Deeper Waters

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DEEPER WATERS
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Chapter 11


Aragorn stood at the long window, the scroll in his hand.

The sky above the city was still a clear blue. In the streets, men and women went about their business much as they had ten minutes before. It was an ordinary day in Minas Tirith, and none but himself could be aware that the world had changed.

He passed the scroll from hand to hand several times, a nervous gesture that served no real purpose. Eventually he could stop himself no longer. Unrolling the parchment, he read it once again, hoping to divine some additional meaning from Faramir’s message. But the words were bland, unremarkable as the script of the servant who had set them down. No explanation was to be found there.

Faramir would arrive in Minas Tirith tomorrow. Accompanying him would be the royal party from Dol Amroth, and also a young woman under Faramir’s protection, an acquaintance of his wife seeking to place a petition before the king. With them would be Prince Legolas.

The simple statement still shocked him, even on the third reading.

He had heard some days before of Imrahil’s arrival in Emyn Arnen with his son. It was unthinkable that the man should return to Dol Amroth without first visiting the white city. Whatever his personal feelings on the matter, as king, Aragorn could expect nothing less. He had forced himself not to speculate about other meetings, other visits that might be taking place. When Imrahil arrived at the palace he would be greeted warmly, as befitted a friend, a worthy ruler, and a valiant comrade from the t Wat War. The man could not be blamed for his involvement with Legolas. How could he even guess how much hurt the knowledge of their affair was inflicting on the king, who was, after all, so visibly happy with his queen?

Legolas himself was another matter. He must surely know how Aragorn was suffering. On that October morning when the king had watched the elf take Imrahil’s letter from Faramir’s hand, no words were needed. He had known in an instant that the elf’s relationship with Dol Amroth’s prince went beyond mere friendship. No doubt the lingering connection to his former lover had allowed Legolas to sense his flash of seething jealousy, just as Aragorn had felt the elf’s guilty regret.

In the months since that revelation, it had proved impossible for Aragorn to ignore the reports from his people in Belfalas. He had devoured all the relevant information and surreptitiously demanded more. Little joy it had brought him; he had found himself sickened both by his own behaviour and by the stories he heard, tales of the prince’s unorthodox behaviour, and his obvious delight in the company of his mysterious elven visitor. With every new testimony, Aragorn’s bitterness had grown.

And now, by choosing to come here to Minas Tirith with his lover, Legolas was deliberately twisting the knife already embedded deep in the man’s heart. Was this, finally, his punishment for the terrible wrong he had done the elf? If so, it could only be the beginning. Knowing that the anguish was well deserved did not make it easier to bear.

I am a reasonable man, I love my wife, and I will act like a true king, come what may. The words were simple enough to form. It would take all his strength to live up to them.

A sharp pain in his hand brought Aragorn back to his surroundings. It seemed that he had unconsciously raised his fist to his mouth and bitten down on his knuckle. Staring at the red marks there, he laughed without humour, then turned back to the window, counting his breaths in an attempt to calm his mind.

When Arwen entered the chamber Aragorn was still standing rooted to the spot, although some time had passed. He turned to her as she approached and attempted a smile which he knew to be unconvincing.

“Estel, what is wrong?”

Her use of his old Elvish name never failed to move him, but today her words only increased his sense uiltuilt. He looked at her, radiant as ever, the swell of the baby just beginning to show, and cursed himself for his inconstancy.

“It is nothing disastrous, my love,” he said. “I was merely pondering the contents of this.” He held the scroll out to her and watched as she rit qit quickly. Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly as she considered the news.

“What is the nature of the young woman’s petition, I wonder?” she said after a moment.

“I know no more than you see before you,” he replied, “but if Faramir is supporting her, it cannot be a trivial matter. His judgement is sound.”

She nodded. “And you were expecting Imrahil and Celaeren.”

“Yes.”

“But not Legolas.” She gazed at him, her dark stare betraying no emotion. “No doubt he has some business of his own to attend to in the city.”

“No doubt.” He could bring himself to say no more. He had not told Arwen of Legolas’s relationship with Imrahil and it was unlikely that she even suspected it. For an elf who was already bound to form such an attachment to another was unheard of, and commonly thought to be impossible. How could Arwen, with her strong sense of destiny and propriety, conceive of such a notion?

“Estel.” Her voice was compelling, full of the wisdom of her age. “It would be so much better for both of us if you would tell me what is on your mind.”

Aragorn sighed. It was not the first time they had covered this topic; he doubted that it would be the last. “My love, there is nothing for me to say. I can see no point in revisiting the past yet again.”

For a long moment she looked searchingly at him. She drew breath, apparently to protest, but then shook her head slightly and let out a sigh of her own. The irony of it was, she could, if she so chose, reach into his mind and know for herself exactly what was happening there. But she had vowed to him at the outset that she would never use her gifts without his consent. Unlike her husband, it seemed that Arwen kept her promises.

“If you will not speak to me of it, at least find time to talk to him,” she said at last. “You will do yourself ill if you carry on like this. You know that I love you, and that I understand the complexity of your heart; why can you not accept it?”

Aragorn could think of nothing intelligent to say, so he walked to her and took her hand before leaning in to kiss her gently. “I have never deserved the love of one so generous as you,” he said at last.

“Perhaps not, but I know my destiny,” she replied smoothly. He glanced at her quickly, was was relieved to see the hint of humour in her smile. “They are arriving tomorrow,” she continued. “I shall take the children out into the forest the next day, as I have been promising them since the hot weather began. We shall leave early and return late. Use the day well, Estel. Find time to talk to him, and try to discover some peace for your spirit.”

His heart swelled with affection for her as she offered him the only thing she could. How was he supposed to tell her that it would make no difference, and that any amount of talking would never make the pain disappear?

“Have you spoken to the staff about their lodgings yet?” Arweded ded the growing silence between them.

“Not yet.”

“I shall see to it; you should be getting ready for the day’s business,” she said briskly. “And I shall see that the kitchens are prepared for a banquet tomorrow evening.”

“Thank you, Arwen.” For everything, he added silently as he watched her glide out of the room and felt the familiar sinking feeling in his stomach. He had failed her once again, as he would continue to do every time the subject of Legolas arose between them.

Aragorn knew quite well that talking to Arwen would ease the pressure on his heart. She had known of his love for Legolas and accepted it, long before the bond between the two males had been formed. Yet explaining in full the nature of his pain would mean admitting to something far more horrify Ho How could he confess to his wife that his feelings were founded on guilt, guilt that stemmed from the dreadful circumstances in which the bond had come about?

Even with Legolas, he had never been able to speak of the truth of that day. The elf still believed that Aragorn’s brutal sadism had been entirely the work of the ring, acting through him. The man had not found the courage to own that some of the violence, at least, had come from himself alone, stirred from the darker reaches of his soul when the conflict between duty and desire had become too much for him to endure.

At the time he had allowed himself to accept the elf’s reassurances. Indeed, there had been no viable alternative. The fate of Middle Earth had hung in the balance, and Aragorn’s destiny had grown to consume his whole being. For a while he had become mye myth: noble, invincible, the one true King.

Introspection and self-accusation had only come later, once the world had settled into peace.

Of course, Legolas had claimed responsibility for the events of that fateful day. The elf had set out to seduce him, in order to reach beyond the ring’s influence to the man’s spirit, and thus save him from the descent into evil. But Aragorn knew that nothing could detract from the enormity of his own crime. Neither the elf’s intentions, nor the vile influence of the ring, could negate the fact that he had taken his beloved friend by force. Worse still, perhaps, he had allowed Legolas to bind their spirits in an everlasting union, dooming the elf to an eternity of hopeless love while Aragorn fulfilled his own destiny by taking Arwen as his rightful wife.

Of all the people in Middle Earth, he surely had the least right to feel jealous because his former lover had now found happiness in the arms of another. Yet no amount of rational thought would make the searing emotions disappear. Aragorn wanted Legolas now, as much as he ever had; the thought of the elf with Imrahil filled him with impotent, nauseous rage. renereness that his response was utterly unjust only added another rich element to the stew of guilt already fermenting in his mind.

This was not a matter that one who called himself a man could discuss with his wife. Of that, Aragorn was absolutely sure.


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The cooks had prepared a feast truly fit for royal visitors, and the king’s guests appeared to be enjoying the food. Aragorn himself may as well have been consuming wood shavings for all the pleasure he derived from the fine dishes before himone one the less, he forced himself to eat well, determined that none should know of his inner turmoil.

Thankfully Legolas had not seated himself next to Imrahil. The elf was deep in discussion with one of Aragorn’s senior counsellors, on the far side of Faramir, to Arwen’s left. The king had caught no surreptitious glances, no half-hidden gestures, between him and his lover. Indeed, since arriving at the palace, the two had appeared relaxed and friendly with each other, but there had been no sign of any special intimacy.

Imrahil, seated at Aragorn’s right, was diverting company, as ever. At the start of the meal the king had watched his own words, careful lest his feelings towards the man should show through. However he soon found himself relaxing, for even in these circumstances it was quite impossible not to like the genial prince. His conversation flowed easily, fuelled by sharp intelligence and a ready wit. He was a strikingly handsome man, in prime physical shape. Legolas had chosen a worthy partner; of that there could be no doubt. Whilst keeping up his end of the exchange, Aragorn searched for some wariness or unease in the man’s manner and found none. He must be totally unaware of Legolas’s prior emotional involvement. That at least was something to be grateful for.

To the right of Imrahil, Rosalind and Celaeren were showing none of the discretion exhibited by their elders. It was obvious, as it had been from the moment they first rode into view of the palace walls, that the young couple were in love, or at least deep in the throes of infatuation. Aragon was eager to know what had brought the girl here seeking his help, but etiquette prevented him from asking the father when the son sat only a few feet away. That discussion would have to wait until the morrow. He noted with interest that neither of the two youngsters had touched a drop of wine or ale. He had heard of Celaeren’s problem, of course, so the prince’s abstinence could not but surprise him. She would help him tame the beast within? Good luck to her.

As the servants came out to start clearing the dishes away, Aragorn called for more wine and bade the minstrels take up their places. He fervently hoped that they would outdo themselves tonight. With Arwen at one side, Imrahil on the other, and Legolas’s musical tones tantalisingly audible across the table, he badly needed some distraction. His noble, wise façade might still be intact, but the weariness inside was beginning to take its toll.


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“Thank you, Rosalind. It must have been very painful to recount your story in full.” Aragorn spoke gently to the young woman, who sat with head bowed before him.

“Please, my lord,” she said softly, her voice ba mor more than a whisper, “I beg you to help me.”

What must it cost her, proud maiden of the Rohirrim, to lower her eyes and plead in such a way? Aragorn lo aro around the room and saw immediately that he was not the only one so moved. Celaeren had his hand over his eyes as if to shield himself from Rosalind’s distress; Imrahil was gazing at the girl with pure compassion on his face; but Faramir was looking directly at Aragorn, obviously trying to assess his own response. Legolas was not present; he had excused himself after breakfast, saying he wished to visit the palace groundsman.

The king pondered for a moment how best to begin. It was not an easy case. Rosalind had struggled to tell the story of her fiancé’s attempt at rape, and Aragorn had stopped her when she became tearful. What she had managed to relate was enough. No woman should be forced to stay with a man who believed he had the right to treat her with so little respect.

Hypocrite. The word rang in his mind as he his his eyes briefly, trying to rid himself of the image of a blond figure kneeling before him, naked and afraid, the sword Anduril at his neck. As always, a powerful and contradictory mixture of emotions rose in him at the memory. He forced himself to suppress them, and brought his mind back to the present. This was not about himself and Legolas. It was another opportunity, granted by the Gods, to rectify the wrongs in another’s life; one more chance to atone.

“I was lucky enough to know your father, Rosalind,” he said, his composure regained. “And I mourned his passing, long before his time. I would help you for your own sake, but I know that he would give me his blessing, and this heartens me. He would not see you married to such a man. Your brother must have found his own grief and responsibility hard to bear; I doubt he would seek to continue the arrangement, were he not himself hard-pressed.”

She raised her sky-blue eyes to him and managed a weak smile at his acknowledgement of her family pride.

“You know this is not an easy matter to resolve,” Aragorn continued. “Where King Éomer would hesitate to interfere, I must tread carefully. I do not consider myself to be above the law; I am merely its instrument, its figurehead. Therefore I cannot order Fréadren to have the betrothal neg. S. Such a crude tactic would, in any case, be counteoducoductive. A more subtle approach is needed here, I feel; one that leaves your brother’s honour intact, and ultimately works to his advantage.”

All the eyes in the room were fixed upon him now, the sense of eager anticipation almost palpable.

“Do not be disheartened if I do not offer you a solution straight away. I have a fair notion of how to proceed, but there is one with whom I must discuss the idea before I reveal it to you. We shall speak of the matter again tomorrow, but in the meantime rest assured that I shall do for you what I can.”

“My life is in your hands, my lord,” said Rosalind simply. “And I shall be forever indebted to you.”

Imrahil caught Aragorn’s eye over Rosalind’s shoulder, and raised a brow enquiringly. The king shook his head very slightly, and gestured towards the door. Comprehending immediately, the prince rose to his feet and crossed the room. “Come, Rosalind,” he said, “Let us walk outside for a while; the sun is warm and there is much to see here.”

Faramir and Celaeren also stood.

“Celaeren, I would speak with you alone, if you please,” Aragorn said. “Faramir, you and I shall talk later on.”

“As you wish, sire.” Faramir bowed politely and followed Imrahil and Rosalind out of the room.

Celaeren was watching Aragorn warily, clearly somewhat surprised by this turn of events. The king felt he must have some idea of what was to come. The young man, for all his problems, was reputedly no fool. As his father’s son, one would expect no less.

“Please, sit.” Aragorn gestured towards a chair and took the opposite one himself. Celaeren’s brown eyes did not leave his. “I hope you will not feel that what I have to say is intrusive. It has direct bearing on the decisions I make regarding Rosalind.”

Celaeren nodded. “I am ononceoncerned for her happiness,” he said.

“Tell me, Celaeren. How long is it since you had a drink?” He was deliberately blunt in his questioning, keen to see the nature of the reaction he provoked.

The prince remained admirably calm. He ran a hand over his dark hair and avoided Aragorn’s gaze for a moment, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “Six days,” was all he said.

“And how are you, when the drink takes you? What kind of man does it bring forth?”

“Not the kind of man of whom one would be proud. You have heard stories . . .”

“I am asking because I would hear it from you. What kind of man?”

Celaeren stared at the floor. “It makes me violent,” he said eventually. “I have been known ecomecome involved in brawls for no reason.” There was a pause,n hen he raised his head and spoke defiantly. “My lord, I know what you are going to say to me. How can such a man be a fit husband for any woman, let alone one such as Rosalind?”

“Would I be wrong to ask such a question?” Aragorn spoke a litmoremore gently.

“Of course not. She deserves better. But that is not the man who would marry her. I have vowed to Rosalind, by my life, that I shall not drink to excess again. I will not dishonour her.”

Aragorn sighed, touched by the naivety of the young man’s assurance. “It is not so simple,” he said. “In my long years I have seen many men, good friends and soldiers, succumb to a problem such as yours. Each of them at some stage promised me that they would not drink again. And each broke that promise many times before he died. It is a long and difficult road.”

“None the less it is one I must walk.” Celaeren held his head high and met Aragorn’s gaze. “I have no other option.”

“And how will you do it? Do you think you are strong enough to take one glass of wine and not follow it with another? What will happen when you return to Dol Amroth and meet up with your tavern friends? Will you be able to resist then?”

“Why should I need to seek them out, if Rosalind is with me? As for one glass of wine, I shall not even touch that, if it is the only way to avoid falling again.”

“Well, I wish you luck, truly I do, and I shall help you as far as I can. There are herbs . . . but they can only ease the process slightly. The real work of healing must come from you.”

“I know it, my lord, and I am ready for it.”

Aragorn privately doubted that Celaeren was fully prepared for the challenge that lay ahead. At his age, anything and everything still seemed possible. Unfortunately the king had seen enough to know that mira rar rarely occurred. However, he had no wish to discourage the g mag man further, so he wasted little time in drawing the interview to a close.

“Ask Faramir to coo meo me, would you?” he said, as Celaeren made his exit.


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By late afternoon the regular business of the day was concluded and the outline of a plan to help Rosalind was agreed with Faramir. In the usual course of things, Aragorn would feel justified in retiring to his chambers for an hour or to to read, or perhaps to bathe. This was no normal day, however, and he had sent a servant to find Legolas and request his presence in the king’s study.

Alert as he was, the soft knock at the door took him by surprise. His heart responded as it always did to the e pre presence; it began to pound almost painfully against the walls of his chest. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, willing himself to relax.

“Come in.”

There was no reason to expect that Legolas should become any less lovely over the years, but it seemed nothing short of unfair that he should become even more so. Perhaps it was only Aragorn’s perception of him, sharpened by the months of separation; but the elf’s ethereal splendour, enhanced by the shades of green and gold that he wore, seemed more striking than ever. The breath caught in the ks ths throat as he watched his former lover cross the room to stand before him at the window.

“You wished to see me?” There was no hint of feeling audible in the pleasant, neutral voice.

“Of course, Legolas. I wanted to ask you . . . how have you been?” It was aimprimpressive opening to the conversation, but Aragorn could think of no other. The elf still had the power to reduce him to a fool with the merest look.

“I am well. And yourself?”

“Well, also. Will you sit?”

Legolas sank smoothly into the chair across from Aragorn and sat there, straight-backed and . . . was it wariness, the slight tension in his posture? It was the first sign he had given that he was not wholly comfortable in the king’s presence.

“Arwen appears to be in good health with the child.” A suitable courtesy, maybe, but also a timely reminder of Aragorn’s commitments. Legolas had always chosen his words so carefully.

“Yes, indeed. She thrives on motherhood.”

Legolas gazed at him for a momethenthen turned his head to look out of the window. Something about the movement caused Aragorn’s resolve to break, and he spoke thoughtlessly. “Why did you bring him here?”

Turning back to him, the elf replied coolly, “It would be more correct to say that he brought me, given the circumstances.”

Faced with such unruffled calm, Aragorn felt his customary self-control cracking. Nobody else could undermine his defences so easily. “Why? Why did you agree to come, then?”

Sitting very still, Legolas stared at him relentlessly. “Why should I not?” he said slowly.

“You know quite well.”

“This is not just about you,” the elf said, enunciating each word very deliberately. “My presence here is important to Imrahil.”

“To Imrahil? Gods! You seek to wound me! Well, you have the right to do so, I know.”

Silently, Legolas stood and moved once more to the window. As the man watched, astonished, his long pale hands gripped the window ledge until the tendons were clearly visible. Aragorn realised, with a growing sense of horror, that what he had taken to be unshakeable composure was in fact nothing but a thin veneer. Before his eyes, that veneer now fell away and he saw, for the first time in thirteen years, the suffering behind it.

“Do you think I do not know your pairagoragorn?” Legolas said at last. “I it it all too well, for I experience it with you. I feel your longing and your jealousy, and believe me, I understand them perfectly. You have known the company of elves for far too long to believe that they do not have emotions of their own, whatever they choose to show.” Blue eyes locked with his, and he saw something close to despair in their depths.

Pity warred with baser sentiments in Aragorn’s breast, but the battle did not last long. “It was Imrahil you were with, in Cormallen after the war, was it not?” he asked angrily.

“It was.”

“And all the years since?”

“Although it is no business of yours to know it, we did not meet again until last summe The The elf spoke with brittle, icy precision.

“Does he know about . . . us?”

“In outline, yes. I could not hide it from him. You need have no fear of indiscretion from him.”

“So this is the meaning of one eternal love? The spiritual bond that allows such twofold betrayal?” gorngorn’s words seemed to pour out of their own accord.

“Aragorn.” The elf’s voice held a warning. “You know that you are being unjust.”

They stared at each other in silence. Behind Legolas’s eyes was something Aragorn had rarely seen, something that was more furnace than glacier. He bit down his angry response, and waited for the elf to speak.

“I will not wait out all the years of this earth wretched and alone,” Legolas said at last. “Right or wrong, that is my decision. Would you wish loneliness upon me?”

“It is not that I wish you harm. I just . . . I cannot bear to think of you with him.”

“Then do not think of it at all. I will not give this up, even to spare you.”

Something about the elf’s face gave Aragorn pause for thought. He was struck forcefully by the certainty that this had not been an easy decision for Legolas to make. “But Legolas,” he said, “Another man? If it had been an elf . . .”

“And well youw thw that none of my kind would have me, bound as I am.”

“Would you break it?” Aragorn asked suddenly.

“The bond between us?”

“Yes. Would you end it, if there was a way?”

Legolas gazed at him, the mask of serenity slowly settling back into place. “Have you forgotten that it was my choice to make this union?” he said softly.

“That is hardly the case! It was my weakness that made it necessary, my .my . . . what I did . . .” he faltered as the loathsome mems ass assailed him once again.

“Ah, now we come to it.” Legolas leaned on the window ledge and peered down at him with a strange expression on his face, somewhere between pity and satisfaction.

“What do you mean?”

“We come to the part of the discussion where your guilt becomes paramount.”

“When I think what I have done to you, Legolas, I have enough cause to feel guilty. Would you mock me for it?”

“I do not mock.” The blue eyes were serious. “I feel what it does to you, this terrible guilt. Aragorn, your jealousy is natural, but you will conquer it in time. The feelings of longing we will both learn to live with. But this dreadful self reproach stands to destroy you. You drowdrowning in it, and you threaten to pull me under with you.”

It was a while before the man found his voice, and when he did so, he could barely choke the words out. “Yet what can I do?” he said.

“It is not for me to tell you what you should feel . . . but I know what I hope for. Give in to your jealous rage for a while; hate me for coming here with Imrahil if you must. Alternatively, feel relief, happiness even, that I have achieved some peace with him in spite of our history. Anything to stop you dwelling on your remorse and self-loathing. The past is done, Aragorn, and cannot be changed. You must forgive yourself.”

“Easy words to say,” Aragorn whispered, his head sinking into his hands. To his shame and dismay, he felt his eyes fill with tears and his shoulders begin to shake. First Arwen, now Legolas; urging him to leave his guilt behind, to move forwards. Would either of them be so quick to offer absolution if they knew the true horror, the depths of depravity to which he had fallen? He gave in to his grief, allowing it to consume him as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes in a vain attempt to stop the tears flowing.

It seemed a long time later that a gentle pressure on his arm caused him to look up. Legolas was kneeling on the floor in front of him, his hauntingly beautiful face only inches away. His hand now rested on Aragorn’s shoulder, and his look was one of compassion.

“Aragorn, you can stop hiding it.” The words cut through the welter of emotions in his head, holding his attention completely. “I know what you did in Lórien. I know it was you.”

“You . . . what?” In his shock, he could hardly comprehend what he had heard.

“I know it was you, not the ring. And I forgive you.”

“You know? How could you?” His hand reached for the elf’s arm and clutched it, fingers shaking.

“I have always known,” said Legolas sadly.

“Then why, in the name of all that is holy, did you not say so before?”

“To be honest I did not know how to speak of it, and I was afraid to do so. There was something in your soul so dark, so deep-rooted, that I did not recognise it; and I feared that by disturbing it again I could do you lasting harm. It is only since I have come to know Imrahil that I have realised quite how deeply the vein of guilt runs in you, and how powerfully it has controlled your actions. I am afraf itf it no longer, and would help you face it, if you have the courage to do so.”

Speechless, Aragorn stared at the elf. A cavalcade of thoughts flew through his mind, only gradually quieting sufficiently for him to identify the warm sensation of blessed relief.

“Thirteen years,” he breathed. “If only I had been brave enough to speak of it before.”

“I wish the same thing,” said the elf, “but we cannot change it. We have only the present.”

“How could you allow yourself to be close to me, after I had done that to you?”

“Because I loved you,” Legolas replied. “And I still do. Can you sense it?”

The elf’s grip on his shoulder tightened a little, and he felt the glorious, fierce heat wash through him. He closed his eyes, and placed his hand over Legolas’s.

“Yes.” He wanted to say more, but could not find adequate words. They remained still for some time, and Aragorn felt the anger and bitterness draining from him as the elf’s spirit nourished his own once more.

“You came here with Imrahil for my sake, as well as his,” he said, finally.

“Yes.” The elf gently removed his hand from Aragorn’s and sat back on his heels.

“But it is not easy for you.”

“No. Whatever you may think, I have no desire to see you suffer.”

you you love him?”

There was a long pause before Legolas replied. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, I do.”

There was no need to ask whether the elf loved Aragorn himself any less as a result; his body was still vibrating with the knowledge that Legolas’s passion for him remained undimmed. That the elf could also love another was an enigma, contrary to all the teachings of the first-born about bonds of the spirit. “How can it be?” he asked.

“I do not understand it myself,” said Legolas, “and perhaps I never will. All I know is the truth of my own heart.”

“I feel I should despise him, hate him for having what I cannot. Yet I will not deny that he is a good man, worthy of you, if such a thing is possible.”

Legolas smiled. “Aye, and he is at peace with himself, a fact which has helped me to find some tranquillity in my own soul.”

“Will I ever be able to stop telling you I am sorry?” Aragorn sighed.

“I think you should save those words for one who needs them more than I do, my friend.”

“Arwen.”

“Your reticence hurts her more than the truth ever could,” Legolas said. “Perhaps now that the air is cld bed between us, you will find it within you to do as she wishes, and share your innermost thoughts with her.”

“Your generosity will never cease to astound me,” the man told him.

“Why?” Legolas laughed. “My own wounds will never be healed by seeing pain inflicted on another. It is always better to promote harmonyre wre we can. Which reminds me; did you decide to help the girl, Rosalind?”

“Of course. I could hardly turn a deaf ear to her story. I need to talk to Arwen first, but I hope to offer a workable solution tomorrow.”

“It was my suggestion to bring the matter to you,” said Legolas with a small smile. “I hope I did not place an unwelcome weight on your shoulders.”

“Not at all,” Aragorn smiled in return. “It is only the opportunity to help others that makes this business of being king worthwhile, as you well know.”

“Ah, Aragorn. You are a good man to the core. I have always known itLegoLegolas rose to his feet as he spoke, and held out a hand.

Aragorn stood, and wrapped the elf’s warm fingers in his own. He felt weary, as if he had run for hours, or fought a great battle with no clear victor. A sudden urge overcame him, and he spoke before he could change his mind. “May I kiss you, Legolas? Just once, for the sake of our friendship?”

“Would it be wise?” The elf said levelly.

“Probably not, but . . .”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then a slight pressure from the elf’s fingers gave him the answer he needed, and he stepped forwards.

Their lips met in a caress that was almost chaste, and for an instant everything was as it had once been. Aragorn inhaled deeply, breathing in Legolas’s scent as he tasted again the elf’s unique sweetness. A sense of delicious melancholy crept over him, but beneath it was something else, something that could not be ignored. Half consciously he moved closer, and brought his hand up to the elf’s neck to draw him in. Heat suddenly flared between them.

Realising what he was doing, Aragorn pulled away abruptly. At the same time Legolas stepped back, a hint of warning once more visible in his look.

The man sighed and blinked away the stinging moisture from his eyes. “Be happy with him,” he said. “My heart is not so scarred that I cannot wish you that.”

Legolas smiled, though his own eyes betrayed his sadness. “It is all I wish for you, with Arwen and your children,” he said. “You know that I have never really left you.”

“I know it. Go now, before I do something I will regret.”

Legolas nodded to him, squeezed his hand gently, and turned to leave the room.

The door shut quietly behind the elf. This time Aragorn did not attempt to stop his tears, but welcomed them as they flowed freely. There was no bitterness in them now; he felt rather a sensation of cleansing, emptying, as if a stain was being washed from his soul. Even through his sorrow, he knew that this day was a turning point in his life. An enormous load had been lifted from him. He may have far to go before his conscience could know true peace, but at last the long journey towards redemption had begun.

To be continued…