TITLE: Malevolus

AUTHOR: Demon Faith

EMAIL: rosabeth@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

PAIRING: Legolas/Aragorn (Hints of Arwen/Haldir and Eowyn/Faramir)

TIMEFRAME: Post-ROTK AU.

RATING: PG-13

SUMMARY: ‘There was no sickness like this amongst Elves; they did not suffer from such maladies. What madness was this?’

DISCLAIMER: I own not. All kudos to The Tolkien.

NOTES: My LOTR interest has been renewed by…Troy. Yes, Orlando wielding a bow transcends all races, centuries and dimensions.

If you love Arwen, be aware that I do not. I believe that my characterisation is possible, but it may be seen as demonising – apologies.

(How can this have possibly taken so long to write?! Nevermind - it's here now)

Gimli watched the firelight dance, and felt a pang for home. Darkness was an old friend, with only sparse lamps and torches to illuminate the ore and the sturdy walls. He wished for true darkness more than anything.

Yet the fire was warm, and it cast playful shadows across his sleeping companion, who would have told him that he was a fool, only light brought any happiness to Man, Dwarf or Elf. He would say that if he weren’t so exhausted.

Gimli had been in Gondor for a week now, and he had seen the Elf flit hither and thither, training students in archery, arranging diplomatic envoys and even drawing Gimli into negotiations for Dwarven ores. The Dwarf had laughed at him, and said there would be plenty of time for such discussion on their journey. Legolas had given him a half-smile, then been dragged away to another calling, another commitment.

Aragorn had been around though, seen publicly at least twice a day, and waiting in the evenings for whatever duty Legolas held to be finished. He had sighed around his pipe when Gimli had mentioned the Elf’s furious working, and sat back in his chair, thoughtful.

“He feels that it is owed,” the King cast a rueful smile at the Dwarf’s incredulous look. “He sees Gondor and he remembers Arwen; he wants acceptance, and does not realise he has always had it.”

Gimli shuddered then to think of Arwen, Aragorn’s careful words blasted away in her fury. She had called him traitor and condemner of his people, but he only looked on her with pity, seen her eyes grow dark as coal as he whispered, “I am sorry. About Haldir.”

It still cast a shadow over Legolas when her name was mentioned, though he controlled it well when Aragorn was present. Gimli wondered what other evils and shadows the creature of light carried inside his heart. Still, he was here now, and they would be away a month from Gondor and its trappings. He hoped that would erase some of the darkness.

Watching the Elf, Gimli began to frown. Something was wrong, some little thing not quite right. He stared for a considerable time before it hit him – Legolas’ eyes were closed.

Leaping to his feet and crossing the camp in a heartbeat, he shook the Elf’s shoulders hard, calling his name frantically. Legolas stirred, and slowly opened his eyes, blinking up at Gimli as if he were an apparition. The Dwarf released him gratefully, as Legolas slowly shook his head.

“Is it time to be away already, Master Dwarf?” His voice was weary, and he made to stand, but fell backwards, landing hard on the ground. Gimli bent back over him, and reached out a hand to the deathly pale face. Heat radiated from the smooth skin like a furnace, and Gimli pulled away his hand in shock.

“You are sick. We must go back to Gondor immediately!”

The Dwarf quickly doused the fire and whistled for the horse, hauling Legolas to his feet. The Elf swayed, barely upright, and Gimli grasped the thin form with something akin to horror. Legolas had always been slight, but now he was nothing more than bone with a paper skin.

“How long has it been, Master Elf? How long have you kept this from Aragorn?”

Legolas flinched, even in his fever, and muttered softly, “A week, two, maybe more. It is nothing, nothing at all. Let us be gone.”

Gimli lifted his eyes to the Valar, and sighed deeply. “Stupid, obstinate Elf! Only you would hide a sickness such as this.”

“There is no cause to worry…” Legolas mumbled, and Gimli’s snort of derision showed the Elf exactly what he thought of that. The horse finally entered the camp, curious as to why it had been disturbed in its grazing.

“Come, horse of Gondor, this Elf requires swift passage home. For he is the greatest fool to ever emerge from his people.”

Gimli lifted Legolas onto the horse, forever grateful that he weighed nothing at all, and then hoisted himself up in front. Legolas had collapsed forward, weakly grasping the edges of his tunic, and Gimli had to hope that Elfish grace would prevent a terrible fall.

Securing a hand over Legolas’, they rode out at a canter, Gimli praying Aragorn would know what to do. Hoping the Elf’s obstinacy wouldn’t prove…fatal.

~

Aragorn struggled to keep his conscious mind in the meeting, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. He longed for Legolas, but his beloved was to be gone a month, though it already felt like two.

He had not seen him properly for days – a passing in the corridor, perhaps a couple of meals, and just before they retired to rest, but even then Legolas would take to his separate room, begging exhaustion and Aragorn let him go. He just…didn’t understand.

He knew a month in the open air would do the Elf good, but in a way he grudged Gimli the time with Legolas that he himself had been denied. He wondered what he could have done to upset Legolas, if he had committed some transgression of which he was unaware. It was so unlike the Elf to seclude himself, to avoid all familiar contact for so long. Aragorn was quite worried.

Now, however, he had a Council to deal with, most of whom were regarding him with concern. He sighed softly and pulled himself back to the present.

“The Prince’s work has proved most successful. We have had several promising negotiations with Rohan and the Lonely Mountain, with Lady Eowyn and Master Gimli being most helpful. The banquet for next month is all but ready to be eaten, and the archers have never been more proficient. Prince Legolas is most remarkable, Sire.”

Aragorn smiled, and nodded his thanks to the councillor, sparing a glance to Faramir, who held a faint blush after mention of his Lady. Aragorn wondered if his face was similarly flushed.

Suddenly, he could hear a faint rumbling and glanced out of the chamber window. Rising, he walked over to look closer, as his councillors muttered behind him. He paid them no heed, instead squinting at the flurry of dust that was headed for Gondor.

“Who rides with such fury to Gondor?” he mused aloud, and several of the Council joined him at the window, Faramir by his side. They all stared at the approaching shape, until it became clearer. A smaller shape riding in front of a larger one, bent double. The sun hit flaxen gold, and Aragorn gasped.

“Legolas!” he exclaimed, before running from the Chamber. Faramir followed swiftly, turning briefly. “Council adjourned. We will recommence tomorrow.”

There was no dissention as they rushed along the corridors, Aragorn calling to the first guard he saw. “Open the gates! Prince Legolas returns!” If the guard was surprised, he didn’t show it. Aragorn strode forth, a thousand thoughts swirling through his mind. They weren’t due back for a month, only leaving yester morn. Fear struck him deep, and he quickened his pace.

He heard the gates open, as he saw a white horse canter straight for the Royal Stables. The horse slowed as it approached, coming to a halt in the stable yard. Aragorn was there in a matter of seconds, hearing Gimli’s voice shouting. “Where is Aragorn? We need him now.”

“I am here,” he cried out, and hurried forward, not caring for his dignity. Gimli was jumping down, supporting a form still astride the horse. Aragorn stared at his beloved, before quickly reaching up to bring him down. Legolas didn’t stir.

“What happened? Were you attacked?” Faramir queried, as everyone backed away from the distraught king and his beloved. Aragorn noted Legolas still breathed, thankful for that at least, then lifted him into his arms, carrying him towards the Halls of Healing with all speed.

He could faintly hear Gimli and Faramir following. “No, it is just…a sickness. He says it has been weeks since it began.”

Aragorn gave a cry of pain – weeks? His beloved had suffered for weeks, and he, Aragorn, had not seen it. Legolas shifted at his cry, and the pure blue eyes fluttered open. He stared hazily up at Aragorn, before smiling slightly and letting them fall closed again.

“Melamin,” he whispered, and Aragorn pulled him in closer to his chest. They were soon at the Halls and they were ready, forewarned by a runner. Quickly laying him down in a side room, Aragorn reached out to feel Legolas’ forehead, calling out to the attendants. “The leaves I brought from Lorien, and any of the stronger herbs of Men.”

The Elf’s skin burned, and Aragorn closed his eyes in guilt and sorrow. He stripped away the tunic Legolas wore, seeing how thin Legolas had become and feeling tears slide down his cheeks. “Melamin, why keep such things from me?”

He took cloth and water and strived to cool the Elf, but his skin remained blisteringly hot. Legolas’ eyes opened again, and he fixed his gaze on Aragorn, attempting to reach for him but lacking the strength. “You are…angry.”

Aragorn placed both hands on Legolas’ cheeks and looked straight into his eyes. “You could never anger me,” he said with a shaking voice. “What have you suffered? Tell me, tell me it all. When did it begin?”

Legolas licked at his cracked lips, and struggled to think. “It was…the day of Elrond’s envoy. That evening my eyes fell closed and…all was too hot, too frantic. Since then, I have…been tired, weak. I cannot eat…nor sleep. But…you would worry. It will pass.”

Aragorn rested his head against Legolas’ and whispered for only Elfish ears to hear. “Three weeks of this misery. I love you too much for such suffering, fool of an Elf. You do not keep secrets from me. I love you too much to lose you.”

Seconds drew on, as their tears mingled on Legolas’ cheeks, before Aragorn drew away, once more calling instruction. “Broth from the kitchens, and the juice of any fruit they can find. I will need to send envoys to Rivendell – we require Elrond’s presence.”

Legolas began to cough, a harsh rattling sound, and Aragorn brought him to a sit, holding him through each shudder. There was no sickness like this amongst Elves; they did not suffer from such maladies. What madness was this?

“Easy, melamin, easy. Breathe for me, just breathe.”

The shudders finally ceased, and Legolas collapsed against Aragorn, spots of fever red high on his paled cheeks. He burned hot against Aragorn’s chest, and the King could only gently caress the sweat-matted hair, whispering soft words of reassurance. The Lorien leaves were placed in front of him and he frowned at them, seeing only those for pain, to staunch blood. Of course, for what else would an Elf need?

He finally saw the couple for infection and plucked them from the tray, taking the pestle and mortar with them. He held Legolas with one arm whilst beating the leaves to paste, all his frustration and anger poured into the pounding of the medicine.

“Easy, melamin,” Legolas teased breathlessly, “you will break something.”

Aragorn closed his eyes, then glanced at the faintly sparkling eyes of his Elf. Still humour and beauty even in this sickness, and for that Aragorn was grateful. He finally finished his work and scraped out the pulp with his fingers, parting Legolas’ lips to smear it on his tongue.

“Just let it settle. You will feel better soon.” Aragorn prayed his words would hold, and Legolas smiled weakly, knowing as well as his King that it was only a hope not a promise.

Faramir set a bowl of steaming broth in front of them on the Healer’s table, and Aragorn nodded gratefully. He saw it pained even Faramir to see this creature of grace reduced to such frailty and illness. Aragorn motioned for the others to leave as he picked up the bowl and brought it to Legolas’ lips.

“Drink, only small sips. Then I shall braid your hair.”

Legolas almost choked on the broth, laughing under his breath. He turned to Aragorn with incredulity, but the King maintained his look of innocence. “Braid my hair…like an Elfling, all back from my face?” Aragorn nodded, and Legolas smiled broadly. “I will fight you.”

“Of that I have no doubt. Still, it is customary for the sick to tie back their hair. You would not want to break custom, would you?”

Legolas muttered something not entirely polite in Elfish, before taking a sip of the broth. He took a second sip, then another, before passing back the bowl. Aragorn edged the washbasin closer as Legolas grimaced, and his body rejected the food. Heaving into the bowl after his stomach was long empty, Legolas began to sob.

Soothing him, Aragorn wiped away the last of the vomit from his chin, and settled him against him as he cried. “So weak…not worthy…such shame…” the Elf whispered to his shoulder, and every word broke Aragorn’s heart.

“There is no shame here, Legolas. As you will surely tell me when I next sicken from too much ale.”

Legolas made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob and buried his head further into Aragorn. The Man drew his beloved close, placing a soft kiss to his temple. “You never drink too much ale,” Legolas managed finally.

“Only because you will not let me,” Aragorn groused good-naturedly, smoothing back Legolas’ golden hair with a faintly trembling hand. To see Legolas like this was frightening – he had never imagined his love could be broken so, so wretched in the illnesses that normally only struck Men. It was…beyond comprehension.

“If you are planning the number of braids, I wish for three.”

Aragorn chuckled into Legolas hair, then drew him back to observe his watery blue eyes. He held his fingers to the crown of Legolas’ head, pushing back the middle, then the left and the right of his hair. He nodded to himself, as Legolas smiled weakly and reached forward to touch Aragorn’s hair.

“I have often longed to braid your hair,” he whispered, a hint of guilt behind the soft words. Aragorn smiled, though he internally shuddered at the thought of his own hair plaited.

“I believe you will have to wait longer, melamin.” They both smiled, before Aragorn carefully settled Legolas back on the pillow. “Now, drink some water, and then rest. I will be here when you wake.”

Legolas nodded, then let his eyes fall closed. Aragorn faltered at such a sight, but shook it off, taking the bowls out of the room. He was greeted by Faramir, Eowyn and Gimli, who all started at his presence, their faces anxious.

“He rests, but he could not eat. I…don’t know what to do. I will attempt to cool him, but soon such temperature will turn to numbing cold, and I fear that will be far worse for him. Lord Elrond?”

“On his way, but it will be many days,” Faramir stated sadly, unconsciously drawing Eowyn closer to him. She gave no resistance, equally saddened and in need of comfort. Aragorn suddenly felt exhausted, overcome with the immensity of what had happened.

Legolas was sick, and no one knew what was wrong, or how to heal him. Already the malady had worked its evil for three weeks unhindered, and Aragorn feared that whatever they could do would be too little, too late. Once more berating himself, he turned and re-entered Legolas’ room.

~

It had been many long days of vigils and providing what relief they could. Legolas’ temperature had plummeted, so now he was always cold, shivering under three layers of blankets and with the fire fully stoked. The curtains were always open, even in the dead of night, in the hope that the sun and stars would comfort him by their presence.

Aragorn had yet to leave Legolas’ side, and Faramir was concerned. The Council could effectively run Gondor, as they had done for centuries, but it was the exhaustion marking his King’s face that truly worried Faramir. Eowyn and Gimli had both commented on it, but Aragorn could not be torn away.

Faramir entered with water and broth for them both, the midday sun streaming through the windows. Legolas was once more sleeping with his eyes closed, something that disconcerted Faramir even though he’d only seen Legolas sleep a few times previously. The vacant stare of Elfish sleep showed perfect peace, but this human imitation reeked of defeat and despair.

The Elfish prince was only covered with two blankets as the sun beat through the windows, and the fire was only ash in the grate. Aragorn was dozing in his chair by the bed, hand still grasping Legolas’ tightly. The King started as Faramir approached, smiling tiredly as he set down the tray.

“Thank you, Faramir. I trust all is well with Gondor?”

“All is well, Sire, though the people sorrow with you. Many gifts have been sent – flowers, homespun blankets and healing charms.”

“Bring them in – we have need of as much healing as can be found. I should…make an address of thanks.”

Faramir closed his eyes, wondering how to best place his words. “Sire, perhaps that would not be a good idea.” At Aragorn’s questioning glance, he continued. “You are…weary, and I am afraid it shows. You would be no reassurance in this state.”

Aragorn started to protest, but finally nodded, head bowed. “Will there be no end to this, Faramir?”

The broken voice hit Faramir through his heart, such words reminding him of Denethor in ways he would rather forget. He had spoken like that much at the end, and to hear Aragorn use such words now pained him greatly.

“The Lord of Imladris arrives in but a day or two, Sire. There is still hope. Prince Legolas is far stronger than what ails him, and he has never lost a battle before now.”

Aragorn straightened then, and Faramir thanked the Valar for small mercies. “Yes, you are right. Thank you, Faramir, you are a good man. Pass my thanks on to the people, give your reassurances to them.”

Faramir nodded, and left swiftly, wishing he believed his own words.

~

The gates opened two hours after dusk, and Elrond nodded to the guards as his horse carried him into the city. Faramir greeted him at the stables, and wasted no time with pleasantries.

“Prince Legolas is in the Halls of Healing, my Lord. Would you care to rest, or have something to eat?”

“I will see Legolas first, Faramir. They have waited long for my arrival.”

Faramir nodded curtly, and Elrond saw that such action pleased him. They hurried to the Halls, and Elrond could feel Legolas’ aura from quite a distance, although it was greatly faded. He entered the room and was not surprised to find Estel lying beneath the prince, surrounding him with strong arms as he shivered even in sleep.

Elrond touched the pale skin, frowning at the icy touch. The fire burned harshly in the corner, and Estel was soaked in sweat, but still Legolas remained frozen. Elrond felt for a pulse – it was too fast, for certain, and he could hear the rattling breaths even standing far above him. He noticed the wasting of muscle, the emaciating of the slim form so that only bone remained, jutting from the skin as if it meant to burst through at any moment.

Gently, Elrond brushed at his foster son’s forehead and Estel stirred. He blinked up at his father and smiled, carefully sitting with Legolas still balanced across him. The Elf did not even stir.

“Ada, it is good to see you. You have assessed him?”

Elrond nodded, and motioned to outside the door. Estel nodded, and carefully laid Legolas back on the bed before covering him in three blankets. He wiped his own body with a towel before sliding on an old tunic Elrond recognised from his Ranger days. They stepped outside, and Elrond observed his son’s weight loss and exhaustion. Automatically, he reached for his forehead, much to Estel’s confusion.

“You do not suffer a fever. That is one blessing, at least. This illness makes no sense, Estel. He should not be sick like this.”

“What do you think is wrong, Ada? Will he ever recover?”

Elrond noted the panic in Estel’s voice, and settled his hand on his son’s shoulder, trying to calm him though he knew his words would not. “He is Fading, Estel. Such circumstance is so very rare amongst Elves, and only then amongst the broken-hearted. Your Legolas is most certainly not that.”

Estel had grown very pale, and Elrond grasped him with both hands in fear that he would fall. When he finally spoke, his voice was but a faint whisper. “Is there…someone else? Have I torn him from another? Is that why he sickens like this?”

The words were clouded with tears, and Elrond quickly shook his head. “No, Estel, for even if it could be so, your love would heal him of such malady. As it is, I have never seen someone burn so brightly for love of another – he loves you, Estel, ever since he first met that cocky Ranger in Rivendell. Do not doubt him now.”

Estel took a deep breath, cleansing himself. He spoke again, this time with more weight. “Then, what is it, Ada? And what can be done?”

Elrond sighed deeply, hating the answer he had to give. “I do not know.” Estel’s face fell, but Elrond gripped his shoulders harder. “But we will find out, and we will punish those responsible. You have my word.”

Elrond just hoped his word would be enough.

~

Legolas woke alone, and for once, he was grateful for the fact. He hated to see Aragorn suffering so, and though he tried to force him away to rest, the stubborn Man would have none of it.

He was also ashamed, treated like a squalling infant. He wanted to be strong, to be the archer by his king’s side, the prince Gondor wanted as their own. Instead he was kept to a bed, unable to perform the simplest tasks for himself. It was humiliating and it scared him – what if he was to remain this way? What then?

The door opened, jolting him from his thoughts, and he saw Elrond enter. He attempted to sit up, but Elrond pressed him down lightly, a small smile crossing his lips.

“Peace, Legolas. Estel would never allow such formality amongst his family.”

Legolas waited for Aragorn to enter, but when he did not appear, he smiled openly at Elrond.

“Is Aragorn finally resting?”

Elrond’s lips quirked as he perched on the bed, and removed a precious stone from his tunic. “The herbs in his broth encouraged him somewhat. He should be asleep for at least twelve hours.”

Legolas bowed his head gratefully, though there was a twinge of guilt that Elrond had accomplished what he could not. It was his duty, after all, to take care of Gondor’s King, protecting him from all that could ail him. Another failure.

“He must have been exhausted to not notice such things,” Legolas muttered to himself.

“You fret too much, Prince Legolas. Estel is a grown man, and can take care of himself.” Legolas gave him an incredulous look, and Elrond smiled. “He just requires…occasional guidance.”

Elrond reached forward with the stone, placing in at Legolas’ temple. The cool touch made him gasp, and the slow sweep of ice across his forehead was pure bliss. Finally, the stone rested in the centre of his forehead, warm waves permeating his throbbing head. It was several minutes before Elrond pulled away.

“Has that eased your pain, Legolas?”

Legolas nodded sleepily. “Yes, Elrond, thank you.”

Elrond hesitated then, unsure of how to proceed. He met Legolas’ eyes squarely. “You are Fading, Legolas, and not even I can stay it. We must find the source of your woe and destroy it, or…or…”

“My light will be eclipsed forever.”

Elrond frowned at the simple matter-of-fact statement, and Legolas smiled thinly, his eyes becoming distant. “I had hoped to see Aragorn age with grace, the strands of grey playing in his hair, the gentle slowing of his form. Mithrandir had talked of powerful magic, of a child that could be formed from our sacrifices, our hearts. It would have been so perfect.” Legolas looked up then, his eyes glistening. “Alas, the Valar have always frowned on perfection.”

Elrond had no words, and the prince battled on, his words increasingly clouded by the tears trickling down his cheeks. “Gondor will fall, just as she said. And he will run to her arms, and they will offer each other comfort as they think of their departed loves, both swallowed like fragile mortals. I do not begrudge her that duty, for he has always carried love for her and always will.”

It took a few moments for Elrond to catch up with Legolas’ words, and then he finally spoke. “Who, Legolas? Who is the woman you speak of?”

“Why, Arwen Undomiel, Elrond. The Evenstar.”

Legolas saw realisation course through Elrond’s eyes and the Elven Lord rose quickly to his feet. He was smiling. “Legolas, I may know what ails you. I must speak with Estel. Eowyn will see to you.”

Elrond disappeared through the door and Legolas settled himself awkwardly onto the pillows, a dark feeling settling in his stomach. Once, he would have been included in such a council, allowed to decide his own fate. Now, trapped by the weakness of his body, he was disregarded, cast aside.

No longer an Elven prince, he thought sadly – merely an invalid of Gondor.

~

Aragorn was awakened by a commotion outside his door. He sat up slowly, wondering how he had possibly travelled to the royal bedroom. He had been eating with Elrond, under protest, and then…

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed, as he tuned into the argument in the corridor – Faramir and Gimli demanding he be left to sleep and Elrond insisting that he could not wait. Pulling his stiff body from the bed, Aragorn stood and stretched. He needed to be outside, to ride outside the walls of Gondor – but his prince was sick and nothing should keep him from his side. Including interfering Elven fathers.

Smoothing out his tunic, he strode to the door and pulled it open. Three pairs of eyes jumped to him and he eyed them all for several seconds, before standing back to allow them entrance.

“I am sorry to have woken you, Sire. Lord Elrond wished to speak with you.”

“Yes, Estel, I have discovered something of great importance!”

Aragorn started at the news, a smile flickering over his lips. He moved through the door with barely a pause.

“That is excellent news, Ada. You can tell me on the way to the Healing Halls.”

“Estel, you should rest…”

“Then I will rest with Legolas,” he turned back to them, frowning. “Surely you have not left him alone?”

“Nay, Aragorn, Eowyn tends to him. We just wanted you to rest!” Gimli interjected.

“Save your concern for Legolas, I am as well as I can be. Let us proceed.”

Aragorn marched forth, allowing barely a second for the others to catch him up. They kept pace, as Elrond began to speak his thoughts.

“You recall, Estel, when Arwen departed from Gondor?”

Aragorn’s expression darkened, but he nodded briefly, before quickening his pace. “I recall it well.”

Gimli shot Elrond a warning glance, but the Elven Lord continued.

“Did she seem…displeased? Vengeful?”

“Her thoughts were for Haldir, not me. She wished for a healing I could not give.”

“She does not Fade, Estel.”

Aragorn stopped suddenly, looking at Elrond with incredulity. His tired mind churned the words rapidly, his thoughts spiralling out of control. Arwen was broken-hearted, yet did not Fade. Legolas, loved devoutly, sickened more every day. What treachery was this?

“It is…not possible, surely? By the Valar, who could do such a thing?”

“A desperate woman, Estel.”

“That…that…elf!”

“Wait,” Faramir cut in, “what are you saying? That Lady Arwen is behind this?”

“We cannot dismiss the possibility, Estel.”

Silence filled the corridor for several seconds, before Aragorn started moving again. “Does Legolas know?”

“I wished to confer with you first.”

They entered the Halls of Healing, as Aragorn sighed. “Do you think that was wise, Ada? He will feel…excluded.”

“He is a big Elfling, Estel. He does not need you to speak for him.”

Aragorn pushed open Legolas’ door, in time to hear Eowyn’s soft words: “No, Legolas, they depend on you!”

Aragorn barely spared Elrond a look, before moving forward to Legolas and cupping his cheek. He started to speak, but lured by watery blue eyes, he kissed his prince instead, taking his time to reassure without words.

When they finally broke away, Legolas started to cough harshly, Aragorn drawing him close as he soothed him. After several painful seconds, Legolas relaxed in his arms and whispered, “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, melamin.” Legolas laughed softly, then coughed into Aragorn’s shoulder before settling once more. There was a peaceful silence over the room, before Elrond broke it gently.

“Now that the young ones are quite finished…” Aragorn sighed and laid Legolas carefully back on the bed, clasping his hand in both of his own. “We believe we have found the cause of your ailment, Legolas. Arwen has cursed you.”

Legolas frowned in confusion. “But why? Why would the Evenstar do such a thing?”

“She breaks from Haldir, Legolas. She would die from her pain,” Aragorn said sorrowfully, grasping his hand tighter.

“What does that have to do with me? I did not cause her grief.”

“No, you stole her hope.”

All eyes turned to Eowyn, as she started to explain. “Elves can be healed by the strong love of another, can they not? The King could have done such a thing for Lady Arwen.”

“When I chose Legolas,” Aragorn said slowly, the truth dawning, “she lost her chance to be healed. She should be dying.”

“My Arwen would never be defeated. She needed a way to survive.”

“So she passed her grief to me.”

Legolas’ soft, horror-filled words drew everyone’s eyes to him, as he realised the betrayal of the one he had called ‘cousin’. He had watched from afar as she had promised her hand to Aragorn, held his tongue after witnessing her meetings with Haldir before finally confessing all to Aragorn on the road to Isengard, prepared for the full condemnation of the Man he valued so highly. Aragorn remembered the night well, the soft Elvish words and softer Elven kisses. Arwen’s heart belonged to another; he was free to follow his.

“None of this is your fault, melamin. We will force Arwen to reverse the curse.”

There was a murmuring of agreement, but Legolas cut in angrily. “I would not kill her to spare my life, Aragorn. I would rather die than place this curse on her.”

“Legolas, what are you saying?” Aragorn cried indignantly. “She put this on you, she caused it all! The pain belongs to her.”

“I will not kill her, Aragorn!”

“And I will not see you die!”

Their heavy breathing filled the moment before Legolas spoke again, softer. “Then you must find another way.”

~

Elrond finally found his foster son in the palace gardens, resting on a rock beside the pond. His head was buried in his hands, his shoulders slumped, and Elrond knelt soundlessly on the grass, waiting for Estel to speak.

“He will not let me save him.”

“He will not let you murder for him.”

“Some deserve to die.”

Elrond started, unable to comprehend that Estel had just condemned his sister.

“Estel, for all her sin, Arwen in still the Evenstar. She is still your sister.”

“She is killing my beloved! This is Legolas, Ada, Legolas! How could she…our friend for so long, my love? She wishes to destroy her own brother!”

“She only wishes to save herself.”

Estel stood angrily, and Elrond gazed into the fury-drenched eyes of his son. “And you side with her! Ada, this is not some petty squabble of your children! Legolas is going to die, and Arwen is the cause! How can you possibly believe her to be right?”

Elrond paused a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. Estel argued well, all his emotions streaming from his eyes. It was difficult to concentrate under that intensity of feeling.

“I do not wish either of them to die, Estel.”

“This is her pain to bear!”

“You chose not to heal her.”

Elrond realised immediately that he’d said the wrong thing, his own emotion slipping past his careful guards. Estel looked both irate and drained, sinking in a quagmire of confusion.

“Is that what this is about, Ada? You wanted me to marry Arwen so that she might rule when all other Elves were gone? But what then of Legolas, Ada? He would have Faded to dust.”

“He is Fading now, Estel.”

“But I love him, Ada! It should not be this way – why can’t I love him enough?”

The words pierced Elrond’s heart, the raw desperation of his Estel settling inside him and forming a cold black lump. His son didn’t blame Arwen, he realised: he blamed himself. Though the evil of his Evenstar couldn’t be ignored, Elrond knew this was a far larger problem – he had hoped to drive Estel to such a confession.

“You feel guilt for what has happened? It is not your fault, Estel.”

In that moment, his foster son looked all of five years old, utterly helpless and lost. Elrond stood to draw him close, but Estel shied away.

“I should have known, Ada. I bound him to me without thought, heedless of the lives I would destroy. Must both of us die for my folly?”

“I would still love you.”

The faint whisper caused them both to turn, and they saw Legolas standing before them, if his upright wavering could be called a stand. He leaned heavily on Gimli’s shoulder, Eowyn clasping his right arm, her other arm encircling him. Estel rushed forward, and leaned the Elf against him, gasping when his hands met yards of cloth before reaching the flesh of his beloved. He was but a leaf to the wind – Elrond had never seen an Elf so thin, nor would he have wish to: it was painful to see.

“You should not be wandering.”

“Then you must stop this nonsense, Aragorn.”

The others backed away to give them space, but Elrond still caught the words that passed between the lovers in their own world.

“I do not want to lose you.”

“Nor I you. But the Valar have spoken.”

“What are you saying, Legolas? That we must stop fighting this? I cannot!”

“No, Aragorn, but you cannot kill Arwen. I will not allow it.”

Silence again, before Aragorn finally spoke. “Then, we will find another way.”

Legolas’ gentle smile was the only reward Estel needed, and Elrond watched the calm return to his son’s face. “Let me take you back to the Halls.”

As Aragorn moved to lift his prince, Legolas stopped him, gripping his beloved’s arm with surprising strength. “No, melamin, I am a grown Elf. While there is a mote of strength in me, I will not be coddled like an Elfling. Elrond has driven back the fever that plagued me – there is no need for the Halls now, and I am quite capable of walking. Take me to our rooms.”

The expression of disbelief on Estel’s face was priceless, Elrond thought, as Legolas reminded Aragorn of his strength, illness or no. Elrond admitted that he’d underestimated the Prince of Mirkwood – he was far stronger than he had seemed these past few days, and Estel was forced to reconsider all the decisions he’d made alone.

“But Legolas, you need the attention of the Healers! We can watch over you…”

“I do not need such supervision, Aragorn. I have been taking care of myself for many a century now. You may leave me in our rooms, and you can return to the business of Gondor.” Legolas held up a hand, as Estel began to protest. “You will not compromise your duty for me. Honestly, Aragorn, one would think I was your new-born brood of chicks!”

Estel stared long into the eyes of his love before finally nodding. “If you are certain, melamin…”

“Quite certain,” Legolas said, a smile spreading over his face, as the midday sun played across the gardens. Elrond watched as Estel took his beloved’s arm, the other clasped tightly around his waist, and began taking slow steps up into the palace.

“I hope the Elf is right. That there is another way.” Gimli’s face was still grim, and his hands clenched in front of him as if he wished for his axe.

“The fever may have abated but he is no better. If the curse is not lifted soon…” Eowyn trailed off, swallowing nervously and looking to Elrond.

“We must be patient. I will endeavour to find some answers. In the meantime, we can only hope.”

Elrond made to move away, but Eowyn grabbed at his arm.

“And what of Lady Arwen? What shall be done with her?”

Elrond met the woman’s sharp eyes, burning with the same anger that he had seen in Estel. It battered at him.

“Leave the Evenstar to me, Lady Eowyn. I am sure her hope will not be so present.”

Leaving two startled mortals in his wake, Elrond of Rivendell retreated to find the cure for his son’s beloved. And his own hope.

~

The journey to the heights of the palace left Legolas drained, but strangely satisfied. He was not quite the weak child he had seemed, and it pleased him that he could combat this weakness to some extent if not completely.

He had hated to take his Aragorn to task, but he could not stand such pity any longer. He was a Prince among Elves, one of the Nine, the Chosen of Aragorn son of Arathorn. Legolas of Mirkwood, of Gondor, was no immature Elfling, no mortal to bow before the frailty of his body. If he must die, he would do it with dignity.

He had no doubt, however, that Aragorn of Gondor was cursing the stubbornness of Elves, as they laboured towards their door. The stream of Elvish curses was a pretty good indicator. Finally, they stopped, the King of Gondor breathing heavily for a man in his prime.

“Are you in pain, Aragorn?”

The Man met his eyes squarely, a hint of mischief playing in his dark pupils.

“I am fine, melamin. And you?”

“Quite fine, Aragorn, thank you. Shall we proceed?”

“A moment, perhaps.”

“As long as you need.”

Legolas reached over to his beloved, gently pushing back askew strands of hair that had fallen in his face. His fingers lingered on the warm, flushed cheek, absently stroking the skin with his cool fingers. Aragorn sighed under the touch, and a soft smile spread over his face.

“You are more yourself today.”

“I feel it,” Legolas admitted, smiling as well. “You are a wonder for my soul.”

Aragorn’s eyes dipped, and he wouldn’t meet Legolas concerned gaze.

“No, not I, melamin,” he breathed. “Elrond, he…”

“You, Aragorn. You are the only reason that I live.”

Aragorn looked up sharply, and began to shake his head. “Nay, Legolas, don’t place that on me. I have failed you, I cannot make you well.”

Legolas’ heart ached for his Aragorn, and he tried to comfort him, only to be pushed away. Unwilling to surrender to the melancholy of his beloved, he grabbed hold of Aragorn, and shoved him against the wall, falling with him almost as an afterthought.

They breathed heavily, absorbed in the moment, as Legolas stared deep into Aragorn’s eyes. “I need you. You cannot give up on me now. We will find the answers.”

Aragorn sucked in a breath before releasing a shaky laugh. “Shouldn’t they be my words, melamin?”

Legolas smiled too, glad to see the light return to his King’s eyes. “Words are but an offering of the tongue.”

Aragorn trailed his fingers down the Elf’s arm, a roguish glint in his eyes. “I can think of better offerings.”

“Our room is but ten paces away.”

“Then let us make those ten paces quickly.”

Legolas laughed lightly, and pushed away from the wall, Aragorn reaching out to steady him as he straightened. They restarted their journey, and soon made it to the door of their room. Legolas pushed at the handle, and the door swung freely, the light from the windows streaming towards him, filling him. This was coming home.

The sun-lust pounded in his veins, and he broke away from Aragorn, stumbling towards the window. He grasped at the sill, pressing his forehead to the glass and drinking in the brilliant light, as the aura of their chamber settled into his bones. He felt strong again.

Warmth at his back, and rough hands skirted his waist, drawing him close. “All right, melamin?”

“Nothing could be better, Aragorn.”

~

Faramir found Aragorn simple tasks that afternoon, ones that could withstand the King’s half-attention. Every time hurried footsteps sounded outside in the corridor, Aragorn’s eyes were drawn to the door, expecting the worst. After the fifth such interruption, Faramir decided to speak.

“Sire, we both know that Legolas is quite safe in your rooms, even if Lord Elrond had not hung his healing tokens over the door. If there was something wrong, you would be the first to know.”

Aragorn straightened, and shuffled the papers in front of him, sighing under his breath. “Yes, you are right, Faramir. Now, what are these accounts for?”

“The stables, Sire. If you’d just sign here…”

They worked until dusk began to settle. Aragorn moved swiftly toward his rooms, bidding Faramir a good night as he moved to the wing he shared with Eowyn. Aragorn had felt closer to the young man recently, watching his courtship of the Rohan lady with a hint of amusement and sincere affection. He could not wait until their children graced the hallways.

When Aragorn arrived at their rooms, he found Legolas by the window, humming softly to himself. His long fingers stroked over the bow, the soft wax smoothed over the string. He set it aside for a moment, then lifted oil and poured it carefully onto a rag.

Aragorn leaned against the doorframe, watching his beloved work and losing himself in the memory of every time he’d watched like this: under the leaves of Lothlorien, by the dimmed fires en route to Isengard, and many times in the sunset of Gondor. And watching Legolas now, he could almost imagine…

Crash. The bottle smashed against the sill, and Legolas stared at his shaking fingers, a soft gasp escaping his lips. The oil soaked into the curtain cloth, dripping steadily onto the floor, but Legolas just stared at his fingers, at the tremor that would not cease.

“You always see my steepest falls,” he murmured softly, finally turning to look at Aragorn.

“I always watch you climb back up those mountains.”

Legolas stared steadily at him, but Aragorn did not move. He finally understood what Legolas needed from him – trust. He had to let Legolas find his strength for himself, and babying him would not hasten the process, only delay it.

“I am not strong enough.”

“You are stronger than I, melamin, you always have been. Come, the oil is staining the curtain.”

Legolas reached out the rag in his hand and cleaned the sill, before grabbing for the curtain and pulling hard. It came down in one motion, piled across his lap, and he smiled at Aragorn’s shocked expression.

“You wished for it down, did you not?”

Aragorn moved forward then, and pulled his beloved to him, turning him in the brilliance of sunset gold and pink. “I love you, Legolas.”

“Aragorn, you are not becoming sentimental in your old age, surely?”

“I still love you.”

The jest faded from Legolas’ eyes and he leaned against Aragorn, both swaying gently as if the breeze took them.

“And I you, melamin.”

“Then, let us leave the curtains.”

Legolas smiled and then laughed. “Your bed or mine?”

~

The sun had to blaze across his skin before he noticed it, stretching despite the protest of stiff wasted muscles and a stomach that was almost hungry. Legolas opened his eyes to the light, and judged the sun to hover around midday.

The other half of the bed was long empty, the musky scent of his Aragorn all but removed from the pillow. It had not been the night he had hoped, with exhaustion dragging at him despite Aragorn’s passionate kisses and searching hands. The King had settled him to sleep instead, but when he heard the Man’s breathing even, tears fell like rain from his unfocussed eyes. He had nothing to offer his love, no great gifts of mind or body now, only a dead weight and the edge of humour that had survived Moria, Fangorn and Helm’s Deep.

With the weariness still plaguing him, Legolas forced himself from their bed, anxious to chase the sun. He leant heavily against the wall as he reached for the washbasin, catching sight of himself in the mirror. Legolas reached for the reflection, hardly believing this creature of darkness was one of the fair folk, an Immortal Elf. His once-powerful legs had no substance, his stomach hollowed out like a barren crater of ice, and his ribs a rack, skin stretched taut as a bow string. His archer’s arms had suffered the same fate as his legs, a shadow of their former strength taunting him as he struggled to lift the basin from its stand.

It was his face however that caught him – his crystal blue eyes were sunken, his cheekbones mountain ridges amongst snow-swept valleys and his lips, the ones Aragorn still seemed to worship, were cracked and paled. He was a ghastly sight, unworthy of the title Prince and even the race of Elves. Where was the grace of his kind, the noble stance? What now of song, dance and truly immortal love? Where were all those blessings to be found in him?

Why did Aragorn still love him?

He was not a vain Elf – there was no cause to be, all Elves were of equal ethereal beauty. So, then, could Aragorn not have any of Elfkind, including the treacherous Arwen, if beauty was all he sought? Then, why did he love him, Legolas, not so outstanding in the eyes of Middle Earth?

Legolas had wondered this previously, but had not really had chance to examine it before now. True, he was a superb archer, but this was not an attribute one looked for in a lover. His skills in swordsmanship were poor amongst Men, his charm with words not so uncommon in the forests of Rivendell and Lothlorien as they were in his own beloved Mirkwood, and it was surely not his petty disdain for Dwarves or impatience with a Hobbit’s stomach. He was not easy to live with, a hard heart to win and whilst he counted loyalty amongst his virtues, it was difficult to earn in his deep-searching eyes.

So what had he, an archer and nothing more, to offer Aragorn King?

Tormented by his troubled mind, Legolas finished washing his abused form and struggled into a tunic he’d last worn for a lazy afternoon’s walk in Rivendell, chattering to his young Ranger friend who had returned with an important task but could spare this one moment for a reunion.

The memories tasted like ashes in his mouth, a reminder of everything he could no longer do. There would be no more pleasant walks in the forests of Rivendell – in this state, Legolas would barely make it to Rohan, let alone the beautiful forests close to the Shire. He wondered if he’d ever see the little Halflings again.

An impatient knock at the door, and Legolas whipped round, nearly overbalancing in the process. He couldn’t even turn gracefully anymore – exactly what kind of Elf was he?

“Elf? Are you awake?”

Gimli. Another from whom Legolas wished he could hide this. He had worked hard to earn this Dwarf’s trust and now, like this, not even a Dwarf could find anything to respect. Still, he was here, and he knew Gimli would not fawn and mother like Aragorn did. Gimli would understand his warrior’s wish to stand alone, without being clouded by this suffocating concern.

“You may enter.”

The door swung open and the Dwarf smiled at him, dressed in what passed as casual for a Dwarf, Legolas supposed. He could imagine perhaps a stroll through a cavern in the thin armour and carrying such a light axe – he shook his head, laughing to himself before offering Gimli a smile. It was returned with glee, and Legolas did not miss the relief that flitted through the dark eyes.

“Would you like to take a walk, Master Elf? I believe the garden did you some good.”

“I think I would, Master Dwarf. The sun is most…insistent.”

Gimli came into the room and picking up Legolas’ cloak from the chair, attempted to reach the Elf’s shoulders before Legolas laughed and put it on himself. He ignored the tremor of his fingers on the clasp and leaning into Gimli’s support, started for the door.

“Only an Elf would talk about an ordinary thing like the sun in such a way. Now, down in the mines, you wouldn’t catch such fanciful talk, oh no. That is why we get things done.”

Legolas smiled. He had missed such banter – everyone so serious and anxious, and yes, he understood such fears but for Elves mortality was not oft contemplated. Legolas had considered Aragorn’s fragile mortal life, that was true, but he had not confronted his own potential death until he saw Haldir and other Elves of Lorien fall at Helm’s Deep. Still, his own mortality was an alien thought to him, even as he now faced the possibility of it before his eyes.

Removing himself from such thoughts, he continued to step towards the sun and open air, continuing Gimli’s spirited conversation.

“Really, Master Dwarf? I thought you just raised monsters from the depths.”

“Ah now, that’s hardly fair, laddie. It was only that one time and you have us to thank for that shiny silver mithril you Elves are so fond of.”

So like a Dwarf to change the subject when he was beaten.

“And yet you could not forge Anduril, Flame of the West, for Aragorn. That had to be the work of Elves.”

Gimli thought a moment, and Legolas smiled secretly – he had the Dwarf cornered. “I suppose if creatures have a thousand years or more to contemplate such things, with no actual work to do, they might perfect a couple of arts. Us hard-working folk need to use our time more wisely.”

“Then why, Master Dwarf, if you are working all hours, are you able to take a pleasant garden stroll with a fanciful Elf?”

“I never said anything about me, did I now? I’m a great war hero, Elf, I have no need of diamonds anymore.”

Legolas pretended shock as they emerged into the sunlight. “A Dwarf without diamonds? I fear the sky falling on my head!”

“A little less cheek from you, laddie, if you please.”

Gimli guided him gently to the ground, a stout tree trunk at his back. Legolas rested his head against the wood and contemplated the beauty of the gardens once more, noting the small changes since his last proper visit. Not that he’d had much time for the gardens recently – Aragorn’s gift of their guardianship submerged beneath all the other more pressing duties of a prince consort. He idly wondered how the archery division were fairing and whether the banquet preparations were still proceeding as they should.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard, Master Elf. Wouldn’t want to break that pretty head of yours.”

“I was just thinking of my duties, Master Dwarf. Do not concern yourself.”

“Your only ‘duty’, Elf, is to make yourself well again. Leave those stuffy Men to their political fancies and let us veterans take our well-earned rest.”

Legolas allowed himself a smile. “You realise you include the King of Gondor in such recriminations?”

Gimli snorted. “Oh, he’s different, didn’t exactly have much choice in the matter, did he? And if he did have the choice, do you really think he’d be stuck in those meetings? No, he’d be out on the Plains with us, leaving dust trails and drinking good ale.”

“I should be his support,” Legolas muttered. “He needed me to be strong, and yet this is what I am, a burden and a distraction. It would be best for all Gondor if I followed the Sea.”

“Elf…” Gimli tone was angry and frustrated, as Legolas hauled himself to his feet and dreamily made to walk away. His legs failed him and he tumbled ungracefully to the ground, landing hand on his chest.

“You are possibly the stupidest creature I have ever encountered, Master Elf.”

Legolas sighed, knowing the foolishness even as he lay collapsed on the ground. Aragorn would stalk him to the ends of the earth, leaving Gondor in shambles and their desperately hard-won love a wreck upon the shore. What a waste that would be.

“I think you are probably right.” Legolas tried to roll over, but his strength had failed him completely and he let his head sink into the dirt. “Look at me. Prince of Mirkwood, one of the Nine. I can barely lift my bow!”

Coarse hands turned him out of the mud and supported him into a sit, dark Dwarfish eyes studying him carefully. “They’ll fix you, lad, they always do. It’s what they’re best at, those Elves and your Aragorn.”

“Don’t patronise me, Gimli!” Legolas said, voice bitter and angry. “I may well be this weakened, shaking ruin for all my eternal days, though the Fading will most likely claim me far sooner despite the efforts of Lord Elrond. And then Aragorn will look upon my dying form and recall – Yes, I loved a warrior once.”

“And if you believe for one moment that Aragorn only cares for your skill with the bow, you are a more deluded creature than I thought. He loves you, you daft Elf! He doesn’t see weakness or strength, only you, laddie, only you. If it…if it comes to that day, he’ll still see you the same way he always has – as his Legolas.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

Legolas looked up, and cursed under his breath. Why, when he left the Man for but a moment, did all these doubts flood back and yet, within an instant of his presence, all fade, fade away? Gimli moved aside to let Aragorn kneel in front of him and plant a soft, reassuring kiss to pale lips, warming the gradually freezing skin.

“Are you not meant to be working?” he murmured, ever mindful that the King of Gondor did not take days off.

“A convenient break in my schedule appeared,” said Aragorn, planting a trail of kisses across Legolas’ jaw, as Gimli hastily made his excuses and left.

“Let me – ah! – guess: you once again, oh, threw away the diary.”

“No, I took a sword to it.” Aragorn grinned at Legolas’ horrified expression, before kissing it away. “It’s…fixable.”

“To Mithrandir and a host of Sindarin, perhaps. You take this too lightly, Aragorn.”

“Did someone call?”

The deep, amused tone broke their bickering, and Legolas twisted in surprise, regarding the towering figure of Mithrandir standing beside Lord Elrond. He tried to stand in respectful greeting, but the wizard crouched down, placing a restraining hand on his chest.

“Peace, Legolas, I think we’ve known each other too long for that.” Mithrandir placed a hand to the Elf’s cheek, steadfastly ignoring Aragorn’s hovering presence. “The charms have slowed it well, but the weight still hangs heavy. Your strength still wanes?”

Legolas nodded, also ignoring Aragorn. “A little more each day. I can barely rise without aid.”

“Your appetite? Fever?”

“Lord Elrond put pay to the fever, but…I cannot eat. Food will not settle, not even a crumb of lembas will sit on my tongue.”

“And you have tried everything?” He now turned to Elrond, whose expression was grave.

“I only know one cure for this,” he said sadly, eyes brushing over Legolas’ and then Aragorn’s, pity mingling with impotent fury. Legolas knew how he felt.

“Yes, yes,” the wizard muttered to himself, before rising from the ground. “I will confer with Elrond a while, then we will see what can be done.”

Legolas watched the old lords depart before sighing wearily. The greatest powers in Middle Earth had come together for his salvation, and yet even they seemed to hold little hope. For the first time, Legolas Greenleaf contemplated his own mortality. It was not a pleasant reckoning.

“It took but a Hobbit’s will to collapse the forces of Mordor,” was the honey murmur in his ear, and Legolas allowed himself a brief smile.

“You have always been my hope,” he whispered, sinking back into Aragorn’s arms. “I know you will not desert me now.”

~

“A bad business all round, Elrond.”

Gandalf leaned back in the chair, sending smoke rings towards the high ceiling of Aragorn’s study. The room was cluttered with parchment, most of it gathering dust, but that did not prevent the wizard absently prodding at Gondor’s crop projections to see if it yielded anything of interest.

“It is hardly what we expected from peace in Middle Earth.” Lord Elrond sighed, and perched tensely on the edge of a desk.

“I don’t think any of us could’ve anticipated this. What with Arwen, and then Legolas…”

“To be that young.”

“We should have sailed a long time ago, my friend. What keeps us here?” Another smoke ring sailed upward.

“These Elflings and their catastrophes, what else?” All lightness dropped form the Elf Lord’s tone. “Never would I have thought her capable of it, Mithrandir, never. It pains me to even think of it.”

“And there is no chance she would revoke the curse?” Gandalf already knew the answer, but he hoped there were more avenues yet to explore.

“I have not even confronted her with this. Prince Legolas does not wish to cause her harm, and I abide by his wishes.”

“A most stubborn Elfling,” Gandalf commented, twirling his pipe absently.

“My son and he were obviously made for each other,” Elrond smiled, before the expression died from his lips. “If…such tragedy comes to pass, it will kill Estel, sicken him with grief quicker than any Elf. I would not see that happen to him, Mithrandir.”

“Let’s hope it does not come to that.” Gandalf stood, pacing with his staff tapping impatiently against the floor. “Why are the traditional protections not working?”

“I can only assume that they are, but are of insufficient strength.” When Gandalf looked at him questioningly, Elrond continued. “Elves die from wounds to the soul, and without the love of Estel, Legolas would Fade. As such, Estel’s love already sustains him and prevents him from Fading. As Arwen channels her own grief to Legolas, Estel’s love is not strong enough to counter this double effect of Fading, and so Legolas Fades. It is a complex theory, but it could perhaps explain what is happening here.”

Gandalf paused in his movement, the truth of Elrond’s words sinking in and his agile mind quickly rushing to latch on to this concept. “Could we not then channel this grief on again, to someone with strength to combat it?”

“I do not believe it is a question of strength, Mithrandir, just old sorcery as a lover’s bane. Some forbidding Elven father no doubt, or a jealous suitor jilted for another. Arwen must have found the key to these source enchantments, but even I do not pretend to understand the full extent of her treachery. To pass this on to another would mean that they should be free from love and then fall after the spell is cast, and even then it would be an uncertain thing. I do not believe the Prince of Mirkwood would accept even the smallest risk to another Elf.”

“I suppose that Men are out of the question,” Gandalf mused gloomily, seeing the usefulness of this knowledge expiring before his eyes.

“Not pure Men – at least, not that I would chance.” Elrond permitted himself a smile. “Though if that were the case we’d have both a Steward of Gondor and a Lady of Rohan competing for the honour.”

A chord struck with Gandalf and he murmured the words under his breath: “Pure Men…”

Suddenly, he threw his staff and caught it, a smile breaking over his face. Elrond looked at him, completely bewildered.

“King Elessar is not a pure Man,” Gandalf said triumphantly. “He has enough Elf in him to be strengthened by it, but enough Man not to Fade. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“It is not certain, Mithrandir…” Elrond cautioned, but Gandalf could see that the Elf Lord might just be convinced.

“Perhaps if we do not shift it all at once – if we could pass over a little at a time, allow their joint strengths to combat it…”

“It might not work, we might lose them both…”

“But we could save them both, Elrond. You said yourself that Estel would die without his prince.”

Elrond thought for a long moment, before appearing to reach a decision and meeting Gandalf’s eyes.

“Let us put it to them.”

~

“No. Absolutely not.”

“How certain are you?” Aragorn studied the two elders intensely, and Legolas looked at him in horror.

“You are not seriously considering this, Aragorn?”

“We are not sure of anything. We cannot know what Arwen has done, and I do not wish to involve her at the present time. It could kill one or both of you.”

“Or it could restore Legolas to full health,” Gandalf interjected, but Legolas was barely listening.

“Aragorn, you are not doing this.”

“What would it involve?” Legolas could not believe what he was hearing!

“A deep sleep, whilst we channel the grief to you. We ourselves are not certain of the details yet. After, patience from the both of you and plenty of rest,” Elrond smiled. “And that I mean.”

Legolas watched Aragorn smile and realised the situation was fast leaving his control. He grabbed hold of the king’s arm and shook him.

“Have you not heard a word I’ve said? You will not risk yourself like this!”

Aragorn turned to him, eyes hard.

“It is my life to do with as I chose! And if this could save you, then I shall do it!”

“Perhaps we shall leave you to talk this over,” said Gandalf diplomatically, extracting himself and Elrond from the royal reception room largely unnoticed.

“You need to think of your duty, Aragorn! Gondor needs her king!”

“And I need you!” Aragorn placed his hand on Legolas’ chest, dark eyes boring into crystal blue. “Here, here is where my duty lies. Without you, the White City is just another place.”

Legolas could not speak harshly to such frank, beautiful words but he had his own duty to perform. He was consort to the King of Gondor, and the kingdom always came first.

“Aragorn,” he said gently, “you owe these people your fullest devotion. This is the way it must be.”

Aragorn closed his eyes and bowed his head, fingers tightening on Legolas’ tunic. “And what of you, melamin? Do I not owe you my life, my heart, everything I breathe for?” He looked up then, and Legolas saw tears forming. His Aragorn never cried.

“You followed me up treacherous Caradhas, through dark Moria, across the never-ending Riddermark and even braved the twisted cruelty of Fangorn and never complained, never asked for anything. You have saved my life more times than I can count and my soul every day. If I cannot do this simple thing for you, then the Vala strike me, for I am no king!”

As always, Aragorn’s passion threatened to sweep him along with the tide and he could so easily give into these words and their ardour, but he was the king’s closest companion for a reason. He was always the one to see the wood amongst the trees, even after one of Aragorn’s more zealous speeches.

“This is no simple thing, Aragorn. You could die – and perhaps for no gain at all. Where then would we be, where would we leave Gondor? I cannot let you sacrifice yourself for what may be but folly.”

“But it could heal you! You would be strong again and I will be the king Gondor deserves. I am nothing without you, melamin,”

“You are plenty without me…” Legolas protested, but Aragorn was not finished.

“If I cannot be with you, then I shall not live another season. Your pain kills me even now. Trust me, Legolas, when I tell you that your passing will certainly mean mine.”

Legolas shook his head – it could not come to that! “It does not have to be that way! There is Arwen…”

“Arwen!” Aragorn released Legolas and stood, throwing his arms in the air. “As if I cared for Arwen! As if she could ever hope to fill your place in my life! You want me to bury your cold body and then run into the arms of the Evenstar, treacherous snake that she is? A thousand curses on Arwen Undomial and all her perfidy!”

“You don’t mean that, Aragorn…” Legolas persisted weakly, but Aragorn rounded on him.

“Oh, don’t I? Let her rot in Rivendell! She is not the one wasting away before my eyes!” Legolas winced but Aragorn only turned away, caught up in his own argument. “How could I love her, how could I even live with myself if I denied you this chance at life? I bound to me an Immortal Elf and look what I have done to him!”

Legolas stood suddenly and grabbed hold of Aragorn, pulling him into him. “You aided nothing I did not choose for myself. You think too much of yourself sometimes, Aragorn King.” He smiled then, idly brushing back a strand of dark hair back from his lover’s face, heart reaching a decision. “Let us live our lives fully, or let us enter the Halls of the Valar together. We have not been adept at loneliness so far.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened. “You concede?” Legolas nodded wearily and Aragorn beamed, crushing Legolas tightly to him. They stood in each other’s embrace for several long moments before Aragorn released him with a chaste kiss.

“Then let it come to pass.”

~

It had taken three long weeks for Elrond and Gandalf to glean the details of such a ritual, working with all manner of ancient scrolls and even the Lady of Lorien herself. It had taken several frank conversations with Faramir to ensure that Gondor was ready for such a trial but his Steward would support him in all things, despite his own reservations.

Now though Aragorn could see nothing that would turn him from his path. Legolas’ initial show of bravado had faltered as his weakening body had betrayed him, condemning him to bed like a frail old man. He slept more than anything and his body continued to waste, only the thinnest broth passing his lips and even that a chore. If Aragorn did not act, he could see his fair prince slipping from his grasp within a matter of days.

When Gandalf finally found him brooding on his balcony and quietly told him they were ready, his heart could have leapt from his chest for joy. Without many words, he had made simple demands of Faramir and only broken his composure for Eowyn’s tearful embrace.

Now he stood in his rooms, watching Legolas sleep and hoping to all the Valar that his aid would not be too little, too late. The dulled blue eyes fluttered open, as if sensing his presence and a sleepy smile graced the Elf’s pale lips.

“You think too much,” he whispered hoarsely.

“They are ready,” Aragorn said simply and Legolas shifted, eyes blinking in shock.

“Truly?” he breathed, and Aragorn nodded.

“Then let it come to pass,” was all he murmured before his eyes drifted shut again and Aragorn settled a hand on the golden hair, whispering soothing nonsense to his prince. He undressed slowly, trying to look on it as a night of rest with his beloved even as the sun shone brightly outside and Gandalf and Elrond began their chanting.

He slid under the coverlet and pulled Legolas to him, wrapping the Elf tightly into his embrace as if never to let go. Gandalf placed wreaths on their heads and the chanting grew louder and louder in his ears until he surrendered to the pull, the sight of his Elf guiding his dreams.

~

Legolas shifted sleepily, wondering what had woken him. He buried under the covers, searching out Aragorn’s hand…and cursed. It was like a block of ice! Legolas’ eyes flew open and he touched at Aragorn’s still face, panic rising as he encountered yet more cold.

“Aragorn? Aragorn! Wake up, please!”

“Peace, Legolas! You’ll wake the whole castle!”

Legolas sat up to face Mithrandir, confusion mounting as his fingers refused to leave Aragorn’s cheek. “What is going on here? Is he sick?”

“Allow a moment for your memory to catch up with you, Prince of Mirkwood,” interjected Elrond from the doorway, holding a bowl of thick soup. “And then drink this.”

Legolas struggled to grasp the salient details even as his hands entwined themselves in Aragorn’s hair. It was all a sleepy haze, but a few things filtered through…a terrible sickness…losing hope…a possible cure…

“What have you done to him?” Legolas cried, realising Aragorn’s state was his own fault. “Change it back! Return the grief to me!”

“Legolas, hush, he is really quite well. The sleep is merely to protect his strength, as he allows you to regain yours. Now drink!” Elrond handed over the bowl and Legolas reluctantly released Aragorn to take it.

It was then it dawned on him that his hands weren’t shaking. He stared at his hand, noticing for the first time the glow that had been absent of late, the warmth where there had been chill. But all at Aragorn’s expense.

“When can the second ritual begin?”

“When you are strong,” Mithrandir said.

“I am strong now!”

“You have barely been awake five minutes, Legolas. A couple of days…”

“Which Aragorn lies in stupor, and Gondor remains without her king? I will not do it! Begin the ritual now!”

“We shall do no such thing!” Mithrandir stood, towering over the bed. “Listen to me, little prince, we are here to help you. And you shall listen to what we have to say!”

Legolas bowed his head in submission, but pulled Aragorn closer to him. “Yes, Mithrandir.”

“You are still weak – I would not send you into battle in this state and so I will not set you against this monstrous grief. It is that simple.”

“You wish me to shoot targets?” Legolas responded tartly, his impatience mounting. “This whole situation is uncertain – we do not know Aragorn is safe in this state or that I will even become stronger! All that we know is that returning the grief to me will restore him and truly put this cure to the test. I will not sit idly by while Aragorn is at risk!”

Mithrandir and Elrond exchanged looks as Legolas waited, constantly trying to reassure himself that Aragorn was still there and that the horrible feeling of loss and solitude was only temporary. But when it came to Aragorn, his instincts were impeccable and he somehow knew that time was of the essence.

“Drink that, rise and walk around the room and…then we shall return you to the flowing state.”

Legolas smiled. For the first time in weeks, he had true hope.

~

///‘He is Fading, Estel.’

A wood. A malignant darkness that threatened to choke him. Why was it so dark?

‘So weak…not worthy…such shame…’

He knew this place. It had once been green, had it not? A brilliant emerald that hurt the eyes with its intensity. Now grey and black and shadow.

‘But…you would worry. It will pass.’

Was that a light in the distance? A pinprick, a tiny straining beacon…or did his eyes deceive him?

‘Prince Legolas is far stronger than what ails him, and he has never lost a battle before now.’

A soft song and the light was brighter, closer. The chill left him and he began to feel warm again.

‘You are a wonder for my soul.’

Through the murky darkness, a figure began to take shape, emerging from the light. Or was it the light, a glow unlike any he’d ever seen? He squinted at it, trying to see.

‘You have always been my hope.’

Closer still, and he could see a slim Elven build beneath soft green clothes. A sheet of blond hair swayed behind the fair creature, though a face still eluded him. Who are you, fair stranger? Let me see you…

‘Then let it come to pass.’///

Aragorn opened his eyes.

A gentle breeze fluttered the curtains at the open window and the warmth of the sun penetrated his weary limbs. He felt as if he’d had ten days hard ride without rest and yet his soul was filled with an inexplicable joy.

It took but a moment of awareness to realise Legolas was by his side, and a further moment to realise why that was important. Suddenly anxious, he rolled over to face his beloved and was met by open, vacant Elfish eyes. A small gasp of delight was enough to cause the eyes to flutter before awareness crept in and he was face to face with his glowing, beautiful archer.

“Don’t you have work to do?” muttered the Elf with good-natured irritation, before a slight frown appeared between his eyes. His mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ as realisation dawned and he seized hold of Aragorn’s upper arms before staring at his own hands in wonder.

“We…truly? Can this be real?” Legolas laughed giddily and released Aragorn, pushing aside the bedclothes.

“Legolas, where are you going?” Aragorn said lightly, reaching to catch him and bring him back to the warmth but the Elf was already testing his legs and stood abruptly, before taking a hesitant step.

Which is when he promptly fell down.

“Melamin, are you hurt?” cried Aragorn, but Legolas simply rolled over onto his back and grinned at Aragorn from the floor.

“No, but I do feel rather foolish. Best stay where you are.”

The door burst open and they both looked up to see the Lady Eowyn staring at them before clapping her hands together. “You have woken! I will fetch Lord Elrond!”

She rushed out and almost collided with Faramir, who moved out of the way before entering the room. With only a few chiding words, he helped Legolas back into bed, where Aragorn gratefully received him into his arms. Still, he had to be a king for a moment before his mind turned to joyous celebration.

“How long have we been sleeping? How fares Gondor?”

Faramir smiled. “As well as she can without her king – three weeks is a long time.”

Aragorn stared at him incredulously. “I have slept here for *three weeks*?”

Faramir appeared thoughtful for a moment before nodding. “It would be three weeks tomorrow. But only one since Prince Legolas woke.”

Legolas nodded against his side, as if this made sense to him, and Aragorn turned to him. “You woke?”

“Yes, but not for long. You were too still, too cold – I demanded to be spellbound immediately.”

“You demanded? You were in no position to demand anything! What if your impatience had meant your death?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” the Elf replied lazily, placing a quietening finger over Aragorn’s lips and smiling. The argument effectively ended, Aragorn turned back to Faramir.

“You cancelled the banquet then?” he said weakly, a smile gracing his lips and Elrond glided into the room with Eowyn, a smile of pleasure on his lips.

“You are both awake! Mithrandir will be pleased. How do you feel?”

“Prince Legolas has already tumbled to the floor,” said Faramir in amusement, and Elrond fixed a disapproving gaze on the Prince, who smiled in return, too pleased to truly appreciate his scolding.

“Well, that was to be expected really, wasn’t it? I know of nothing to cure the stubbornness of Mirkwood’s prince.”

“Gondor’s prince,” Aragorn murmured into his Elf’s ear, and a faint blush rose on those exquisitely pale cheeks.

“I see you are both in fine spirits. This does not mean you will go charging about like wild horses. In fact, the sooner Prince Legolas returns to his own bed, the better for all concerned.”

One arch eyebrow was directed at them and Aragorn was mortified, memories of the chastisements of his youth flooding back to him. ‘And what, young Estel, is so interesting about the Elven women in their pool?’ sprang to mind, and the king coloured.

“Ada, please, we are not so…”

“I will have no argument on this, Estel. Some broth for the both of you – your bodies surely need it after such a long starvation – and then Legolas will be helped to his own rooms. The wonders of such a bizarre human custom have finally come to light!”

Aragorn scowled but held his tongue, as Legolas whispered silkily, “All the more reason to get well, melamin. An…incentive.” The last word rolled off his tongue like honey and Aragorn gave the Elf and his laughing eyes a pointed look. His prince had lost none of his wicked humour.

“Then we are agreed. Rest well now, and you will soon both be…enjoying life once more.”

With a smile, Elrond departed, taking Faramir and Eowyn with him. The bedridden couple exchanged looks.

“After all these years, Ada still thinks me a child,” Aragorn grouched, but Legolas laughed lightly, a beautiful sound that forbade all despondence.

“With a clear spirit of health, our…reunion will be all the more sweet. And oh, Aragorn King, how I have missed you!” The Elf was purring now, and Aragorn was caught in the snare, stealing a kiss while he still could.

“You are a tease,” he growled, and Legolas laughed again, returning his kiss tenderly.

“But I am *your* tease,” he said simply, and on that promise, Aragorn decided it was worth the wait.

~

Legolas crossed out a couple of names and swapped their positions on his chart. He once more scrutinised the progress reports and decided that he would double the sessions for a couple of weeks to make sure the archers’ training didn’t fall behind. He wanted everything ready for the anniversary of Aragorn’s coronation in two months.

He moved around the papers on the coverlet until he found his diary and looked for appropriate gaps for such sessions. Between resource negotiations, all the reorganisation of the banquet and Aragorn’s insistence that he actually schedule one afternoon per week with the king, as if he needed an appointment to interrupt Legolas’ work, the diary was pretty much full. This would be a problem.

“By the Valar…Legolas, what are you doing?”

“Managing my time,” said Legolas, without even looking up. “And I believe you should be meeting with the Council.”

“Finished early. I came to see you.”

“And taunt me with your freedom, no doubt.”

The mattress shifted and Legolas’ beautifully-organised papers floated to the floor or were sacrificed to the cause, as Aragorn crawled his way up the bed and tilted Legolas’ chin.

“I can think of better ways to taunt you,” he grinned but Legolas just attempted to salvage his diary from amongst the wreckage.

“What is all this anyway?” Aragorn lifted the diary from the gentle Elven hands, ignoring Legolas’ pointed glare

“My duties. I am attempting to put them all in order, but it appears I have run out of time.” Legolas frowned at the book, hoping a space would appear but before he could scrutinise it more closely, there was a hand obscuring his view.

“I was reading that,” he said mildly and attempted to push the hand away. The book, however, disappeared from his lap and sailed across the room, hitting the wall and spilling its pages across the floor. Legolas’ eyes narrowed.

“And what exactly has that achieved?”

“A convenient break in your schedule,” Aragorn said, grinning and caught Legolas’ protesting mouth up in a kiss. His resistance faded and he allowed himself to be pushed back on the coverlet and smothered in Aragorn.

“Incorrigible…” he hissed in delight and Aragorn gave a low murmur of agreement before continuing his conquest. Legolas carefully yielded and bided his time, waiting for the right moment and then pounced, carrying a startled Aragorn over onto his back and grinning ferally at him as his long hair curtained them off from the world.

“Are you in pain, Aragorn?” he teased and the man tried to kiss him but couldn’t quite reach, becoming increasingly frustrated as Legolas continued to idly pin him and watch in amusement.

“Elfish tease,” he groused and Legolas smiled before lowering his body to cover Aragorn’s and kissing him gently, lovingly. Then, he broke away, leaving Aragorn dazed.

“Now be off with you. And return to me my diary.”

Aragorn frowned. “You’re meant to be resting.”

“Well, if you do not fetch it, I will be forced to retrieve it myself. And that would be even less restful, would it not?”

Grumbling, Aragorn rolled off the bed and Legolas retrieved his scattered papers. Once they were ordered, he looked up to see Aragorn staring at him. It was a stare of love, of desire, and he blushed, turning back to his work with little thought for it.

Desperately trying to ignore Aragorn, he picked up a clean sheet and began to write. His lead archer could be trusted, couldn’t he? He was perfectly capable of leading a few training sessions – those extra sessions were taken care of, and why not the first sessions too? Legolas smiled at the cleared space in the diary.

Of course, he didn’t have to supervise *all* of the picking of china, food, linen and all other fripperies for the banquet. He’d already done the preliminary work anyway and they all knew their jobs, had been doing fine without him for years.

Now he had three free afternoons instead of one. With a triumphant smile, he crooked his finger at Aragorn, receiving a smile of his own.

“A convenient break has appeared,” he said.

~

She sat in her bower, singing to herself and listening to the trees’ response. It was light and free and she smiled.

Her father had returned a few weeks previously, secluding himself away in the library. She had barely seen him and he had not spoke of his visit. Perhaps…perhaps it was over. She felt a tinge of sadness that it had come to this, but it was done now. What could she do?

The trees were disturbed, delighted, and she could hear horses approaching. Moving gracefully through the branches, she arrived at the ground and made her way to the courtyard. Many others had gathered and she could see the horses head toss with pride; they were Elven horses and that must mean…

“Arwen.”

Her father’s voice called and she had to move forward, as the crowd parted and revealed Estel. He was laughing with Elrond and then his eyes met hers and the mirth died away. He reached out a hand and…and…

There was Legolas, perfect serenity and grace, his aura strong. Estel released his hand and Legolas moved towards her, eyes clear, no trace of emotion on his face. The gathered Elves were hushed.

“Sister,” he said softly and bowed to her, distant, formal. She returned his bow, suddenly nervous. What was going on here?

There was silence as neither spoke but regarded the other. Arwen broke first.

“You…you are looking…well, Legolas.”

She saw Estel flinch behind Legolas and struggled to control her own composure.

“As are you, fair Arwen,” he said clearly. Then, lower, “But we both knew that, didn’t we?”

She was shocked, unnerved, and could not say a word. Legolas took her arm coldly and led her away into the wood. Nothing was said. It was unneeded.

~

Aragorn was tired of waiting. He had been sitting with Elrond for hours, drinking Elven wine and discussing how their respective domains were faring. It was tedious at best.

“Patience, Estel. They have much to discuss.”

“He should not have come, Ada. We could be far away.”

“He would not have settled for that, Estel. Her actions wounded more than his body. He is not vengeful but he does require closure.”

Aragorn was not satisfied but he did not reply. If Legolas needed this, then he would wait; that did not mean he would be happy about it.

“I am sorry I have kept you.”

Aragorn sprung to his feet, automatically scanning his love for injury. Legolas smiled indulgently.

“Legolas?” Elrond raised an inquiring eyebrow and Legolas nodded.

“We are at peace. She is…reflecting.”

Elrond turned away and made to leave. “You are finished here, then?”

“We will leave now, yes.”

Aragorn felt sure he had missed something but allowed the strange parting to occur, leading their horses out of the gates as Legolas communed with various trees, his spirits rising.

As dusk fell and they emerged from the trees, Aragorn stopped and turned to Legolas. He was already watching him, a smile resting on his lips.

“You do not understand.”

Aragorn shook out the bedroll and shook his head. “Why…why did Ada dismiss us like that?”

Legolas sat heavily, the day catching up with him, and Aragorn drew him down to their bed, embracing him and waiting.

“It was not a dismissal, melamin. I believe he was…ashamed.”

“Ashamed?” Aragorn frowned in confusion. “He has done nothing!”

“And that is it precisely. He has not reproached Arwen, has not exiled her or even spoken to her about it. In the end, he kept away, unable to face his own daughter because he is afraid that he cannot.”

“I know that I cannot,” Aragorn said vehemently and Legolas sighed.

“I do not think the Evenstar will be with us much longer.” Aragorn stared. “She has expressed a desire to follow the sea.”

There was nothing to say.

~

“Are you ready, Master Dwarf? It is a beautiful morning.”

Gimli watched as Legolas emerged from the gardens, a being of light once more. It was comforting to see.

“Aye, I