Making It Right

Part 16

Posted: April 2003
Author: Kharessa Bloodrose

*****

Pale. Legolas was no longer marble made flesh, but moonlight solidified. Physical strength had departed as the elf's energy was concentrated on some otherwhere, somewhere beyond the stars where pain was a myth and grief a mystery. It seemed to Aragorn that Legolas's still body might blossom wings, his uncertain solidity return to moonlight.

Love him. Arwen had said, and Aragorn silently cursed himself for his failure in love. Somehow in trying to do what was right he had committed unutterable wrongs.

"Legolas." He whispered, and moved to lie beside the unmoving elf. He had not touched the archer so tenderly since their first encounters outside of Minas Tirith. His fingers brushed through the blonde tresses tentatively, and he began to slowly take out the braids, letting the elf's hair fall in a soft curtain around his face. "I love you, Legolas. I'm sorry."

It seemed to him that he saw tension in the fair face, a slight tightening of the jaw, a twitch of eyelids. Aragorn waited, but the archer did not wake. With a soft sigh he lay down beside him and enfolded him in his arms. The bond between them had grown fragile, but Aragorn could sense that it was yet unbroken. He could see it in the faint color that barely touched Legolas's cheeks, appearing now at his closeness, his touch. It shamed him, seeing that pale pink blush, knowing that he had it in his power to give life or death to this being of unutterable beauty and had spent all these long months slowly crushing him under the weight of his own fears and worries.

He lay beside Legolas until after day had dawned, holding him, whispering to him, urging him back from that interior twilight he had fled to. Only when he was sure that the elf would remain did he rise, stiff and exhausted from his sleepless night to attend to those few duties that could not be delegated or postponed. He pressed a kiss to Legolas's forehead before leaving, casting the elf a gaze full of regret and sorrow as he shut the door.

*****

His brows knit in confusion when he awoke. He knew he was in Aragorn's bedchamber, recognized the feel of the sheets, scent of Arwen, scent of Aragorn. His position in the bed was wrong, though; Legolas had always slept on the left side during the brief time he had shared this bed with Aragorn, but now he was in the middle. A sardonic smile crossed Legolas's face as he considered this placement, wondered if Aragorn had done this in a heavy handed attempt to make a point.

The scent of perfume on the pillow at his left was stronger. He sat up in spite of the weakness he felt, the wavering feeling that afflicted his limbs and made his head swim. This was not his place. Why Aragorn had brought him back, both to his bed and his life, was a mystery to Legolas, but he had no intention of remaining. The man had made himself clear, and Legolas had had enough.

He had to sit at Arwen's vanity to braid his hair; the effort of remaining on his feet was too much for him. The unsettling feeling of watching himself from a distance returned to him as his fingers moved, re-plaiting hair that he could not remember taking down. Had Aragorn done that? He imagined Aragorn touching him as he slept, running his sword callused fingers through his blonde tresses while he was unaware, perhaps touching him otherwise as well. A shudder ran through his body, and he licked his dry lips.

It seemed to take hours to finish, but at last he dragged himself back to his feet. The door seemed as if it was miles away, but he turned towards it with stoic determination. He knew where he wanted to go, and he knew how to get there. It did not matter how long it took, or if the first leg of his journey took him no further than the nearest public house. It didn't even matter that he had not the strength to raise his bow or draw his knives; no one in Minas Tirith would bother the king's pet archer. All that mattered was leaving the palace.

Then the door opened, and Legolas swallowed hard, blinked eyes that stung with frustrated, angry tears. Aragorn stood there, staring at him with sorrowful gray eyes that looked at him and through him, that pinned him in place, that refused to allow him to move. The man's clothes were rumpled as if he had slept in them, his eyes were bloodshot and purple shadows colored the puffy flesh beneath them. Legolas stood, willing himself not to sway, and Aragorn crossed to him.

"Let me make it up to you." Aragorn spoke softly but not pleadingly, reaching out to almost touch the blonde silk braids at the elf's temple. His hand hovered there, sword callused fingers moving nearly imperceptibly in anticipation. Legolas tilted his head slightly, allowing the contact.

Finger tips ghosted over braids, gliding back into a full, soft caress. Legolas closed his eyes briefly, the growing warmth within him at the gentle touch at war with his anger. Opening them, he found himself faced with storm gray eyes – patient, dignified, asking rather than taking. No cloud of lust and fury here, no barely restrained violence. Instead those familiar eyes held something much softer yet more fierce, something more complicated than the fires of animal carnality.

"I am so sorry, Legolas." Finger tips lightly tracing the line of his jaw, then skating upwards over the high contours of his cheekbones. "Please."

The elf's hands clenched into fists as he stepped forward into the man's embrace, suddenly and fiercely hating the quest they had been sent on, the ring, Arwen, Aragorn, himself. Hating and needing as he tilted his head back, felt the man's lips tenderly brushing his own in a chaste kiss. Hating as hands gently stroked his back, as he listened to softly spoken words of comfort, as he was rocked like a child. Wanting to strike out, to bring this man low in a display of elven strength and speed, and wanting to hide forever in his arms. Aragorn kissed his forehead, stroked his hair reverently, and Legolas trembled as he rested his head on the man's shoulder.

"Let me make things right."

"And how do you propose to do that, Aragorn?" Legolas said into the wrinkled silk of the man's shirt, and his voice was low, brittle. He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You are a man of honor, remember?"

"I was an ignorant fool. I didn't know that your life depended on this, and you did not tell me."

"I did not know, myself. I thought I would leave, sail west. What happened?"

"Arwen told me. She felt it, what was happening to you. She's been feeling it all along." He led Legolas back to the bed and eased him down. The elf's gaze fell on the pillow, perfume scented, and a bitter smile twisted his lips. "She told me ‘twas not your fault nor mine, and that now I have the lives of two elves in my care."

"How understanding of her."

"The things I did… I did them out of ignorance and fear. I thought I was betraying her, but she says that she knows that I have never done that. She says it is you I have betrayed." Aragorn looked down at his hands. "Can you believe me, Legolas?"

Legolas trembled, hurt fury warring with need. He knew Aragorn was speaking the truth. There could be no lies between them, no failure in understanding. The damnable bond that had made their lives a misery since their return to Minas Tirith ensured that. At long last Aragorn's heart was telling him one thing and one thing only, and as he stared at the fading bruises on his wrists he knew he could not refute or deny that.

"She is more important to you than I am." He said the words as a last resort, not believing them as he spoke them, not liking the taste they left in his mouth. They were the words of a jealous girl, a bitter girl who expects to be jilted, a girl looking for an argument. They were the only words he could think of to say.

"No, Legolas, she is not." Aragorn put an arm around his slender waist, pulled him close. "Neither you nor she will ever hold a higher place in my heart. I do not know how this can be, but so it is. Among men this would be unacceptable. I did what I thought was right, tried to make my first choice my only choice based on that. I was wrong, and we all suffered for it. You suffered the most, and for that I am so sorry."

He tightened his grip on the elf, and almost unwillingly Legolas returned the embrace. "This is not the usual manner of things among elves, either."

"I know. But will you let me try? Arwen will not leave, and she does not will that you do so either. She was stricken with grief at the thought that you might die, and it was she who helped me to find you and then care for you."

"Tell me this, Aragorn, and tell me honestly. Is it for me that you do this, or for yourself?" Legolas asked tiredly, and Aragorn frowned.

"I don't understand you."

"Everything you've done thus far, you've done for yourself. Whether to relieve your guilt, to comfort yourself, or to maintain your honor it's always been for you. You decided you were in love with me because you felt guilty. You remained my lover because you needed someone. It wasn't for Arwen that you left me in the dirt, but because you couldn't stand to look yourself in the eye. Now you want me to stay, and I ask you Aragorn, is it because you want me to stay or because you so desperately need to assuage that guilt again?"

Aragorn bowed his head, forehead touching blonde braids. "Truthfully, Legolas, I don't know yet. We can find out together, though, if you will. You are no prisoner here; you can always decide to leave."

"At least you are honest." Legolas shifted in Aragorn's arms. He felt heavy, dull, nearly beyond questioning or caring. Paradoxically he also felt warmed, the heat of the man's body and emotions returning life to his own being. He could sense the guilt and shame that coiled within the man, but he also saw the love that sparked behind that. Azure eyes closed as he leaned his head against the broad chest. He would stay. In spite of all the words he had spoken, there was really no question of that.

*****

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