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.|. Seeking Harmony .|.
4. There and Back Again ~ * * * * * To hear you say my name, to see you search my eyes To feel you touch my hand, it more than satisfies If I was not the first, just say I'll be the last It's too much to expect, but it's not too much to ask Now I can only dream of being all you need I can only try to be the reason why You think about today and forget about the past It's too much to expect, but it doesn't hurt to ask It's too much to expect, but it's not too much to ask - Not Too Much To Ask, Mary-Chapin Carpenter
But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me, What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea? - Song of Galadriel – The Fellowship of the Ring -
He was there again, like all the previous nights. Standing in the scattered field where only days before the Men of Gondor and Rohan had faced the toughest battle of their lives. He was there again, looking up at the few, small windows of Minas Tirith in hope to catch a glimpse of the King’s shape outlined against the torches light. Legolas watched the full Moon glittering high above him, silvery wisps of clouds drifting gently on unseen currents of air. The sky peering down through the clouds in lakes was painted with darkened blue, dimming to deep purples as the eye travelled toward the faraway peaks, and scatted with stars. The river lapped gently at his feet, not quite touching, almost not daring to. The cool breeze of night caressed his skin with equal carefulness. He looked strangely fitting just standing there: the Elf and the moonlight blended perfectly, as though he was just slightly more substantial than everything else around him. He’d always thought twilight to be sad and lonesome, created only to provide shelter to whoever needed conceal, be it to hunt or to weep. And in the last few weeks, he had grown to savour those shadows and welcome them as old friends. Because from them he could watch over Aragorn without being seen, or heard or felt, just as he wished. Because under their protection he wouldn’t have to fight the tears that inevitably came as he gazed upon his Harmony, so close to him and yet outside his reach. Because in their conceiving spell Aragorn’s eyes could not see him, and widen in surprise, or narrow in anger, as they would surely do. Legolas felt content just to stand on that sandy shore, watching the Moon glittering in both the sky and the river, with the soft winds gently blowing his hair, feeling as part of his surroundings as he’d ever do. But the dark rocky shape of the Capital of Men stood behind him, still and statuesque and mysterious, calling out to him in mute fashion, and after the briefest moment of peace, his thoughts became haunted. Pushing a strand of his golden hair behind his left ear, Legolas tipped his head to the side, and the shadowed shape of Minas Tirith was there, towering and sorrowful, like a gravestone. Turning back around Legolas met the blurred reflection of his eyes in the waters, wondering at the pain and sadness he saw in them. Slowly he knelt down, and fingered the face reflected off the river. Concentric ripples danced around the points of contact, sending flickers of light to lighten his eyes. How long had it been since those very eyes had last flickered over Aragorn? How long had it been since those pointy ears had caught the husky whisper of the Man’s voice? How long… how long had those lips dreamed to touch the Ranger’s, nai, the King’s? But the blue eyes would not answer, silent, obscure, only reflecting the sky above. Showing burning sadness and no trace of hope. //Let it go…// he told himself firmly, like he had done a billion times since he’d left. //I did it for him. I did it to spare him any pain. I did it because I love him, while I can’t. Because I love him, while he doesn’t. Let it go, Legolas. Just let it go.// “I chose this,” he whispered, unable to stop the pleading note in his voice, talking to someone who was not there, if not in the depths of his memories. “And I do not regret it. But as I told you once, my Lady, just too often the lessons we desire to learn the most hurt us enough to kill.” When still the eyes would not respond Legolas splashed his hand across his reflection, and watched it ripple and dance for a moment. Then he stood and looked up at the sky once again, knowing that he was but merely running away, and trying to desperately convince himself he wasn’t. Hurt, confused, more human in that mere moment than most of the creatures sleeping in the arms of Minas Tirith, Legolas closed his eyes, parted his lips, and let his sadness be painted into sound. His song flew. Flew on silvery winds across the skies, and as he listened to his own pained voice, the Elf could do nothing to stop the flood of memories… * * * * * The riders had found a place where to camp at last, and stopped, grateful for the chance of getting some refresh. The road back from Isengard was long, and they had ridden in haste, so the prospective of a night of rest was welcomed by many –especially the two Hobbits retrieved from Orthanc- with relief. Fires were lit, bread was shared, and pale yellow and ruby wine flowed as the Men’s spirits lifted. The hour was late, and night swept over the fields as the Moon tiptoed across the sky, its pale light chasing retreating pools of darkness across the grassy ground. As each minute flew by, another head laid down on its padding to rest. All too soon silence filled the air like mist. Dreams rouse to visit the sleeping, while nightmares crawled to the waking ones. It was one of those night in which amazing things could happen; one of those nights in which history could be written in front of the eyes of the few present to witness it. And the chance was taken indeed, for a new chapter of the life of Aragorn, the Lost King of Gondor, was being written, without him knowing, by one that loved him more than life itself. Around one of the fires scattered across the fields five figures had huddled, and now stood silently, trading glances. Their breath rose into the blue in small white puffs. Pastel light illuminated their features as unease rose among them. The silence wasn’t soothing in that one corner of the camp. Rather, it was oppressive. The wind picked up, bringing forth the scent of tempest, and dark clouds hovered overhead, almost as if to warn them to go to sleep, and postpone their acting, but the warning was ignored. Surreal as the scene before them was -- the pillars of silvery light that spilled across the fields from patches in the cloud-sheet above, the opalescent gleam reflected off of the gushing river nearby, the anticipatory hum in the atmosphere, the whisper of the wind among the faraway trees – the small assemblage lose concentration at the mere sight of Legolas. Fair he was, and venerable he looked in the way he moved. Slowly, gracefully, and yet as if weighted with ancient pain. Around him, drawn in a semi-circle, the remnants of the Fellowship of the Ring, all but Aragorn, stood in nervousness. Pippin’s fingers curled in his shirt, and he remained silent for one more moment, gathering what courage was needed to shatter the silence, before going back to worrying the rim of his tunic. “Legolas…” the Hobbit glanced briefly at the direction in which Aragorn had disappeared earlier, all but aching to see the Man come back and stop this nonsense. Now. Legolas had secured his bow and was checking the knives resting in the scabbard strapped onto his back when he looked up at the Hobbit, a brief glance, before bending down to check the contents of his bag. “Yes, Master Pippin?” Pippin focused back on the Elf, even though he glanced toward the faraway campfire where he’d last seen Aragorn a couple of times. “I… you… are you sure you have to?” He blurted out. Legolas smiled, even though what good it could be with Pippin behind him, he was not sure. “Indeed I have.” “But…” the Hobbit bounced slightly on his toes, restless. “It’s so… sudden!” Next to him Merry was quick to agree. “More than sudden!” The other Hobbit countered, nodding fervently. “All was well when we were dinning!” Legolas rose to his feet, and draped his grey cloak around his neck. “That was the last meal I would share with you, I did not want to weight your hearts with the knowledge of my departure.” The Elf brought two fingers up to his mouth, and blew around them, producing a brisk whistle. As if generated from the mist Arod, the horse Théoden had let Legolas ride during their campaign, came striding up to the Elf, his mane woven of the moonlight itself. The beast skipped to an halt in front of Legolas, and when the Elf patted his muzzle affectionately, Arod whinnied loudly. “I’ll send my friend Arod back to his Master Théoden as soon as I reach my destination, whatever it will be, and let him bear tidings of my journey if I’ll reckon that wise.” “You don’t have to.” Gandalf interjected quietly. “I already asked the King, and he agreed gladly. Arod is yours now: a present from Rohan to Mirkwood in sign of friendship.” Legolas glanced up at him, a smile on his lips. “I… thank you, Mithradir.” The Elf turned, and gently ran his fingertips down Arod’s neck. The stallion leaned into the touch gladly, thumping his nose gently against Legolas’s chest. “His presence is sure to ease my loneliness.” In the moments of stillness that followed, Legolas felt like they all would hear his heart breaking, and he bit his lip slightly, feeling that there was something more he should say, but not finding the voice to. “I… suppose I’d better go now.” He said at last. “I should ride with the night.” “That would be prudent, indeed.” Gandalf agreed quietly. Nodding, Legolas went to hoist his small baggage onto Arod’s back. Behind him Gimli opened his mouth, then closed it, and turning his head he tried to nonchalantly rub his eyes. Merry had his eyes pined to the ground, and he thought he’d go crazy if the crackle of the air being sucked in and then squeezed out his own fists as he clenched an unclenched them wouldn’t stop echoing in the camp. Pippin kept shifting from foot to foot, sniffling now and again. At last the younger Hobbit took a step forward, hands clasped together behind his back, tracing small circles in the mud with a toe as he struggled for words. “I… I really wish you wouldn’t leave us, Master Legolas.” He said, feeling hoarse. “I don’t want you to go away like Frodo and Sam and… and… and like Boromir did. Legolas glanced at his young friend over his shoulder, hands paused over his baggage. Sensing the little one’s distress Legolas turned fully, fair features lit up with a smile. “Pippin… I’m not dying.” He said softly. “I’m not leaving you forever. I’m just going back to Mirkwood, nothing more. So…” Legolas dropped on his knees in front of Pippin, who was quickly losing his battle with his sobs. “One day, when the Shadow in the East will be banished, if you’ll still wish to see me, we’ll meet again.” Pippin sank his teeth into his bottom lip and, not knowing what else to do, nodded slowly. When Legolas made to rise, though, the Hobbit jumped forward and wrapped his arms around the surprised Elf, barely keeping himself from squeezing too tight. “Good luck, Master Legolas.” “To you too, my friend.” Legolas whispered back, putting his own arms around Pippin and squeezing gently. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this.” Merry queried in a whisper, he too stepping closer to the Elf. “It’s because…” Legolas let go of Pippin and stood gracefully, turning back toward his steed. The Elf’s hand rose to pat Arod’s nose affectionately, and he neighed lowly in reply, one of his hoofs knocking against the grassy ground. Unconsciously Legolas ducked his head, so that his hair would slide forward and further conceal his visage as he hauled himself onto Arod’s back. His moves were heavy and dawdling, incredibly different from the light, fluid flow the ones of his kin moved with. It seemed he’d had a sudden weight dropped onto his shoulders, but it looked like he wouldn’t dare pausing long enough to shrug it off. “…I need to. Have to.” Pippin had walked backwards until his shoulder had bumped into Merry’s, and his cousin’s arm was now curled around him. The Hobbits traded worried looks, and then glanced up at their other companions, pleadingly. Gimli heaved a sigh, and took a step forward, shaking his head. “Surely.” He said soberly. “We could find another solution. My words indeed will seem rude to you, but they need speaking: running away never helps. It is but work of cowardice, and usually complicates matters rather than lead to their solution. I surely expected you, of all people, to understand such a simple concept as this.” “I know.” Legolas spoke softly, guilt wafting by his eyes. “Yet you’ve to realize, my friend, that sometimes running away is not a matter of cowardice. Rather it may be an act of courage.” To that, Gimli had no reply, and he merely nodded, eyes downcast. After a pause he rubbed harshly his nose with the back of a broad hand, and then looked back up at the Elf. “I still wish to show you The Caverns of Helm’s Deep, Legolas, and I’m willing to visit Fangor with you, if that’s the price to pay to see my wish granted. I will reckon the words you gave Pippin as meant for all of us then, and wait for us to meet again.” Legolas bowed his head. “But…” Pippin began then, clasping and unclasping his hands as he stared up at Legolas. “What about Strider? I thought you lov—” “Please, don’t.” Legolas said, tilting his head harshly toward the Hobbit, yet not finding the courage to turn fully. “Right now I can’t…” He broke off and whipped around, knuckles turning white as he clenched his hands. He closed his eyes as a gust of wind ruffled his clothes and hair. A brief, awkward silence descended on the party as they stood in the near-darkness of the evening. The Hobbits knew. Legolas didn’t know how, or why, but they knew. Did everyone know, then? Gimli, Gandalf, Éomer… did they know? Did Aragorn know? Shock claimed the Elf as he pondered the prospective. Surely he hadn’t been that obvious, had he? No… he knew his behaviour toward Aragorn had not changed since the days when friendship was all that bonded him to the Man. He was more secretive now, if anything. Less talkative, more thoughtful. He’d grown somewhat colder, somehow more reserved. Those shields of cold emotions he’d used to conceal his feelings hadn’t turned into hints to reveal then, had they? But how… how did the Hobbits know, then? Why? A long, electric shiver made his back arch slightly, and he reached out and down, hands clasping Arod’s neck blindly as he gazed at the ground. Legolas heaved a sigh. Like a curtain closing, a tendril of golden hair fell over his shoulder and hid his features. Again questions rose in his mind. Over and over again, wherever he turned his eyes and ears to, Legolas would find only questions and no answers. He’d never expected love to be so complicated, or so painful. “Legolas…” They all swivelled around at the sound of a new voice, and indeed it was Aragorn. The man flickered wide eyes over the assemblage in surprise, registering with a note of concern how each person would advert his gaze. At last he focused on Legolas, and albeit the Elf did not turn away the unease just swelled inside the Man. He took in the Elf’s current position, and his eyes widened, the corner of his lips twitching nervously. Why was Legolas mounting Arod, Aragorn wondered, his baggage hoisted on the horse’s back as if ready to leave and— Oh, Elbereth… “Legolas,” he breathed again, voice all but gone, lips twitching helplessly up and down as he tried vainly to smile. “I see that… you’re about to…” the Man licked his lips. “…go scouting, and for your concern I’m grateful, but ’tis indeed late to run such errands, my friend. Why don’t you dismount Arod to join us at the campfire? The night’s cold and--” “I’m leaving, Aragorn.” Legolas told him softly, but the Man couldn’t -would not let himself- hear him, and refusing to acknowledge the shivers now wracking his body he went on, huskily. “—and surely you can wait till the morning to go and attend to whatever mission you put upon yourself.” “Aragorn…” the Man’s fists clenched, his trembling smile fading, and his nails dug into his palms painfully, drawing blood. “Your errand is surely not that pressing--” “…Aragorn…” “I’m sure it can wait. It would be dangerous to ride alone and--” “…I’m leaving.” “—and whatever it is that you must do, it can surely wait for the morning so that I can join you.” He said at last, and then closed his mouth, astonished at the mere sound of his voice. Surely that cracked whisper hadn’t been his? Legolas shook his head, pain wafting by his eyes. “No. I’m going, Aragorn. Alone. Now.” Aragorn’s eyes narrowed, and misty grey became ice. Two long strides took him to Arod’s side, and when he looked up at Legolas the Man’s arm curled around the beast’s neck: an affectionate gesture into which Arod leaned, but also a mean to hold his rider back. And the Elf did not miss that. “Why?” Legolas drew his lips back into a small smile, and then parted them, but it was Gandlaf’s voice to resound. “Pressing errands are summoning him back to Mirkwood. Prince Legolas is needed in his native Kingdom now, and he’s in haste to leave. Surely you understand he has to go, whether we wish him to or not.” Though spoken softly the words held power, and would not admit replies or questions. Legolas merely nodded under Aragorn’s inquisitive gaze. Gimli and Merry shifted uneasily, troubled by such an open lie, both aware of the unspoken reason that was forcing Legolas to leave. Pippin bit his bottom lip, shivering in the Wise’s shadow. It seemed to have stretched to a bizarre length when he spoke, almost as if Gandalf himself had grown taller. Poor Aragorn… the small Hobbit thought. Poor Legolas… poor all of us… The Man shook his head slowly, lips parted around words he could not voice, eyes wide and alight with denial. “You can’t…” he whispered in an exhalation. Legolas’s smile grew, and so did its painful quality. The Elf gingerly reached down and gently brushed Aragorn’s arm away from Arod’s neck, careful not to touch the Man’s tanned skin. In his shock Aragorn did not protest, nor react, when his arm was moved, and he let his hand fall limply at his side. “You can’t leave. I… We need you.” But Legolas would not answer; would not move. He just stared at the Man, eyes half-lidded and saddened. “Are you going to drift away, like wind? To slid through my fingers like mere sand? You can’t… you… you promised, and…” Aragorn’s eyes burned. All the touches they’d shared, all the words spoken… had they been just lies? The most sacred moments of the Lost King’s life were just that? Lies spoken in the midst of some cruel game, or without enough thinking? But Legolas… Aragorn had though… Aragorn blinked, head shaking and eyes lowering to the ground as doubt hit him. What had he though, exactly? Flashes of silken hair and warm hands had filled his dreams and his reality for weeks. Dreams of an eternity spent by Elf’s side had become his daily companions, but… What had he thought? What exactly did he want? “You promised.” He murmured at last. “You can’t leave.” Legolas closed his eyes, his expression bleak as his heart broke yet again. His head bowed a little, and he briefly shut his eyes tighter. Another silence befell the clearing, the usual nighttimes sounds gone. Even the trees, which had been rustling in the breeze as if trembling in anticipation, had gone still under loads of silence. At last Legolas opened his eyes and spoke, his voice strangely young and vulnerable. “I have to.” Aragorn looked up, betray and hurt alike in his gaze. Legolas felt the burning prick of tears in his eyes, and as he closed them some quivering droplets escaped to shine on his lashes. Torn by unnamed pain – a pain Aragorn did not seem able to acknowledge nor understand, caught as he was in his own- Legolas painted his farewell into song. I can pretend I am the wind And I don't know if I will pass this way again All things must end Goodbye, my friend Think of me when you see the sun or feel the wind. Lids fluttering up Legolas gazed at Aragorn for a long moment, fair features twisting as guilt surged in his heart. Legolas felt that it could not –should not possibly- end like that. As he continued to gaze at the Man, his body an opalescent shadow in the moonlight, a thousand possibilities of what he should do raised in his mind, and the Elf repressed the urge to jump down his steed, throw himself in Aragorn’s arms and whisper amidst tears that he was deeply in love with him; that the Man ruled his dreams and had done so since forever. Finally, though, Legolas only patted his steed’s neck, and Arod obediently turned away, albeit reluctantly, while shrugging his head with a shrill neigh. “Namarie.” Aragorn only mouthed a silent denial. The wind picked up a bit, bringing a small breath of cold air. Legolas snuggled closer to the warmth of Arod’s hairy neck as his own skin prickled in the cool hair, and urged his steed into a light trot, not caring where they were going, as long as it was as far as possible from Aragorn. Because he loved the Man. Enough to long for him despite destiny and logic and nature. Enough to make him the centre of his world. Enough to grieve. Just enough to let him go. Without turning back Legolas urged Arod to quicken up slightly, and his shape soon became but a blurred spot of pale light against the darkened tones of the sky. At first Aragorn did nothing. He could not move; could not speak; could not think. The dull ache in his chest had intensified into a burning pain that paralysed him, depriving him of any spirit. Then reality came crashing down on him, the floodgates opened, and Aragorn reeled back, overwhelmed, chest heaving as if he was mortally wounded. Legolas… was… leaving. Barely thinking his actions through, Aragorn whipped around and ran toward his own stallion, swung up onto the saddle and seized the reins, forcing the poor beast to turn with a neigh of pain. He wouldn’t –couldn’t- let Legolas go. Not like that. Not now, not ever. Legolas was his, and he was Legolas’s, forever. And Aragorn felt the sudden need to tell the Elf, to let him know just how important he was to him; how strongly the King of Men felt for the Prince of Elves without him knowing. But Gandalf wouldn’t allow it. Not now, when Gondor and the whole Middle Earth needed Aragorn to guide them through the shadows of that dark age and beyond. Holding up his staff he murmured an Elven chant under his breath even as Aragon dug his heels in his steed’s sides, and the stallion immediately halted, as if frozen, and nothing Aragorn did could rouse him. In the midst of his twined anger and desperation Aragorn shouted at Gandalf, using words he would not remember afterwards. He cried out his helplessness, using his heritage as a mean for Gandalf to obeying him, empty menaces escaping him between ragged shouts and kicks developed to the sides of his horse. But Gandalf was deaf to his prayers, and Legolas was now a small star near the top of the hill. His muscles sagged, and Aragorn leaned heavily against his steed’s neck, spent, watching Legolas’s retreating form, aching for the Elf to turn around, if only to look back once before he was gone. Hope rose in Aragorn without warning at the thought. Legolas… Legolas would turn around. Surely. The Elf would turn around and smile at him and, despite the distance, see the emotions rippling in the Man’s eyes; and then Legolas would turn his steed, and he’d gallop back down the hill, and he’d jump down the horse into Aragorn’s arms, and he’d— But Legolas never paused; never turned around, and the Elf was soon swallowed in the unfeeling dark sky, gone like an evanescent dream. Rain was falling now in angry downpours, but Aragorn was oblivious as he stared at the blurred line of the horizon. At last, as the world about him went out of focus, and nothing of the Elf remained behind if not his memory, the Man hid his face in the furry neck of his steed, and albeit his eyes remained dry, his shoulders hitched as sobs overwhelmed him. For the first time in his life Aragorn son of Arathorn, King of Men, was silently begging and pleading to whoever would listen to be but a mere Ranger – or a criminal, a beggar, a leper even. Because lower people were allowed to do the only thing that mattered to him now and yet he could not do. Follow Legolas. * * * * The song of Legolas came to its whispered end, and the Elf focused on his blurred reflection upon the water. In truth he’d never left Aragorn. How could he? He’d watched the Man journeying from faraway shadows, and more than once his arrows had saved his life without him realizing it. Legolas had tiptoed across the Path of Dead behind Aragorn, letting the mist of the spirits run through his fingers as he advanced, welcomed, somehow expected. He’d sang softly to the Ocean when Aragorn had sailed from Pelargir toward Gondor. He’d lurched into the shadows of Minas Tirith during the battle of the Pellenor’s Fields, his singing bow deadly for the Dark Army of Sauron. Legolas had witnessed the return of the King to the City of Men from atop a nearby hill, twined pride and pain swelling inside his heart. And never –ever- mortal eyes saw him. He was a glimpse of golden in the battlefield, a pale gleam shimmering over gushing water, a stray ray of light flashing at the edge of the vision. Never visible, never more substantial than a gust of wind. But days had passed since the reconquest of Gondor, and since Legolas had last seen Aragorn. Oh, how much Legolas desired to see the Man, now! To feel his touch upon his skin, his breath wafting by his ears. He longed to let him know how much he loved him, even if rejection would be all that he attained. Tears blurred his vision, and the Elf was about to rub at his eyes harshly when a voice came, whispering his name with hesitance. The elf whipped around, hair swirling around his body, eyes glistening, and the urge to run away and the one to stay twined inside him, leaving him breathless and confused; for in front of him stood a vision escaped from his dreams. “Aragorn…”
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