Title: The Return of the King (which, yes, is also Tolkien's, but it's been
stuck in my head for a week and insisted on heading this fic.)
Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien. I am not J.R.R. Tolkien. I am not – yeah, you get the point.
Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas (since they're both male, this would mean slash.)
Summary: Sequel to 'Stars on the Sea'. Aragorn made a promise to Legolas that he plans on keeping. (Vague? What does 'vague' mean?)
Author's Notes: Um, you need to know who Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli are. You need to know that Legolas and Gimli sailed into the West after Aragorn died, and you need to know that I know nothing about sailing, so if anything is mistitled I apologize. (Explanation of the part of the story that appears to be confusing everyone at the end.)
~*~
The ship groaned, buffeted by the tall, white crested waves of the ocean. Though it was not yet evening there was no sun, but only a cloudy sky as murky as the churning waters below it. A canvas sail billowed in the sea wind, filling with salty air as it pushed the ship on. Farther from the shore, farther from the cries of the seagulls, from the forests and caves of Arda that had been home for so long. And farther from the tomb of the one who had been his true home, his love and life and strength. All of them gone, buried in darkness with his king. A wave crashed over the prow, drenching him as he stood at the ship's helm. He did not even notice, lost in his own thoughts and the sight of the ever- receding shore. Pale, dull hair that had once shone like the sun was plastered wetly to his scalp, revealing pointed ears that should have been entranced by the ocean song. But he heard nothing – not the sea, or the gulls, or the unhappy grumblings of his dwarven friend – nothing except the choking silence of death. ~I love you.~
His emerald eyes were wide and vacant, but his broken heart pleaded to return to the shore, to stay beside his lover's grave. ~Stay with me?~ He jerked the great wheel as though to turn back, but let it go before the ship could veer. ~Always.~ A soft cry escaped his lips, and he bent his head and did not look again to the sandy shore. If he gazed too long he began to see fire, silhouetting two figures wrapped in each other's arms, staring into the sea. ~Melethron~ It did not matter where he went now, for there was no path that led to Aragorn. To his home. There was only death, and grief, and the sound of promises broken, promises that could not have been kept. ~I will not leave you.~ The sea was mute, for Legolas had no soul left to hear it with, and though the sea spray chilled his hands he felt it not. There was only the soft, husky tone of a man's voice and the rough, warm feel of a bearded cheek pressed to his. ~I care for you.~ And it was more real to him that the wood beneath his fingers, or Gimli's anxious words about the coming storm.
The rain drew him from his memories, even as he recalled spinning, spinning under the trees of Imladris while it soaked his skin, and stopping to find a pair of gray eyes watching him intently and without shame. That rain was warm on his skin, while this stung his face and numbed his chest. But the sky remained a stormy gray, the very color of a king's pale eyes. Pale, gentle, sleeping eyes, never to wake. Gimli had to shake him, shouting worriedly that the waves were almost as tall as balrogs. Then the aging dwarf's eyes widened and he clamped his mouth shut, afraid to bring up any more memories. Legolas gave his dear, gray haired friend a small smile and gazed blankly at the tempestuous sea. He thought of the song of Amroth, who built a ship to carry his love to Valinor, but she did not come and – despairing – he threw himself into the ocean's cold embrace. Legolas wondered if it was peaceful, in the depths of the sea. ~Promise me.~
The ocean was fierce but gentle, always moving but ever still. It reminded him of Aragorn, in that way. ~Promise you what, my king?~ But the sea had not so much passion, nor such grace. The sea never held him captive, as Aragorn had. ~You know.~ They had been bound to each other, bound closer than flesh and bone allowed. But flesh and bone remained longer than souls, which fled with the last breath. ~Do you make riddles, Aragorn?~ Dark eyelashes, and fragile skin, and long, black hair. Aragorn had not looked old, not even as he sickened and grew weak. A pale, night tressed shadow wasting way before his lover's eyes. ~I only speak my heart, fair prince, whose thoughts you already know.~ There was a storm blowing in, and the murky clouds had become black with terrifying anger. ~I promise never to leave you again, if that is what you ask.~ Wind whipped Legolas' long hair over his eyes, obscuring the raging sea from his view. A large wave nearly threw him off of his feet. ~Nay, 'tis not that. Only that you take care, for it is my heart beating in your chest.~ Gimli bellowed a command to his elven friend, but Legolas could not hear him, for the storm drowned out his dwarven roar. And the memories . . . the memories spoke louder than any storm. ~I promise.~
Gimli pointed above their heads, and through the driving rain Legolas could see the sails straining the mast. They needed to come down, or the mast would break and they would be lost. He climbed nimbly up the wooden pole, though the sharp plunging of the ship left him hanging for a moment by one slippery hand. And staring into the merciless face of the ocean he was not afraid, for there was naught that it could do to harm him. His heart, after all, lay in the breast of a dead man, in the tomb of the kings. The ship righted itself, and – as Gimli stared doggedly up at him – Legolas untied the swollen ropes holding the sails and let the drenched canvas fall to the deck. Gimli busied himself stowing the material, his stout frame unmoved by the water crashing over him. Untangling the last knotted cord, Legolas started hastily down the creaking mast.
His feet were still a man's height from the deck when a bolt of lightning sliced through the sky, illuminating everything in a ghastly, darkened light. It was followed by a crack of thunder so loud that Legolas could feel it vibrating through his body and hear it ringing in his ears. He realized too late that it was not the sound of the thunder that he heard, but the snapping of the mast. There was only enough time to hear Gimli's agonized cry and then he was falling, falling into the cold, brutal waters of the sea. The water filled his eyes and mouth, and seeped into his pale skin, chilling what little was left of his soul. And he had a brief moment to smile, for the ocean's embrace was akin to that of his beloved's, somehow, and then all was darkness. Darkness, and finally peace.
~*~
In the quiet, cold twilight of Legolas' mind something shifted. The thick fog was snug around him, and his head felt pleasantly light. Callused, sure fingers brushed his damp hair from his numb face. He knew those fingers and leaned instinctively into their touch, his moan lost in the gray haze that surrounded him. There was pleasure in that sound – as well as pain – for though Legolas' heart recognized the touch of his lover his mind knew that his lover was dead. And mortal death took men farther than elves could ever follow. Yet, if this was the death of elves, Legolas thought dimly as a warm, even breath caressed his lips, then he would gladly take it. This fantasy, this illusion of his love could not content him, but it was better than waking. For if he rose, then even this illusory comfort would be lost.
Soft lips pressed to his in a gentle, loving kiss and he returned it fervently, arching up into the embrace and giving himself up to the dream. And his heart bled, for this was not real, not any longer, but still he could feel the hand tenderly cradling his head as if it were really there. Then his dream lover pulled away, ignoring Legolas' wordless protest as tips of dark phantom hair brushed across the elven archer's face. "Wake up," the shadow whispered in a hoarse, broken tone sweeter to Legolas than the siren's call of the sea. "Wake up, Legolas," the voice coaxed, and Legolas' eyes squeezed shut in fear. If he opened them then the dream would be gone once more, and he would be alone. All alone again, all alone forever. But the voice was pleading and familiar, and even though he knew it was naught but an illusion he could not deny it. Had never been able to deny it anything. Slowly, despairingly, he opened his eyes. And found himself staring into the tempestuous gray eyes of the man above him.
Smiling in something far too grateful to be relief, the man lifted one hand to Legolas' still face, brushing cool fingertips over the elven cheeks. As the hand moved away, Legolas saw that the long fingers were damp, and wondered why. The man's wise, beautiful eyes were bright with tears, long coal black hair falling in waves around his chiseled face; and Legolas exhaled in relief. The dream had not ended. Then he saw Gimli, the gray haired dwarf gaping speechlessly at Legolas' illusion, and he felt the creaking motions of a battered ship beneath him. This was no dream. His emerald eyes widened, and he swung his head back up to stare in amazement at the man before him, lips moving soundlessly as he tried to speak. When he finally managed it was no more than a whisper, a fearful breath in the silence. "A-Aragorn?" he stuttered disbelievingly, feeling his back press against what seemed to be a very real knee. The shadow, the man – the king's reply was a smile that lit the darkest corners of Legolas' grief laden soul.
Without further ado he launched himself against the man's chest, wrapping slender arms tightly around his neck, burying his face in the soft, dark hair. His body trembled with sobs, and the stormy eyed man took him in his strong arms and rocked him with the motion of the ship on the sea. Legolas could feel the man's tears on his scalp, hear the pulse of his heart in the broad chest. Pulling away from the embrace he met the pale gaze and gently, hesitantly pressed his palm against the man's heart, the echo of an action from a night long ago. And battle roughened, tear stained hands covered his own, binding them there in that place. "I promised, didn't I?" reassured the man – Aragorn – lovingly, and Legolas nodded jerkily. He had promised, indeed, but the prince had believed there were some promises that could not be kept.
"You are truly here?" he said wonderingly, with the amazement of a child. Aragorn smiled again, and brought Legolas' hand to his lips. The bearded stubble of his lover's cheek rubbed against his delicate skin, and Legolas shivered.
"I am truly here," the king confirmed solemnly, kissing Legolas' palm for emphasis.
A dizzying elation swept through the ageless elf, and the word, "How?" fell from his lips without pretence.
Aragorn turned, staring out into the unending sea as he recited, "I am a son of the house of Lord Elrond Peredhil, and the choice is mine to be counted among the First-born or the race of man." There was something in his tone, some note of weariness and bitter resignation that Legolas had never heard, a shadow in his lover's stormy eyes that he did not understand.
The prince's shock, however, was too great to let the matter rest. "But – but . . ." he started hopelessly, and Aragorn gave him a knowing glance.
"Evidently I have been spoken for," he stated enigmatically, cupping Legolas' cheek as though to ascertain the elf's reality. A dark knowledge of mortality flickered over his features, a look that spoke of things better left unsaid. Then his gaze fell once more on Legolas, and the love that suffused his face pushed all the pain and darkness far away. And Legolas knew that he held memories of the same mean, of suffering and hopelessness and death; but those memories had no place in him as long as Aragorn remained by his side. "I told you," the king of men murmured sweetly, "I told you I would find a way back."
Legolas accepted the reprimand willingly, curling his lithe form against the muscular warmth of his love. "You did," he admitted, and Aragorn draped an arm around his lover's waist; fierce but gentle, and stronger always than the force of the sea.
Gimli watched them for a moment, opened his mouth to ask what in the name of his great-uncle Borin was going on, then closed it without saying a word. He smiled softly at the cuddling lovers, heard their whispered vows of love and eternity and knew that they were all true. Aragorn rested his chin on Legolas' head, breathing deeply like one who was trying to remember the smell of paradise. And Legolas, Legolas laid his cheek contentedly on Aragorn's chest, listening to the song of his lover's heart. A small smile played at the corners of his lips, and he looked as if he had come home at last. Then Gimli turned and walked quietly away, leaving the two lovers to their embrace. They were finally back in each other's arms, back where they belonged. And this time, he knew, it would be forever.
~FIN~
Second Author's Note: All right, after having at least two people review and ask me how exactly Aragorn appeared on the ship, I'm explaining as best I can. Probably won't be satisfactory, but maybe I can make it a little more sensible. Elrond and his children were given the choice to be counted among the mortals or the elves – general knowledge, yes – and since Aragorn is Elrond's brother's descendant *and* Elrond's foster son I simply gave him the 'mortal or elf' choice as well. The reason he never got the choice before was that he was mortal and no one really considered it. But after he died, Elrond spoke for him and the Valar – I think – brought him back. I sincerely hope this makes sense, and if anyone's still confused I apologize.
Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien. I am not J.R.R. Tolkien. I am not – yeah, you get the point.
Pairing: Aragorn/Legolas (since they're both male, this would mean slash.)
Summary: Sequel to 'Stars on the Sea'. Aragorn made a promise to Legolas that he plans on keeping. (Vague? What does 'vague' mean?)
Author's Notes: Um, you need to know who Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli are. You need to know that Legolas and Gimli sailed into the West after Aragorn died, and you need to know that I know nothing about sailing, so if anything is mistitled I apologize. (Explanation of the part of the story that appears to be confusing everyone at the end.)
~*~
The ship groaned, buffeted by the tall, white crested waves of the ocean. Though it was not yet evening there was no sun, but only a cloudy sky as murky as the churning waters below it. A canvas sail billowed in the sea wind, filling with salty air as it pushed the ship on. Farther from the shore, farther from the cries of the seagulls, from the forests and caves of Arda that had been home for so long. And farther from the tomb of the one who had been his true home, his love and life and strength. All of them gone, buried in darkness with his king. A wave crashed over the prow, drenching him as he stood at the ship's helm. He did not even notice, lost in his own thoughts and the sight of the ever- receding shore. Pale, dull hair that had once shone like the sun was plastered wetly to his scalp, revealing pointed ears that should have been entranced by the ocean song. But he heard nothing – not the sea, or the gulls, or the unhappy grumblings of his dwarven friend – nothing except the choking silence of death. ~I love you.~
His emerald eyes were wide and vacant, but his broken heart pleaded to return to the shore, to stay beside his lover's grave. ~Stay with me?~ He jerked the great wheel as though to turn back, but let it go before the ship could veer. ~Always.~ A soft cry escaped his lips, and he bent his head and did not look again to the sandy shore. If he gazed too long he began to see fire, silhouetting two figures wrapped in each other's arms, staring into the sea. ~Melethron~ It did not matter where he went now, for there was no path that led to Aragorn. To his home. There was only death, and grief, and the sound of promises broken, promises that could not have been kept. ~I will not leave you.~ The sea was mute, for Legolas had no soul left to hear it with, and though the sea spray chilled his hands he felt it not. There was only the soft, husky tone of a man's voice and the rough, warm feel of a bearded cheek pressed to his. ~I care for you.~ And it was more real to him that the wood beneath his fingers, or Gimli's anxious words about the coming storm.
The rain drew him from his memories, even as he recalled spinning, spinning under the trees of Imladris while it soaked his skin, and stopping to find a pair of gray eyes watching him intently and without shame. That rain was warm on his skin, while this stung his face and numbed his chest. But the sky remained a stormy gray, the very color of a king's pale eyes. Pale, gentle, sleeping eyes, never to wake. Gimli had to shake him, shouting worriedly that the waves were almost as tall as balrogs. Then the aging dwarf's eyes widened and he clamped his mouth shut, afraid to bring up any more memories. Legolas gave his dear, gray haired friend a small smile and gazed blankly at the tempestuous sea. He thought of the song of Amroth, who built a ship to carry his love to Valinor, but she did not come and – despairing – he threw himself into the ocean's cold embrace. Legolas wondered if it was peaceful, in the depths of the sea. ~Promise me.~
The ocean was fierce but gentle, always moving but ever still. It reminded him of Aragorn, in that way. ~Promise you what, my king?~ But the sea had not so much passion, nor such grace. The sea never held him captive, as Aragorn had. ~You know.~ They had been bound to each other, bound closer than flesh and bone allowed. But flesh and bone remained longer than souls, which fled with the last breath. ~Do you make riddles, Aragorn?~ Dark eyelashes, and fragile skin, and long, black hair. Aragorn had not looked old, not even as he sickened and grew weak. A pale, night tressed shadow wasting way before his lover's eyes. ~I only speak my heart, fair prince, whose thoughts you already know.~ There was a storm blowing in, and the murky clouds had become black with terrifying anger. ~I promise never to leave you again, if that is what you ask.~ Wind whipped Legolas' long hair over his eyes, obscuring the raging sea from his view. A large wave nearly threw him off of his feet. ~Nay, 'tis not that. Only that you take care, for it is my heart beating in your chest.~ Gimli bellowed a command to his elven friend, but Legolas could not hear him, for the storm drowned out his dwarven roar. And the memories . . . the memories spoke louder than any storm. ~I promise.~
Gimli pointed above their heads, and through the driving rain Legolas could see the sails straining the mast. They needed to come down, or the mast would break and they would be lost. He climbed nimbly up the wooden pole, though the sharp plunging of the ship left him hanging for a moment by one slippery hand. And staring into the merciless face of the ocean he was not afraid, for there was naught that it could do to harm him. His heart, after all, lay in the breast of a dead man, in the tomb of the kings. The ship righted itself, and – as Gimli stared doggedly up at him – Legolas untied the swollen ropes holding the sails and let the drenched canvas fall to the deck. Gimli busied himself stowing the material, his stout frame unmoved by the water crashing over him. Untangling the last knotted cord, Legolas started hastily down the creaking mast.
His feet were still a man's height from the deck when a bolt of lightning sliced through the sky, illuminating everything in a ghastly, darkened light. It was followed by a crack of thunder so loud that Legolas could feel it vibrating through his body and hear it ringing in his ears. He realized too late that it was not the sound of the thunder that he heard, but the snapping of the mast. There was only enough time to hear Gimli's agonized cry and then he was falling, falling into the cold, brutal waters of the sea. The water filled his eyes and mouth, and seeped into his pale skin, chilling what little was left of his soul. And he had a brief moment to smile, for the ocean's embrace was akin to that of his beloved's, somehow, and then all was darkness. Darkness, and finally peace.
~*~
In the quiet, cold twilight of Legolas' mind something shifted. The thick fog was snug around him, and his head felt pleasantly light. Callused, sure fingers brushed his damp hair from his numb face. He knew those fingers and leaned instinctively into their touch, his moan lost in the gray haze that surrounded him. There was pleasure in that sound – as well as pain – for though Legolas' heart recognized the touch of his lover his mind knew that his lover was dead. And mortal death took men farther than elves could ever follow. Yet, if this was the death of elves, Legolas thought dimly as a warm, even breath caressed his lips, then he would gladly take it. This fantasy, this illusion of his love could not content him, but it was better than waking. For if he rose, then even this illusory comfort would be lost.
Soft lips pressed to his in a gentle, loving kiss and he returned it fervently, arching up into the embrace and giving himself up to the dream. And his heart bled, for this was not real, not any longer, but still he could feel the hand tenderly cradling his head as if it were really there. Then his dream lover pulled away, ignoring Legolas' wordless protest as tips of dark phantom hair brushed across the elven archer's face. "Wake up," the shadow whispered in a hoarse, broken tone sweeter to Legolas than the siren's call of the sea. "Wake up, Legolas," the voice coaxed, and Legolas' eyes squeezed shut in fear. If he opened them then the dream would be gone once more, and he would be alone. All alone again, all alone forever. But the voice was pleading and familiar, and even though he knew it was naught but an illusion he could not deny it. Had never been able to deny it anything. Slowly, despairingly, he opened his eyes. And found himself staring into the tempestuous gray eyes of the man above him.
Smiling in something far too grateful to be relief, the man lifted one hand to Legolas' still face, brushing cool fingertips over the elven cheeks. As the hand moved away, Legolas saw that the long fingers were damp, and wondered why. The man's wise, beautiful eyes were bright with tears, long coal black hair falling in waves around his chiseled face; and Legolas exhaled in relief. The dream had not ended. Then he saw Gimli, the gray haired dwarf gaping speechlessly at Legolas' illusion, and he felt the creaking motions of a battered ship beneath him. This was no dream. His emerald eyes widened, and he swung his head back up to stare in amazement at the man before him, lips moving soundlessly as he tried to speak. When he finally managed it was no more than a whisper, a fearful breath in the silence. "A-Aragorn?" he stuttered disbelievingly, feeling his back press against what seemed to be a very real knee. The shadow, the man – the king's reply was a smile that lit the darkest corners of Legolas' grief laden soul.
Without further ado he launched himself against the man's chest, wrapping slender arms tightly around his neck, burying his face in the soft, dark hair. His body trembled with sobs, and the stormy eyed man took him in his strong arms and rocked him with the motion of the ship on the sea. Legolas could feel the man's tears on his scalp, hear the pulse of his heart in the broad chest. Pulling away from the embrace he met the pale gaze and gently, hesitantly pressed his palm against the man's heart, the echo of an action from a night long ago. And battle roughened, tear stained hands covered his own, binding them there in that place. "I promised, didn't I?" reassured the man – Aragorn – lovingly, and Legolas nodded jerkily. He had promised, indeed, but the prince had believed there were some promises that could not be kept.
"You are truly here?" he said wonderingly, with the amazement of a child. Aragorn smiled again, and brought Legolas' hand to his lips. The bearded stubble of his lover's cheek rubbed against his delicate skin, and Legolas shivered.
"I am truly here," the king confirmed solemnly, kissing Legolas' palm for emphasis.
A dizzying elation swept through the ageless elf, and the word, "How?" fell from his lips without pretence.
Aragorn turned, staring out into the unending sea as he recited, "I am a son of the house of Lord Elrond Peredhil, and the choice is mine to be counted among the First-born or the race of man." There was something in his tone, some note of weariness and bitter resignation that Legolas had never heard, a shadow in his lover's stormy eyes that he did not understand.
The prince's shock, however, was too great to let the matter rest. "But – but . . ." he started hopelessly, and Aragorn gave him a knowing glance.
"Evidently I have been spoken for," he stated enigmatically, cupping Legolas' cheek as though to ascertain the elf's reality. A dark knowledge of mortality flickered over his features, a look that spoke of things better left unsaid. Then his gaze fell once more on Legolas, and the love that suffused his face pushed all the pain and darkness far away. And Legolas knew that he held memories of the same mean, of suffering and hopelessness and death; but those memories had no place in him as long as Aragorn remained by his side. "I told you," the king of men murmured sweetly, "I told you I would find a way back."
Legolas accepted the reprimand willingly, curling his lithe form against the muscular warmth of his love. "You did," he admitted, and Aragorn draped an arm around his lover's waist; fierce but gentle, and stronger always than the force of the sea.
Gimli watched them for a moment, opened his mouth to ask what in the name of his great-uncle Borin was going on, then closed it without saying a word. He smiled softly at the cuddling lovers, heard their whispered vows of love and eternity and knew that they were all true. Aragorn rested his chin on Legolas' head, breathing deeply like one who was trying to remember the smell of paradise. And Legolas, Legolas laid his cheek contentedly on Aragorn's chest, listening to the song of his lover's heart. A small smile played at the corners of his lips, and he looked as if he had come home at last. Then Gimli turned and walked quietly away, leaving the two lovers to their embrace. They were finally back in each other's arms, back where they belonged. And this time, he knew, it would be forever.
~FIN~
Second Author's Note: All right, after having at least two people review and ask me how exactly Aragorn appeared on the ship, I'm explaining as best I can. Probably won't be satisfactory, but maybe I can make it a little more sensible. Elrond and his children were given the choice to be counted among the mortals or the elves – general knowledge, yes – and since Aragorn is Elrond's brother's descendant *and* Elrond's foster son I simply gave him the 'mortal or elf' choice as well. The reason he never got the choice before was that he was mortal and no one really considered it. But after he died, Elrond spoke for him and the Valar – I think – brought him back. I sincerely hope this makes sense, and if anyone's still confused I apologize.