Title: Brothers In Victory
Author: Coriel
E-mail: howe1911@earthlink.net
Rating: G
Summary: Was Legolas lost in the shuffle after the War of the Ring, left forgotten on the sidelines? It seems so to Aragorn, but now he has the power to right it.
Disclaimer: Characters and places borrowed with respect and appreciation from J.R.R Tolkien. ~ The following is the first chapter of a longer work, I Return, but was said to also stand well alone. The rest of it may be found elsewhere online. ^_~
The War was won; the Ring destroyed forever. A new King ruled in Gondor, beside him a fair elven Queen. All seemed poised to be right and just and good with the world now, and while the fallen were still mourned in the cities and surrounding lands, there was also great rejoicing, for a new Age had come since the Return of their King.
But joyous as it was to dwell and celebrate with Aragorn in glory, several of his companions had begun hearing the call of the homeward road, and Legolas the Elf was no different, feeling again the need to walk beneath the familiar trees of his own land, to return to his father and to his own people. He was yet misplaced in Gondor, where he and his kind were still regarded with awe, if not lingering fear. The Men of the South would be better disposed to accept them in time, for their Queen would open their hearts and gently purge them of all stain of doubt and aversion. Her entourage remained still in the City with her, and so Legolas was not a lone Elf amid mortals, a great help here away from home when he felt the need to speak to one of his own kind, or when he would have alone borne the brunt of unthinking Gondorian reverence or antipathy. It seemed he had been mostly forgotten after the arrival of the Elven Lords and Ladies, obscured in the shadows cast by their light, and in that he was strangely content. He knew the part he had played, the value of the service he had rendered, and for him virtue was its own reward.
He sat now in the palace courtyard, high above the rest of the city, cross-legged on the flagstones beside the new-planted royal white sapling, garbed in the rich emerald green that Glorfindel had insisted would better befit such as he, in truth a royal amid royals, the late afternoon sun imparting an even greater luster to the golden hair drifting about his shoulders in the breeze. Gently he ran his white hand along the contours of the slender trunk, every delicate limb, now in bloom in mid-July, humming softly to it and to himself all the while. The young tree seemed to thrive beneath his touch and at the sound of his voice, for such was the elvish way with all good things that grew.
To his mind, this rarest of heirlooms represented in its own way all that he had fought and risked death for in the past war, the precious right for those of a new age to live and grow in peace unmarred by fear of conquest or destruction, free to feel the sun while it would shine. The last months in service of the Fellowship were to him privately significant in their own way, but of this he spoke little to anyone, if he spoke at all. His griefs were his own, and he would trouble no other with them.
The tread behind him was light, but he heard and recognized it at once, his song fading into a smile.
“Mae govannen, Elessar hir nîn,” he greeted the newcomer graciously, though he did not turn.
“Do not name me your lord, Legolas,” Aragorn protested gently from above and behind, rounding him in a bright swirl of white mantle to take an easy seat on the flagstones near him, the Ranger again shining through. “I bid you as a friend to honor me only as such, for I would lay no other claim upon you. Elvellon for me is title enough.”
Legolas smiled but did not reply. Elves spoke eloquently with their eyes, a silent and subtle language Aragorn had learned long ago, though never ceased to admire.
They sat in amiable silence for a few blessedly undisturbed moments, the soft wind in their hair and robes, Aragorn watching as Legolas continued to slowly stroke and caress the white sapling, almost as though communing with it, to mutual benefit. It was not merely the significance of this one tree in particular, Aragorn realized; there were altogether too few trees within the city for an Elf’s comfort. And though he was reluctant to disband their Fellowship, he knew he could not keep them here in his city forever; they had dwelt with him four months already, but he could see that many were beginning to pine for their own homes where their kindred awaited them. Even their dress set them clearly apart: Aragorn in the black and white of proud stone where they sat, Legolas in the deep green of the living forests beyond.
“You feel the day is coming, my friend, when you must return to your father’s halls at last,” he ventured in Legolas’ native Sindarin, without question in his tone.
The other ceased his singing and looked up. “Yes,” he admitted in kind. “All things must come to end in time, and I fear now the Fellowship is to be sundered further, never completed in full since Moria.” He sighed lightly, then granted him a wan smile. “But it is breaking now in friendship,” he said, “and many of us will yet be united again, if never wholly. All must end, but something always lingers, Elessar.”
Aragorn nodded. “We will have need of you and Gimli both when you should see fit to return and help us rebuild.”
“I would be using my father badly if I did not stay with him for some time after my return,” Legolas said, fondling a blossoming limb. “He will have been disappointed that I did not accompany the heralds he sent for me before. I fear I occupy a greater portion of his heart than is in truth good for him, and I would not be surprised to hear he worried himself sleepless every night I have been away beyond his power. . . . I had no wish to grieve him so,” he finished softly, his gaze distant.
Aragorn, perhaps, appreciated Legolas’ position more than any other of their company, as the elf had faced for a final time the one great nemesis of his life and that of his father’s, emerging at last in victory when all had seemed blackest. Mirkwood had endured the foul tyranny of Sauron over the past twenty centuries, and it seemed only right that one of their own should represent all of Elvendom in his fall. They had earned it.
Legolas, he knew, loved and esteemed his father highly; and Thranduil in turn valued his son above all else the world had thus far granted or could offer him. He had been silent regarding the means by which he had secured his father’s permission to pledge his allegiance beyond their own borders, and Aragorn felt sure it had not been easy for either of them. Thankfully it seemed the Powers had seen fit to keep him by their grace whole and hale, without so much as a wound to show for his valor.
“Frodo, too, has expressed his wish to depart soon,” Aragorn said at last. “If you all will but wait until Éomer’s return we may all honor Théoden King by accompanying him to his final rest beside his fathers at Edoras. Then may we continue in our separate ways.”
Legolas met his gaze again, kindly. “So be it, Aragorn,” he replied, with a solemn nod that was almost a bow from one lord to another. His eyes shone deep and clear in the evening sun, his robe pooled softly about him like an emerald cascade. “When the others of Arwen’s escort go, so shall I.”
They glanced skyward as a merlin soared gracefully past them; several of its kind nested in and around the city, and on a whim Legolas called it down, catching the dark bird easily on his wrist. His father was fond of falcons, and though this one was not as sizable as those Thranduil generally preferred, it was proud nonetheless.
Aragorn sighed, having recognized again the familiar note of unquestioning acquiescence in that fair voice. “Legolas,” he said, broaching the subject at last, “you are a son of Kings, a Prince of the Immortal Eldar. Yet you follow me unreservedly and never say a word for yourself, except once when you indirectly complained about our smoking. You defer to my every wish. You seek my will in everything, and you sit unassumingly in the shadows while others are honored. I knew you would be the last to tell me you were unhappy here. You must understand I do not desire lordship over you who should be free from all bonds but your own; I would not command one who saw the dawn of my forebears, and who had earned his right to stand amid Lords Undying ere I took my first faltering steps. I trust you have not taken too deeply to heart that which I said in Rohan, for I was weary and crass and my courtesy suffered for it.”
Legolas had arched a brow during this forthright speech and apology, unexpected as it was, the merlin alighting to his shoulder. “You said I had forgotten to whom I spoke,” he returned solemnly. “I have not forgotten, then or since.”
“I know you have not,” Aragorn assured him, an almost pleading light behind his cool grey eyes. “Yet it was not until I observed Arwen still according you the honors due a trueborn prince of the Elves that I recalled the regard I owe you by virtue of your own bloodline. For my sake, I would have you stand more oft upon your own principate, assert your own will,” he continued earnestly, “lest I again forget to whom I speak.”
Legolas was silent; he had not imagined his deference was irksome to Aragorn; it was simply his nature to follow and to serve and obey, contrary to that of his proud-spirited father.
“If it be your will, I shall consider it,” was all he said in reply. “But who told you I was unhappy here? Nay, I am loath to leave now that your reign has just begun and the days ahead glow with untold silver linings. It is true that I must go, for the north road calls me, but whilst I stay I am content.”
His answer lightened Aragorn’s heart a bit, who had begun to fear the bonds of his mortal friendship had become a trammel for Legolas, a realization that would understandably have grieved him. Perhaps it was, but Legolas seemed well-disposed to bear the burden lightly, for his sake. The elf lifted his shoulder to the wind, and the merlin took flight again, gliding majestically back toward the portico of the palace.
“Legolas Greenleaf,” Aragorn sighed in wondering admiration. “How is it that one so worthy as yourself has been forgotten by the living pages of our time? It is unjust. To me it seems you walk again in the spirit of your kinsman of old, Beleg Cúthalion, rightly named the truest of friends. Ask of me your desire and you shall have it. What reward would you have for your service to me?”
Legolas looked askance at him for a long moment as though the thought had never before crossed his mind. Reward? It was not in hopes of rich honors and tribute that he had thrown his lot in with them. He could think of no single desire to name, though he could plainly see that Aragorn greatly wished to grant him something. The Dark Lord had been defeated and they still lived to see it; who could ask for more?
“I would have your happiness,” he said at last. “If you wish to honor me and the battles we fought together, you will reign wisely, restore to Gondor the pride of yesteryear, maintain the peace as you can, uniting the sundered realm beneath your rule. If you wish to honor me, see that my efforts were not spent in vain.”
Now Aragorn was silent, considering such a selfless answer as that. “There are few indeed who yet live in this world,” he said, “who, when offered the unreserved generosity of the King, would ask only that he fulfill his bounden duty. That I will do, and more. But, come, Legolas; I will not have you swept aside while the others are praised. How may I reward you?”
Legolas said nothing; in fact he seemed deliberately to ignore him.
“Very well,” Aragorn said at last, drawing himself up regally where he sat. “If you will name nothing you desire, I shall have to grant you a victor’s crown of my own choosing. No,” he insisted, raising a hand to silence any protest, “let me speak. Whenever it should be that you return in days to come, I shall grant you a fiefdom of your own in the fair land of Ithilien. I have heard the others mention your wish for such; ah, yes, they tell me more than you know. You shall be accorded royal peerage with myself and your compeer Prince Faramir, and the Elves who accompany you shall dwell there beneath your rule. I should also like you among my confidants, for you are ever above suspicion, and a trustworthy friend is often more than a king may hope for. Will you accept these small tokens of my esteem, for my sake?”
Legolas regarded him in silence for a while yet. This was a new side of proud and noble King Elessar, willfully humbled at his feet, begging him to accept what honors lay within his power to accord him, a human king abased before an immortal elven prince. And while such may have indeed been justified, Legolas was not sure he was comfortable with it. Even the sun seemed to betray him, a passing drift of cloud dulling the figure of Aragorn for a moment while golden rays fell as brightly as ever upon him.
“For your sake,” he consented at last. “Though I was fully willing to accept the rule of Faramir.”
“Oh, no,” Aragorn protested, his white and silver crown flashing in the light as he shook his head. “The Aftercomers shall never rule the Firstborn. It is only right that they follow a lord of their own; even better, one whom they love and trust. And moreover, I would have no other than mighty Thranduil’s son rule upon my eastern flank, for such a league of friendship will strengthen Gondor immensely, as Éomer so astutely observed: Legolas upon my left, and Aragorn upon my right, and none will dare to stand before us.”
These points Legolas had to admit, and in this Aragorn was appealing to his more altruistic inclinations, purposefully it seemed. “Very well, Aran Telcontar,” he said. “I shall be your compeer and confidant if it please you. But I have at last a request of my own if you are yet disposed to grant it.”
“By all means,” Aragorn urged, “name it!”
“That you stop regarding me for rank and title that, to my mind, means nothing between us,” he said, laying a fond hand upon the other’s shoulder. “Rather I would be as a brother to you.”
Aragorn smiled and returned the gesture, that simple request leading him to remember that they were indeed akin from afar through common descent from the royal House of Thingol, even if more in memory than in fact. “As you wish, brother Legolas,” he said. “If such is all you ask, how may I refuse?”
At that moment, the file of Queen’s maidens emerged from the palace gateway, Arwen herself in resplendent array among them.
“Elessar, meleth nîn!” she called to him clearly, seeing them both beside the tree as they rose to receive her. “You must stop this disappearing when court must convene!” She surrendered to his embrace when she had approached, lightly laughing with the still-undimmed joy of newlyweds. It seemed Legolas had again been forgotten, but he only smiled to himself, resigned to the way it must be.
“You must go now, love,” Arwen continued; “they await you.” In a few moments Aragorn graciously took his leave of both of them, leaving his queen in Legolas’ care.
“So, how fares our fair fugitive from Mirkwood?” Arwen asked, gladly taking the arm her kinsman offered.
“Fugitive, my lady?” he asked wryly as they walked again to the palace, surrounded by her ever-loyal maidens. “You might say rather ‘captive’.”
“You do not mean to tell me you are detained here by force, Legolas.”
“In some ways you may say that I am,” he smiled. “By the force of the abiding friendship of your husband, and not least of all by the beauty and good favor of his queen.”
“Oh, Legolas, I shall miss you,” she replied simply, entwining her fair arm further around his as they passed inside.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Mae govannen, Elessar hir nîn ~ Well met, Elfstone my lord
Elvellon ~ Elf-friend
Aran Telcontar ~ King Strider
Elessar, meleth nîn ~ Elfstone, my love