He was with her now.

The sea-blue eyes, fixed on the lofty window of the royal bedchamber, narrowed at the thought. A flinch briefly marred the elegant features.

Ai, Elessar…why do you perjure yourself so?…

There was no doubt in the prince's mind as to where lay the heart of the king of Gondor. He trembled as the memory, never far from his mind, replayed itself unbidden – the light of the moon and the murmur of the Nimrodel, its chuckling course mirroring the tears that stained Aragorn's face as he allowed himself to grieve for Mithrandir – the one time that Legolas had seen the Ranger in any less than complete control of his emotions. And then – ah, Elbereth, but how it still made him twist inside, his knees locking to his chest as if to ward off pain – the sweet, fumbling brush of lips; a short skirmish of tongues; then a desperate groan as the Man pulled back, plunged away into the forest. Then, the day after, the Company had come upon the Elves of Lórien, and the episode had never been spoken of again. And the War of the Ring had been fought and won, and Aragorn was proclaimed King of the West, and had gone through with his wedding to Arwen. Never had a word been breathed of that searching, searing kiss, but Legolas could still feel it burn through his veins, and he knew the other felt it also.

Legolas's gaze refocused on the window high above. Aragorn, he cried silently, as if by the power of his thought alone he could summon his beloved. Aragorn, you are being false to yourself, to Arwen, to me. How long will you maintain this charade?

He held his breath, half-expecting Aragorn to answer. But the only sound that reached his keen Elven ears was that of low laughter and muffled noises. Biting his lip, Legolas turned away from the window.

There would be a confrontation, and soon, he knew that. He could not help it. For more than a year he had choked off his feelings, playacting, assuming the role of only the close and loyal friend. The strain of the deceit was not so bad when he was away from Minas Tirith, but to dwell in the city – that, that was nearly beyond endurance. Yet to avoid the King completely would mean raised eyebrows, furtive speculation, rumours. And so the Elf stayed in the White Tower, never still, never peaceful, haunting the city like a homeless spirit. He could sense the restiveness swelling within him, battering at him from inside, and it was all he could do to keep it in check from day to day. His self-control was beginning to fray, and he only hoped and prayed that he would be in a private place when the dam finally burst.