Leaves of Gold
A Wind There Came
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Author’s notes:
This story results
from a self-challenge. It's my attempt at writing an Aragorn/
(2) have some plausibility in terms of book canon.
Please bear in mind that
this is a SLASH story that features two male characters, i.e. Aragorn son of
in a romantic and sexual relationship. If thea isa is not to your liking, you
may not want to read this.
font-family:Garamond;mso-fareast-font-family:"MS Mincho"'>Thanks to my
wonderful beta reader Lyllyn, whose insightful
comments and suggestions helped me immensely.
Likewise, thanks to Altera Eruantale
and Milady Hawke who helped me when the story was at its earliest stage.
Disclaimer
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS Mincho"'>: J.R.R. Tolkien
(or his estate) owns Middle-earth and everything on it, New Line owns their
interpretation of Tolkien's work. I own nothing but
my imagination. No offence, no profit, just participation in a collective
fantasy.
Ratfor for this
chapter: PG-13.
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font-family:Garamond;mso-fareast-font-family:"MS Mincho"'>
Chapter 1: A Wind
There Came
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My eyes rest upon
your face wide-open;
and they hold you gently, letting you go
when something in darkdark begins to move.
Rainer Maria
Sleep
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
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mso-fareast-font-family:"MS Mincho"'>Mirkwood
the Third Age - 18 months before the Council of Elrond and the forming of the
Fellowship of the Ring
He is leaving.
Any day, any moment the
guest chair reserved for him in my father's hall will be empty, the surrounding
Mirkwood will be quiet and the trees will not tell
where he has gone. He always stays only for a short while, merely to go away
again and to leave behind traces that I alone will see: a dark strand of hair
under a tree where he slept, an overturned stone beside the brook that runs
through the woods, a sprinkling of ash carried on the sole of his boot from a
fire grown cold long ago.
He stirs in his
sleep, a muscle below his eyebrow twitches, and he breathes a sigh into the
cool night air. He is so tangible, so real, flesh and skin and garment, strong
will under thin layers of sleep. Yet to my eyes he is like a ghost or a
delusion, gone already.
My time on
Middle-earth may be drawing to an end, but his was never more than an inaudible
whisper in the ear of the eternal.
The knot of the night
is unravelling into the morning. He lies beside the dying fire as I keep watch.
His sleep is restless and wary, like my senses that filter noises, scents,
movements. We are far enough from the borders of my father's realm to be in
danger, should anything unexpected come our way. No matter how skilled
wanderers of the wild, an Elf and a mortal are a poor mafor for any enemy that
might have the advantage of surprise or superior numbers on their side.
I look at his face,
his coarse, strong features that seem marked by some unspoken sorrow. His hair
falls in dark tangles and a small vein pulses on his neck. A strange feeling of
belonging flickers in my chest, but before I can catch it and look it in the
eye, it hides from me.
What is in the
beginning, when nothing has yet been said or done?
Is there an empty
path that looks just like any other, yet is the only possible one? Is there a
fate one can mould for oneself, or will stronger hands somewhere twine a fine
thread of life into a larger tapestry? Is there a foreseen moment that has
always existed, when blind stars collide and something upon earth is
irrevocably changed - or is all but a coincidence, whim, lapse?
When he first came to
Mirkwood years ago in searf thf the creature Gollum,
I hardly noticed him. One day he was there, the next day he was gone, and I
forgot. Or did not, because nothing is ever really forgotten,
only buried under piles of lush, moist leaves and drops of water and songs and
scents of starry nights. He was but another ranger, passing by on his endless
journeys through the landscape that had become the image of his life - the cave
that sheltered him from a storm, the river that cleansed the stains of battle
off him, the barren plain that exposed him to any eyes that might be watching,
friendly or hostile. He was no longer young but worn out by the strains of the
road, another human whose life-span would come to an end when he had hardly
learned how to speak and walk.
But I was reminded.
He kept coming back. Sometimes alone, sometimes with
Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim. The name of Elrond of
the Golden Wood, who was hardly more than a tale from times long gone; it was
said he was on the errands of the Wise. Estel was the
Elvish name he wore like a
cloak when he wished to remain unknown. He moved silently and skilfully like an
Elf, he knew of woods and winds and earth. But he was no Elf. His name was
Aragorn, and he was of Isildur's blood lineage. In
his footsteps a stalk of grass fell upon another, small twigs were broken,
leaves rustled in an unending whisper that rumoured of what was to come. I
began to see in his comings and goings a faint outline, hardly visible patterns
that were running towards a larger story.
And somehow, I became
a part of that story. Once, twice, again I found myself keeping him company on
his journeys through the darker parts of the forest, in Rhovanion,
in the vales of the
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS Mincho"'>. Not really knowing why he had chosen me
or I him, somewhere along the way we grew towards each
other, felt our way through the unknown and found a friendship.
Like a spider may
patiently and imperceptibly spin glimmering fabrics amongst tree branches,
years have woven a net of translucent strings between us. Delicate, yet firm
and demanding strings that grow when you have lost track of the time you have
spent with someone: tilt your head in a certain way and I know immediately
where your mind is set today, move your hand and I look before I know I am
looking, stir to take a step and I already follow.
Words are caught in
that web until they grow dimmer, fewer, more fragile. Until
the meaning of them starts to sink into oblivion.
Aragorn is awake. He
sits up and gathers himself closer to the hot ashes where the fire has faded
away. We are surrounded by the mystical twilight that wraps the world before
every break of dawn and after every sunset, the blue and grey haze that floats
in the air, the moment of transition when it is not yet day or night, and the
universe seems to stand still.
Even before he
speaks, I know he will be gone when the daylight breaks again into the forest.
His voice is low but
firm.
"
When I pass through these woods again, it will only be to deliver Gollum for
your father's guards to keep. I shall not linger."
"Why not take me
with you?" I keep my voice steady, my face a mask of serenity. "Ours
has been a good companionship in the past, even outside my father's
realm."
His eyes reveal
nothing, but his answer is folded in worry.
"Such dangers
may lay ahead as I have not known before. I might have
to go to the very confines of Mordor. And at my
return a path awaits me I have long feared to walk."
I am feeling
frustrated because I know so little of what he talks about.
"If
dangers be fiercer, the better to take me with you!
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS Mincho"'> Two pairs of eyes are more alert, and two
pairs of hands fight more forcefully, if perils should come our way."
The corners of his
mouth tighten stly tly and there is a t of of impatience in his tone when he
replies to me.
"
can walk with me, but on some paths you cannot follow. No one can. And war is
upon us. I am needed elsewhere."
A fluid realisation
enters me.
"I may not see
you again, then?"
"I know
not." He looks at me thoughtfully, and this time I believe I see a glint
of something new, unfamiliar in his gaze. "I see ahead of me but darkness,
a grey fog which obscures all, leaving me to grope my way through."
He remains silent for
a moment before continuing.
"
knows the time is near, and he shall soon summon the peoples of Middle-earth to
attend his Council. I wish to see you there, my friend, unless it is meant to
be otherwise."
On impulse I embrace
him. I think he is surprised, but does not push me away - quite the opposite.
He holds me for a long time, his body firmly pressed against mine, his warmth
radiating into me. When we finally part, he looks at me gravely. My voice is
steadier than I am feeling inside as I speak.
"I shall walk
and fight by your side just as willingly as I have accompanied you in times of
peace, should ever the day come you need me."
His hand is still on
my shoulder, and a smile brightens his weary face.
"Hannon
le, Legolas. Gwadoren," he whispers in my own
tongue. Thank you, Legolas. My
brother.
He leans in to place
a kiss on my both cheeks, an earnest, affectionate kiss - and then, on my lips.
It is a continuation of the same gesture of friendship, intended as nothing but
a confirmation of the bond that has grown between us. But
instead of moving away his lips stay there, touching mine, frozen in time.
Sooner than I know my hand has crept on the back of his head, and I am
breathing into his mouth. I cannot tell which one of us falters first, but I
realise this is no longer a brotherly kiss, but a hungry, desirous exchange I
am unwilling to break free of.
The strings between
us are delicate, yet firm and demanding: run your fingers through my hair and
sparks will rain along my spine, make a sound of pleading and I will kiss you
deeper, resist but a little and I will burn to press you tighter to this
yearning forced inside the crumbling walls of my body.
away from me, and his face is confused and vulnerable like I have not seen it
before. I know what we have violated. A silence surrounds Evenstar
of Imladris in our conversations, but I have long
known of their promise to each other, of the choice they once made under the
unchanging night skies. Of what should reach beyond the fates of two peoples
separated from each other, beyond life and death.
We are both
speechless.
He is the first to
move, to break the ice that has frozen us in confusion. In silence he collects
his blanket and his few carryings from the ground, drawing the hood of his
cloak deep over his head so I cannot see his face. The glow
of his touch still throbs in me quick and merciless and will not calm
down, will not be still. Aragorn throws his pack on his shoulder. His whole
body is turned towards the East, towards Mordor,
towards the darkness that spreads from there like drops of blood in water. I
see the steam of his breath in the morning air as he speaks to me one last
time.
"
"Nothing has
changed, Aragorn."
But even as I speak,
a wind rises and sweeps over all living things on the ground, bending them,
shaking them, changing the way they grow, and nothing will ever be the same
again. Without looking back he walks away, taking with him the world as I have
known it.
I let him go.
"'>
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