as he responds, accepting the offered pint with ease, "I should have known that the sharp ears of the Elves would give me away before I even spoke a word." There is no sneaking up on Legolas or any of his kin, and Aragorn knows that full well. Even so, he can't help but offer a light tease.
"It is also unsurprising that you can hear the noise the horses make when others would insist that it is completely silent." That too is said mainly in jest; Aragorn can hear the whinnies and snorts from the stables because he's been trained to listen for even the smallest of sounds. No, he does not possess Elf ears, but he can still hear what most would miss.
"They do have a special kinship, the horses and the Rohirrim. But so do the Elves, even if it is a different sort." Perhaps the Elves don't often interact with horses, and certainly not as intimately as the Rohirrim, but Aragorn has witnessed the strange sort of magic, for lack of a better term, that occurs when an Elf and a horse meet.
A hint of shadow crosses Aragorn's face in response to Legolas' gentle yet probing question. "Well enough, or as well can be expected." It is not an answer, or at least, most likely not a satisfying one, but it isn't a falsehood either. He hasn't sustained any injuries that won't heal, and they surely aren't serious enough to cause any discomfort, but though he endeavors to hide it, something unsettles him nonetheless.
Still, he desires that no fuss be made, so he ensures that his countenance remains level, almost impassive as he turns the question back to the Elf. "And how do you fare? It is good to see that you have come out largely unscathed." But by that same token, both Man and Elf know that some hurts are not always visible. Aragorn hopes that is not the case with his friend.
Legolas casts a fond glance out the window to the stable where Arod, his bright horse unbridled and beloved, spends his nights. “Skilled Elves may be on horseback,” he says with a shade of pride, “but I think it is a wholehearted friendship with the horse that bestows the skill.” —- And of course he knows Aragorn, a child of Rivendell, knows this, though a Woodland Elf will not resist bragging where he sees it warranted; Legolas has heard Aragorn speaking Sindarin to his horse and he has seen the gentle hand with which Aragorn compels respect from Man and Elf and horse alike. He had not thought a mortal could hold within him such power and good intention, and wield the two with such grace. It both intrigues Legolas and leaves him somber: he recognizes that right now, Aragorn keeps his own tribulations to himself, as if it would ever be a burden to Legolas.
Hearing only the unknown clamor of Rohirric and smatterings of Westron in Theoden’s halls tonight, Legolas decides to switch to Sindarin; in this land more than ever perhaps it is a private language between him and Aragorn. He wonders what Aragorn thinks of when he hears it, and whether it is joyful or sorrowful -— so he speaks softly, hoping the language can be a comfort.
“You have prevailed, Aragorn,” he tells him, curling a hand around Aragorn’s shoulder light as a vine, but just as certain in its grasp. “Had we gone to battle bereft of your wise leadership, I and these Men may not be here now to imbibe this renewing night air and spare thought for tomorrow. Be heartened.” His gaze pulls toward the window again, the moonless sky and its lonesome clouds; his hand does not leave Aragorn. “For you have heartened us.” He pauses at Aragorn’s question, before replying, “I am hale but for a desire to glimpse tonight’s starlight and let it cleanse me of the ageless sorrow of war. I think simply shouldering such invisible burdens only wounds us more deeply.” He says no more; the comment is as pointed as his gaze on Aragorn.
Once, before he knew the Elf as well as he does now, he thought him arrogant and puffed up in the worst sense. But as time went by and as he began to realize that perhaps he'd judged Legolas unfairly, he came to see that in many ways, he was right to be proud. Elves are skilled in their own right, and Legolas is not at all an exception to that. It gladdens his heart to see his friend expressing pride in his skills and the skills of his kin. "You'll hear no disagreement from me on that point, friend." A rider may be very skilled indeed, but Aragorn knows through firsthand experience that almost no progress can be made unless the horse allows it. And yes, there are those who can bend the will with brute force and cruelty, but Aragorn has not and never will stoop to such lengths. And, of course, it goes without saying that none of the Elf-folk would ever think of committing such a deed either.
As for his inclination to keep his troubles to himself, more often than not, there is no one to confide in, and doing so would be perceived by some as weakness. There are some that Aragorn has let in, including Legolas himself, but also Gandalf, but they are the exception rather than the rule. In the end, he prefers not to lay his troubles on those who may very well have troubles of their own.
The switch to Sindarin is a welcome change, because it does lessen the chances of them being overheard and understood, should their conversation stray to topics best kept between them, but also, it's familiar in ways that he can't quite explain. It will always be a comfort to him, and although he's found his thoughts straying to a more sorrowful viewpoint, he chooses not to let that get too much of a foothold. After all, he has very little reason to associate the language with sorrow. He might not be Elvish himself, but aside from a brief moment long ago, he never bemoaned his lineage nor his humanity.
"Wise leadership?" He does not mean to question his friend, because Legolas is very wise and seldom speaks without thinking. That hand curling about his shoulder is reassuring, and he finds himself leaning involuntarily into the touch. He has mixed thoughts about how the battle went and his own role in things, but he hasn't dared voice those thoughts until now.
Yes, the battle was won, and the number of casualties could have been much greater, but Aragorn is finding that he cannot hold back the questions and the doubts now that everything is said and done. Could the outcome have been different if they had not gone to Helm's Deep? It is a question that he has no easy answer for, just as he is finding it difficult to explain why he does not feel heartened in the aftermath of the victory.
"There are other places besides this window from which you can glimpse the starlight, Legolas." He almost laughs quietly then, because is that not where he was going before he came across the Elf? "As to that, I do not intend to sustain wounds, invisible or otherwise." Aragorn straightens up then, almost involuntarily squaring his shoulders as if to indicate that he is all right. "Tonight, my spirits are light indeed." It is not a half-truth or a falsehood; for one night, he can put aside his cares and concerns and be of good spirits for the benefit of himself and others. There will be time enough in the morning for seeing to the realities of their situation.
"Tonight is for revels and honoring the lost," he adds, almost as if he is reminding himself of that very fact.
In the moment Aragorn draws himself up and straightens his shoulders to become the leader he must, regal and unassailable, Legolas remotely acknowledges, as though standing far away on the far bank of a river where it is a modicum less foolish to admit such things, that it is attractive. The way Aragorn bears the weight of responsibility begs admiration just as it does empathy. Legolas acknowledges this, yes, in the same dispassionate way he acknowledges Éowyn's longing is intimately familiar to him. The same way he wants, sometimes, to sing of the silver streaking Aragorn's dark hair.
But such ruminations are reckless, and right now they manifest only in a gentle squeeze Legolas gives Aragorn's shoulder before he retracts his hand neatly.
He tilts his head listening to Aragorn, wondering then where he would be off to if he could leave this dim little window behind for somewhere else. Blithely, teasing Aragorn for teasing him: "If indeed tonight stands for ease, I should like to know how you would spend it, O Ranger of the North."
Aragorn's wish was to never draw more attention to himself than was necessary, and certainly not to draw in adoration, not even what is afforded to kings, because he has not attained that position yet, if indeed he ever will. So much remains uncertain at this point, and he would not dare presume that he will ever achieve that lofty position. So when he does assume his leader-like countenance, it is with no expectations or particular desires attached. Yet he is not blind, and he has seen the way Éowyn looks at him, and also the way sometimes even Legolas approaches him.
He also does not intend to presume to tell others how they should behave, but he still maintains that there are others far more deserving of their respect and attention.
"If I were able to choose, I would spend it on a parapet or rampart, away from the crowd. But I fear such an action would dishonor the living and dead alike." And far be it for him to be so churlish and lacking in graces. "I do not believe we have seen the last of the enemy, and while it is fitting to celebrate in light of recent events, we cannot grow complacent now." He would rather keep watch and be vigilant, but even then, he supposes there still will be time for that as the evening progresses. "I suppose I am not much for festivities, even when there is something to be festive about."
Aragorn's answer is as altruistic as Legolas can expect. And he is right to be on his guard: "Yes," he murmurs, "the very soil of Rohan hums in apprehension of trials forthcoming." Nevertheless, Legolas cannot let Aragorn be on his guard alone; not tonight. Not when endings loom imminent: the end of this Age, the end of this journey shared with Aragorn, the end of the time of Elves; the end, perhaps, of --
Legolas bids his heart not dwell on the mortality of Men, of Dwarves. He bids his heart to instead focus on the starlight.
With the intention to be good to Aragorn with some company, and with obstinance inherent in an Elf with a Silvan upbringing, Legolas drifts backward from Isildur's heir one step, then two, pauses to see if Aragorn will follow him. He backs in the direction of the enticing, wide balcony just down the way, open and with an arresting view of Edoras and the clouded, cold night. Yes, there are a few Men who drunkenly hang off of each other and sing, laugh together, but darkness affords maybe a small bit of anonymity for a Woodland Elf and an heir to the throne of Gondor.
"As for me, I have need of sipping the fresh air for only a moment, ere we greet the next trial with morning's light." He watches Aragorn, asking with his eyes if he can move this Man, get him to follow. Or if Aragorn will think him an absurd Elf -- as Men are sometimes wont to. "And if you should join me, we may yet find a moment's silence amid the racket."
Altruistic, perhaps, but there also is a note of something a little more self-serving. For one, Aragorn's moods are more mercurial than is appropriate for a festive gathering, and although he can shake off his gloomy mantle long enough to attend, when Legolas' countenance and his very steps turn more towards mischief and perhaps even ulterior motives, that does far more to lift the Man's spirits than any strong drink or banter with his kinfolk could.
It is strange to ponder how staid Legolas can be when it suits him, and how mischievous and almost impish he can be more often than not. Aside from moments when propriety is required, Aragorn knows full well that the Elf whom he calls friend possesses a strong fun-loving side than most would assume.
He keeps his own expression schooled to an impassive look even as he takes one step, and another, all the while acting as if he is not moving at all, or rather that some unseen force is pressing him forward. Of course, it is an act, because clearly his intent is to follow the Elf where he goes, but it would not do to make that detail obvious. It is much more amusing to pretend as though he is being drawn forward by Legolas' own energy and brand of charm.
"One would think, Legolas, that you have been partaking of ale and not fresh air alone." Now, Aragorn can no longer hide the smile that bursts forth unbidden onto his face. "You are acting quite impish indeed." Aragorn's steps are measured, of course, but one would have to be blind indeed to not realize that the Man's own eyes are speaking volumes in return. He does not need words to say that he would move mountains to follow Legolas, even into the heart of Mordor itself if some fate deemed that necessary. He sincerely hopes that is not their path, but even the wisest of beings cannot see all ends.
And as he can hardly let Legolas be the only one to have a bit of fun, to jest, he adds: "I believe our chances of finding a moment's silence are favorable, unless you have recently taken up singing and boasting about your triumphs." By coincidence or not, the Men carousing not far from their vantage point on the balcony have begun doing that very thing, which Aragorn has decided to make use of for his own purposes.
Perhaps Legolas will deem him an absurd Man instead.
Legolas smiles, luminous and unabashed, at having Aragorn's obeisance. He could dance with joy, but instead keeps his backwards tread steady and his eyes on Aragorn the short distance before he feels it -- they are are outside, bathed in night, where he has longed to be. "Would that I had Dorwinian wine," Legolas dismisses with a dignified affectation at Aragorn's suggestion of his tipsiness; he spares a fond thought for his father's vast wine cellars back in Mirkwood. "Nay, my spirits need only a glimpse of starlight and fine company to soar." And presently he has obtained both. Seeing Aragorn's sudden, sincere smile feels like a benediction.
"The ale is antidote to your own mortal inhibitions, son of Arathorn," the Elf adds for good measure. Although it is really very harsh drink, and Legolas would not fault the Man for neglecting the pint he had handed off to him.
The expansive firmament above flickers with what few stars manage to break through cloud cover. The new moon only further darkens their environment. Still, the night sky possesses Legolas with that Elven impulse to sing for beholding it. He imbibes the air deeply. "Oh, what songs I should like to sing of we Three Hunters' exploits," he allows, alighting effortlessly on the balcony's railing and balancing neatly there like a songbird. "But I am interested better right now in the celestial light glinting off the silver strands in your hair."
He composes an artless little ditty where he perches on the railing, singing softly so as to go unnoticed by their nearby drunken company:
"Aragorn, O Dúnadan brave, O Gondor's heir, With handsome silver streaked in his hair Crowning glory upon his dark head there Shining like the Forest River flows through night's black snare."
And he laughs, hoping to have sufficiently pleased or embarrassed Aragorn.
There are few who have earned such a thing from him, and doing so was no small feat. Perhaps it is a sign of Aragorn's regard for Legolas that he has acquiesced so quickly and so easily. He knows full well that doing so could also leave him open to jest and joking at his expense, but that does not seem to bother him overmuch. "I am certain that if you truly desired it enough, it could be arranged for it to be delivered to you." But he is certain Legolas speaks in jest. "I have had similar thoughts since coming upon you here." The night is pleasant enough and the company even more so.
"You flatter me, Legolas." He seldom uses such favorable terms to describe himself, and if he were to describe the strands of lighter colored hair, he would not have much to say about them. But leave it to an Elf to wax poetic, and to even compose a verse without too much thought. Or perhaps there has been thought put into it and Legolas has been saving this verse for this precise moment. Aragorn's lips twitch with amusement at that very thought.
He waits until the Elf has finished his verse, joining his friend in laughter, and then he asks, "Did those lines spring unbidden into your mind, or have you been saving that up for just the right moment in time?" Unable to stop his smile from widening even further, Aragorn adds, "Leave it to an Elf to find the time in the midst of battle to compose lines from a song." It is meant to be a compliment, of course, with just the slightest hint of a fond tease.
Legolas looks nearly chagrined at the any possible implication that this is the best he could come up with for Aragorn — a silly rhyme. “Oh, unbidden! Urged from my lips in a hurry. In a coming time of peace, when I loose the warrior’s mantle from my shoulders, I would try again and present you a poem worthy of your standing.”
Satisfaction still graces him, warm as though the height of noon, at seeing Aragorn smile and laugh through his burdens. Legolas thinks about the Aragorn he might have known if they had struck up a friendship before the Council of Elrond, before the Ring and gravest duty began trailing this fragmented Fellowship’s every step; shared joys are elusive now, furtively claimed in small moments such as these.
“But I am a warrior first,” he affirms. “And so I will remain till the close of this Age.” And, slightly smiling as he admits: “I knew I dearly wanted to fashion some lyric at Helm’s Deep, as we and Théoden and Gimli found brief respite atop the wall before the next assault. I was whetting my knife and I caught the silver in your hair limned bright by the wavering torchlight as you stood weary but ever watchful.” Legolas keeps strict with himself about falling into bad habits of Elves — melancholy being one of them, so he tempers his words even as he describes, ”And I felt all that is in me grateful to be journeying through this war’s strife and heartache flanked by such exemplary Men; ai, the likes of which I shall never encounter again in Middle-earth.”
He tips back his head to search the sky for Remmirath, the netted stars. Silently giving thanks when he finds them through the clouds, he lets their light, dappled with murky dark, on his skin to sustain him. And he adds, for good measure, “I am far more partial to this than any wine.”
sorry this took me so long! Work + RL has been kicking me lately
Aragorn knows that look of near-chagrin, and it causes his smile to grow even wider, if that is possible. "Oh, for something composed in a hurry, it is a worthy effort indeed. But I should very much like to hear a verse composed in not so trying a time. I will have to remember this conversation and approach you again when all is settled and see what you have to offer then." But of course, he says this in jest, not meaning to put any undue pressure on his friend.
"You flatter me too much, Legolas. Silver hair? Ever watchful? The words are kind, of course, but I find the colors of my hair to be growing rather dull, and as for ever watchful, there are others who are just as watchful as I, perhaps even more so." He is, of course, speaking in jest about his hair, but there is some truth to the words about his watchfulness and that of others.
"But as exceedingly gracious as you are, I can appreciate the words and the sentiments behind them." Let it not be said that Aragorn was ungrateful for someone speaking favorably about him.
"And I am as well. There is no need for wine when there are such skies and such excellent companions to bolster one's spirit."
omg no problem at all! take your time; i am game whenever you are :)
When all is settled. It is a wondrously broad idea, a promise of peace green and new, that they together might experience. Legolas imagines, for a moment, some vague future that sees them released from the toothy maw of war and starting again. But then, would they share such a time together? Or apart? Aragorn, Isildur's heir, has a destiny to fulfill in Gondor, doesn't he? Will that be the conclusion to the story of Fellowship too bring the end of their companionship? When all is settled may spell the end of any brief, stolen moments like this -- for good. Legolas finds himself drifting into another whorl of a reverie and dutifully sets the thought aside.
He regards Aragorn with an exacting stare, expression closed now, more intent. "I do not flatter. I am one of those watchful, as watchful as you. If I am gracious, it is only that I have kept my gaze sharp." He crosses his legs where he balances expertly on the railing, tilts up his chin as he assesses the other. "You are too humble, son of Arathorn." Although it is a quality that endears.
At the mention of watchers, however, Legolas does glance over Aragorn's shoulder to take stock of what other man or woman may be straying near amid the revelry, noticing them, gauging them. "If there is another more watchful than us two, I should like to know."
Perhaps it is too broad, too hopeful, but experience has taught Aragorn that even when things are at their darkest and the end is not in sight, one can choose to see only the darkness and fail to see the light, or one can choose to put their hopes in a far-off future where things are better and all strife and chaos has been put off. That is what he chooses to focus on, and if it makes him too sentimental and unwise, well, then so be it. He maintains that there is a difference between having hope and being foolhardy, and he would gently defy anyone who tells him otherwise.
"One might argue that you are even more watchful than I." Referring, of course, to the storied vision of the Elves. Legolas' eyes can see far more than Aragorn's, although long years of experience have honed his senses and his sight to respectable levels. "Still, I would argue that you are not so far ahead of me." His mouth twitches as if he's attempting to hold back a smile. As to that statement about his humility, he merely shrugs his shoulder just slightly. To anyone else, it might be missed, but he knows better than to think Legolas misses anything, even the smallest of gestures.
It is hardly his place to put on airs, and he believes that were he to do so, opinion would turn very harshly against him, and quickly. Already he has those who believe him to be nothing more than a simple ranger, and he is content to leave that thought uncontested, because doing so allows him to move about relatively unnoticed.
"And so, my friend, we are quite unobserved out here." He deliberately keeps his movements slow, but he moves ever so slightly so that he is standing a little bit closer to his friend than he was previously. Of course he is aware that Legolas values his space, and he would never do anything to make the Elf uncomfortable, but there is a little bit too much distance between them, and unless he is rebuffed, he seeks to alter that.
No, Legolas notices: something approaching a smile on Aragorn's face, his little shrug, and the way he draws nearer without imposition but with intent. Nothing is accidental or incidental, even on a night when anyone lesser than Aragorn might be full of accidents and incidents. (Hear the shouting and scrapping of Men off in the night.)
"So as the blood of Númenor runs true in you, with it flows a Ranger's surety of his own skill," Legolas remarks, raising an eyebrow to veil his own smile. "I will grant you that you have cut your teeth observing and discovering much of Middle-earth still unknown to me, Dúnadan. You would make a formidable opponent, were we at odds." He pauses to tip his head back and watch the grey-glowing clouds adrift in the sky. "My lifetime spent under the eaves of my beloved Woodland oaks and birches begs my wondering about your travels in far-flung hinterlands. I imagine you have tread across foreign landscapes, sunlit and shadowed both, I can scarcely envision. But it is a pleasure to try."
And maybe a Ranger, being attuned to his surroundings and responsive to suggestion of movement, might notice Legolas' index finger stroke slowly, rhythmically against the railing where his hand rests against the stone, a subtle but automatic reaction to Aragorn drawing closer.
Legolas wouldn't be able to explain the response. Anticipation -- of what? Intrigue with Aragorn, who is intricate and whom Legolas relishes understanding more completely, perhaps.
Feeling pleased to be unobserved, save by one person. Perhaps.
Indeed, Aragorn rarely acts without thought or purpose; to do so would be to squander time, and even with the gift of longer life that he's been given, he knows that time is one thing that he will eventually run out of. As such, he intends to not waste a minute, or even a second, of his life.
"That may be so, but even then, I do not look for a future, or even a scenario, in which you and I were at odds. I might even venture as far as to say that such a thing is unimaginable to me." Because Legolas is as noble a being as any that Aragorn has ever hoped to meet (or will meet), and he cannot even begin to conceive what would cause his friend to fall in such a way.
But still, no one is incorruptible, not even Elves, although they are far more resilient than most. Perhaps that is why Aragorn finds it extremely distasteful to try and imagine Legolas being anything but on the side of all that is good and fair.
"Even so, I wager that it would be a very close match, if we were to engage in such a thing."
They are very closely matched, at least by Aragorn's reckoning.
"But if it is my travels that you wonder about, perhaps I could satisfy your curiosity one night when the hours grow long and sleep eludes us both." It does not happen often, but Aragorn does not require much sleep, and Legolas requires even less, so he surmises such an occasion may very well happen sooner rather than later.
"That is, if you do not tire of hearing my droning voice." He is unable to hold back a smile then, mouth opening wide to further illustrate his mirth, even as his eyes trail downwards to where Legolas' finger moves slowly yet deliberately along the railing.
The plainly ridiculous notion of opposing Aragorn compels a smile from Legolas. "Certainly you cut a lonesome figure throughout our travels, heir of Isildur," he grants, lighthearted though sincere, "but you shall never be without me or Gimli by your side, for as long as you shall want us. Nay, how should we ever find ourselves at odds when you have our friendship and our love?" Aragorn seems hardly cognizant of the power Legolas sees in him -- the power stark as snow; what command Aragorn could hold over those loyal to him -- and for terrible ill, were he a corruptible Man. But Legolas doesn't fret over mortal corruptibility the way Elrond does, the way world-weary Elves know they must. How could he fret, when the Man he knows best is Aragorn, Strider, Ranger and future king, whom he will follow to the Gates of Mordor?
And it's then that the gravity of his own allegiance to Aragorn, simply taken as a matter of fact throughout their myriad of trials and struggles and strivings, grips him with some... apprehension, it feels like, and he curls his fingers against the rail automatically as a vine coiling when he marks Aragorn noticing him.
"No, I never tire," Legolas responds with a dismissive handwave -- but bearing a nearly distracted stillness, an awareness in his body and heart that perhaps shines through in the way he blinks a little more. He gives a diplomatic smile to Aragorn. "I have only ever felt I should like to hear more of your voice."
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@ swordbearer
Legolas loses familiar faces in the press of smiling, grieving Rohirrim who spill out of Meduseld and into the streets. He counts the spaces of quiet in the rugged settlement’s corners: the bathhouse, Meduseld’s balcony that overlooks the hardy little structures of Rohan and the plains beyond, and his party’s rudimentary shared accommodations down the hall where he had gently set his quiver and bow earlier. He feels foreign to himself without his weapon slung across his person, an extension of the promise he had made to Frodo only a few months past in Imladris. More foreign still for the pint of ale he holds now, which he sips diplomatically despite its hefty, acrid taste. Gimli, wherever he may be within the busy throng of Rohirrim, would not stand to see him without one after all.
Somewhere in the crowds, in the King’s expansive halls, is Isildur’s heir; Legolas’ thoughts drift toward him inevitably. Legolas wonders if Aragorn is not already conferring with Théoden about the next steps to lasting peace in Middle-earth. He wonders next if he is not with Éowyn, the winsome and noble lady who smiles at Aragorn in much the same way, perhaps, as Legolas does. Or maybe Aragorn is simply counseling Merry and Pippin now that they have reached the tail-end of their trials.
Instead of ruminating, Legolas asks himself what stars the overcast night sky may yet reveal. He wanders with his obtrusive pint past the merrymaking and shouting, to a little window with a commanding view of the plains. Perhaps a constellation would peek through the clouds as though to catch a glimpse of this city, a city of joy and sorrow. Life, Legolas recognizes. A city brimming with life.
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And while the ale is flowing and people are celebrating life and the memory of those who did not return, for the moment, Théoden and his advisors are having a brief meeting to plan out their next steps. Of course, Aragorn is present as well, but he keeps his thoughts largely to himself unless directly called upon. The king is no inexperienced soldier, and neither are his advisors. Eventually, the meeting ends, and Théoden dismisses those in attendance, giving them leave to join the festivities.
Aragorn too takes his leave, but he doesn't immediately join the throngs of people drinking and reveling in their triumph. He will, of course, make an appearance as is expected, but first, he retreats to a far rampart where he knows no one will be. Solitude is a good companion, and while the victorious dead deserve their due, Aragorn would rather pay his respects in private, without an audience. There will be time for a more public observance, but for now, the sky and the stars are audience enough.
On his way to the outer parts of the Golden Hall, he passes through a corridor, fully intending to go on his way, but he can't miss the unmistakable figure of his friend Legolas standing at the window, pint in hand and expression pensive. It isn't surprising that he'd find him here, away from the clamor and chaos of the celebrations, and a part of him is loathe to interrupt his contemplations.
But then, there's another part of him that wishes to inquire as to the well-being of his friend, and it's with that in mind that Aragorn quietly clears his throat.
"It is quiet out there tonight, is it not?" Outside, the noise of battle has faded and peace and solitude has crept back in, even if, for some, the clash of swords on armor and the screams of the fallen still ring out loudly.
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"It is yet raucous in the stables near to us," he observes, leaning just so toward the window to listen closely. "Those fair horses whinny and hoof the earth eagerly, as though sharing tales of deeds done and seen on the plains." He turns to Aragorn, his eyes exacting. "What kinship with their intrepid Rohirrim masters they share.”
He is, throughout this small narration, watching Aragorn for any signs of pain or apprehension in the Man. Aragorn is no stranger to struggle, Legolas understands this -- and yet he wonders if journeying to the carnage of Helm’s Deep, the collapsed Isengard, and arcing back to Edoras is time enough for strife to catch up with a Man. That is precisely why he wants to ask before the next bit of trouble steals away his chance: "How fare you, Aragorn?" And he presses his neglected pint of ale into Aragorn's hands, a rather paltry offering in the face of all they have just done.
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"It is also unsurprising that you can hear the noise the horses make when others would insist that it is completely silent." That too is said mainly in jest; Aragorn can hear the whinnies and snorts from the stables because he's been trained to listen for even the smallest of sounds. No, he does not possess Elf ears, but he can still hear what most would miss.
"They do have a special kinship, the horses and the Rohirrim. But so do the Elves, even if it is a different sort." Perhaps the Elves don't often interact with horses, and certainly not as intimately as the Rohirrim, but Aragorn has witnessed the strange sort of magic, for lack of a better term, that occurs when an Elf and a horse meet.
A hint of shadow crosses Aragorn's face in response to Legolas' gentle yet probing question. "Well enough, or as well can be expected." It is not an answer, or at least, most likely not a satisfying one, but it isn't a falsehood either. He hasn't sustained any injuries that won't heal, and they surely aren't serious enough to cause any discomfort, but though he endeavors to hide it, something unsettles him nonetheless.
Still, he desires that no fuss be made, so he ensures that his countenance remains level, almost impassive as he turns the question back to the Elf. "And how do you fare? It is good to see that you have come out largely unscathed." But by that same token, both Man and Elf know that some hurts are not always visible. Aragorn hopes that is not the case with his friend.
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Hearing only the unknown clamor of Rohirric and smatterings of Westron in Theoden’s halls tonight, Legolas decides to switch to Sindarin; in this land more than ever perhaps it is a private language between him and Aragorn. He wonders what Aragorn thinks of when he hears it, and whether it is joyful or sorrowful -— so he speaks softly, hoping the language can be a comfort.
“You have prevailed, Aragorn,” he tells him, curling a hand around Aragorn’s shoulder light as a vine, but just as certain in its grasp. “Had we gone to battle bereft of your wise leadership, I and these Men may not be here now to imbibe this renewing night air and spare thought for tomorrow. Be heartened.” His gaze pulls toward the window again, the moonless sky and its lonesome clouds; his hand does not leave Aragorn. “For you have heartened us.” He pauses at Aragorn’s question, before replying, “I am hale but for a desire to glimpse tonight’s starlight and let it cleanse me of the ageless sorrow of war. I think simply shouldering such invisible burdens only wounds us more deeply.” He says no more; the comment is as pointed as his gaze on Aragorn.
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As for his inclination to keep his troubles to himself, more often than not, there is no one to confide in, and doing so would be perceived by some as weakness. There are some that Aragorn has let in, including Legolas himself, but also Gandalf, but they are the exception rather than the rule. In the end, he prefers not to lay his troubles on those who may very well have troubles of their own.
The switch to Sindarin is a welcome change, because it does lessen the chances of them being overheard and understood, should their conversation stray to topics best kept between them, but also, it's familiar in ways that he can't quite explain. It will always be a comfort to him, and although he's found his thoughts straying to a more sorrowful viewpoint, he chooses not to let that get too much of a foothold. After all, he has very little reason to associate the language with sorrow. He might not be Elvish himself, but aside from a brief moment long ago, he never bemoaned his lineage nor his humanity.
"Wise leadership?" He does not mean to question his friend, because Legolas is very wise and seldom speaks without thinking. That hand curling about his shoulder is reassuring, and he finds himself leaning involuntarily into the touch. He has mixed thoughts about how the battle went and his own role in things, but he hasn't dared voice those thoughts until now.
Yes, the battle was won, and the number of casualties could have been much greater, but Aragorn is finding that he cannot hold back the questions and the doubts now that everything is said and done. Could the outcome have been different if they had not gone to Helm's Deep? It is a question that he has no easy answer for, just as he is finding it difficult to explain why he does not feel heartened in the aftermath of the victory.
"There are other places besides this window from which you can glimpse the starlight, Legolas." He almost laughs quietly then, because is that not where he was going before he came across the Elf? "As to that, I do not intend to sustain wounds, invisible or otherwise." Aragorn straightens up then, almost involuntarily squaring his shoulders as if to indicate that he is all right. "Tonight, my spirits are light indeed." It is not a half-truth or a falsehood; for one night, he can put aside his cares and concerns and be of good spirits for the benefit of himself and others. There will be time enough in the morning for seeing to the realities of their situation.
"Tonight is for revels and honoring the lost," he adds, almost as if he is reminding himself of that very fact.
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But such ruminations are reckless, and right now they manifest only in a gentle squeeze Legolas gives Aragorn's shoulder before he retracts his hand neatly.
He tilts his head listening to Aragorn, wondering then where he would be off to if he could leave this dim little window behind for somewhere else. Blithely, teasing Aragorn for teasing him: "If indeed tonight stands for ease, I should like to know how you would spend it, O Ranger of the North."
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He also does not intend to presume to tell others how they should behave, but he still maintains that there are others far more deserving of their respect and attention.
"If I were able to choose, I would spend it on a parapet or rampart, away from the crowd. But I fear such an action would dishonor the living and dead alike." And far be it for him to be so churlish and lacking in graces. "I do not believe we have seen the last of the enemy, and while it is fitting to celebrate in light of recent events, we cannot grow complacent now." He would rather keep watch and be vigilant, but even then, he supposes there still will be time for that as the evening progresses. "I suppose I am not much for festivities, even when there is something to be festive about."
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Legolas bids his heart not dwell on the mortality of Men, of Dwarves. He bids his heart to instead focus on the starlight.
With the intention to be good to Aragorn with some company, and with obstinance inherent in an Elf with a Silvan upbringing, Legolas drifts backward from Isildur's heir one step, then two, pauses to see if Aragorn will follow him. He backs in the direction of the enticing, wide balcony just down the way, open and with an arresting view of Edoras and the clouded, cold night. Yes, there are a few Men who drunkenly hang off of each other and sing, laugh together, but darkness affords maybe a small bit of anonymity for a Woodland Elf and an heir to the throne of Gondor.
"As for me, I have need of sipping the fresh air for only a moment, ere we greet the next trial with morning's light." He watches Aragorn, asking with his eyes if he can move this Man, get him to follow. Or if Aragorn will think him an absurd Elf -- as Men are sometimes wont to. "And if you should join me, we may yet find a moment's silence amid the racket."
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It is strange to ponder how staid Legolas can be when it suits him, and how mischievous and almost impish he can be more often than not. Aside from moments when propriety is required, Aragorn knows full well that the Elf whom he calls friend possesses a strong fun-loving side than most would assume.
He keeps his own expression schooled to an impassive look even as he takes one step, and another, all the while acting as if he is not moving at all, or rather that some unseen force is pressing him forward. Of course, it is an act, because clearly his intent is to follow the Elf where he goes, but it would not do to make that detail obvious. It is much more amusing to pretend as though he is being drawn forward by Legolas' own energy and brand of charm.
"One would think, Legolas, that you have been partaking of ale and not fresh air alone." Now, Aragorn can no longer hide the smile that bursts forth unbidden onto his face. "You are acting quite impish indeed." Aragorn's steps are measured, of course, but one would have to be blind indeed to not realize that the Man's own eyes are speaking volumes in return. He does not need words to say that he would move mountains to follow Legolas, even into the heart of Mordor itself if some fate deemed that necessary. He sincerely hopes that is not their path, but even the wisest of beings cannot see all ends.
And as he can hardly let Legolas be the only one to have a bit of fun, to jest, he adds: "I believe our chances of finding a moment's silence are favorable, unless you have recently taken up singing and boasting about your triumphs." By coincidence or not, the Men carousing not far from their vantage point on the balcony have begun doing that very thing, which Aragorn has decided to make use of for his own purposes.
Perhaps Legolas will deem him an absurd Man instead.
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"The ale is antidote to your own mortal inhibitions, son of Arathorn," the Elf adds for good measure. Although it is really very harsh drink, and Legolas would not fault the Man for neglecting the pint he had handed off to him.
The expansive firmament above flickers with what few stars manage to break through cloud cover. The new moon only further darkens their environment. Still, the night sky possesses Legolas with that Elven impulse to sing for beholding it. He imbibes the air deeply. "Oh, what songs I should like to sing of we Three Hunters' exploits," he allows, alighting effortlessly on the balcony's railing and balancing neatly there like a songbird. "But I am interested better right now in the celestial light glinting off the silver strands in your hair."
He composes an artless little ditty where he perches on the railing, singing softly so as to go unnoticed by their nearby drunken company:
"Aragorn, O Dúnadan brave, O Gondor's heir,
With handsome silver streaked in his hair
Crowning glory upon his dark head there
Shining like the Forest River flows through night's black snare."
And he laughs, hoping to have sufficiently pleased or embarrassed Aragorn.
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"You flatter me, Legolas." He seldom uses such favorable terms to describe himself, and if he were to describe the strands of lighter colored hair, he would not have much to say about them. But leave it to an Elf to wax poetic, and to even compose a verse without too much thought. Or perhaps there has been thought put into it and Legolas has been saving this verse for this precise moment. Aragorn's lips twitch with amusement at that very thought.
He waits until the Elf has finished his verse, joining his friend in laughter, and then he asks, "Did those lines spring unbidden into your mind, or have you been saving that up for just the right moment in time?" Unable to stop his smile from widening even further, Aragorn adds, "Leave it to an Elf to find the time in the midst of battle to compose lines from a song." It is meant to be a compliment, of course, with just the slightest hint of a fond tease.
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Satisfaction still graces him, warm as though the height of noon, at seeing Aragorn smile and laugh through his burdens. Legolas thinks about the Aragorn he might have known if they had struck up a friendship before the Council of Elrond, before the Ring and gravest duty began trailing this fragmented Fellowship’s every step; shared joys are elusive now, furtively claimed in small moments such as these.
“But I am a warrior first,” he affirms. “And so I will remain till the close of this Age.” And, slightly smiling as he admits: “I knew I dearly wanted to fashion some lyric at Helm’s Deep, as we and Théoden and Gimli found brief respite atop the wall before the next assault. I was whetting my knife and I caught the silver in your hair limned bright by the wavering torchlight as you stood weary but ever watchful.” Legolas keeps strict with himself about falling into bad habits of Elves — melancholy being one of them, so he tempers his words even as he describes, ”And I felt all that is in me grateful to be journeying through this war’s strife and heartache flanked by such exemplary Men; ai, the likes of which I shall never encounter again in Middle-earth.”
He tips back his head to search the sky for Remmirath, the netted stars. Silently giving thanks when he finds them through the clouds, he lets their light, dappled with murky dark, on his skin to sustain him. And he adds, for good measure, “I am far more partial to this than any wine.”
sorry this took me so long! Work + RL has been kicking me lately
"You flatter me too much, Legolas. Silver hair? Ever watchful? The words are kind, of course, but I find the colors of my hair to be growing rather dull, and as for ever watchful, there are others who are just as watchful as I, perhaps even more so." He is, of course, speaking in jest about his hair, but there is some truth to the words about his watchfulness and that of others.
"But as exceedingly gracious as you are, I can appreciate the words and the sentiments behind them." Let it not be said that Aragorn was ungrateful for someone speaking favorably about him.
"And I am as well. There is no need for wine when there are such skies and such excellent companions to bolster one's spirit."
omg no problem at all! take your time; i am game whenever you are :)
He regards Aragorn with an exacting stare, expression closed now, more intent. "I do not flatter. I am one of those watchful, as watchful as you. If I am gracious, it is only that I have kept my gaze sharp." He crosses his legs where he balances expertly on the railing, tilts up his chin as he assesses the other. "You are too humble, son of Arathorn." Although it is a quality that endears.
At the mention of watchers, however, Legolas does glance over Aragorn's shoulder to take stock of what other man or woman may be straying near amid the revelry, noticing them, gauging them. "If there is another more watchful than us two, I should like to know."
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"One might argue that you are even more watchful than I." Referring, of course, to the storied vision of the Elves. Legolas' eyes can see far more than Aragorn's, although long years of experience have honed his senses and his sight to respectable levels. "Still, I would argue that you are not so far ahead of me." His mouth twitches as if he's attempting to hold back a smile. As to that statement about his humility, he merely shrugs his shoulder just slightly. To anyone else, it might be missed, but he knows better than to think Legolas misses anything, even the smallest of gestures.
It is hardly his place to put on airs, and he believes that were he to do so, opinion would turn very harshly against him, and quickly. Already he has those who believe him to be nothing more than a simple ranger, and he is content to leave that thought uncontested, because doing so allows him to move about relatively unnoticed.
"And so, my friend, we are quite unobserved out here." He deliberately keeps his movements slow, but he moves ever so slightly so that he is standing a little bit closer to his friend than he was previously. Of course he is aware that Legolas values his space, and he would never do anything to make the Elf uncomfortable, but there is a little bit too much distance between them, and unless he is rebuffed, he seeks to alter that.
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"So as the blood of Númenor runs true in you, with it flows a Ranger's surety of his own skill," Legolas remarks, raising an eyebrow to veil his own smile. "I will grant you that you have cut your teeth observing and discovering much of Middle-earth still unknown to me, Dúnadan. You would make a formidable opponent, were we at odds." He pauses to tip his head back and watch the grey-glowing clouds adrift in the sky. "My lifetime spent under the eaves of my beloved Woodland oaks and birches begs my wondering about your travels in far-flung hinterlands. I imagine you have tread across foreign landscapes, sunlit and shadowed both, I can scarcely envision. But it is a pleasure to try."
And maybe a Ranger, being attuned to his surroundings and responsive to suggestion of movement, might notice Legolas' index finger stroke slowly, rhythmically against the railing where his hand rests against the stone, a subtle but automatic reaction to Aragorn drawing closer.
Legolas wouldn't be able to explain the response. Anticipation -- of what? Intrigue with Aragorn, who is intricate and whom Legolas relishes understanding more completely, perhaps.
Feeling pleased to be unobserved, save by one person. Perhaps.
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"That may be so, but even then, I do not look for a future, or even a scenario, in which you and I were at odds. I might even venture as far as to say that such a thing is unimaginable to me." Because Legolas is as noble a being as any that Aragorn has ever hoped to meet (or will meet), and he cannot even begin to conceive what would cause his friend to fall in such a way.
But still, no one is incorruptible, not even Elves, although they are far more resilient than most. Perhaps that is why Aragorn finds it extremely distasteful to try and imagine Legolas being anything but on the side of all that is good and fair.
"Even so, I wager that it would be a very close match, if we were to engage in such a thing."
They are very closely matched, at least by Aragorn's reckoning.
"But if it is my travels that you wonder about, perhaps I could satisfy your curiosity one night when the hours grow long and sleep eludes us both." It does not happen often, but Aragorn does not require much sleep, and Legolas requires even less, so he surmises such an occasion may very well happen sooner rather than later.
"That is, if you do not tire of hearing my droning voice." He is unable to hold back a smile then, mouth opening wide to further illustrate his mirth, even as his eyes trail downwards to where Legolas' finger moves slowly yet deliberately along the railing.
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And it's then that the gravity of his own allegiance to Aragorn, simply taken as a matter of fact throughout their myriad of trials and struggles and strivings, grips him with some... apprehension, it feels like, and he curls his fingers against the rail automatically as a vine coiling when he marks Aragorn noticing him.
"No, I never tire," Legolas responds with a dismissive handwave -- but bearing a nearly distracted stillness, an awareness in his body and heart that perhaps shines through in the way he blinks a little more. He gives a diplomatic smile to Aragorn. "I have only ever felt I should like to hear more of your voice."