Sleep was a long time in coming for Aragorn.  Even after all that had happened in the last few days, even though his body screamed for rest, the soon-to-be crowned King of Gondor tossed and turned in his tent.  It was his mind that betrayed him, projecting scenes from the last three days against his closed eyelids, recreating the screams of the fallen and the laughter of the enemy. When he finally managed to fall asleep, it was out of sheer exhaustion.  He had not slept since war was brought to Gondor’s doorstep.

~~~~~~~~~

It was ridiculously easy to get from one side of the camp to the other without being seen.  Legolas would have to do something about that.  Just because the One Ring had been destroyed and Mordor rendered nothing more than rubble didn’t mean that all danger was past.  Orcs still roamed here and there, searching desperately for a place to hide in the mistaken belief that they could somehow regroup, somehow amass a large enough army to continue their assault on the World of Men.

There were two soldiers from Rohan who should have been posted outside the large grey tent which stood in the centre of the camp.  Legolas could see them nearly fifty yards off, sitting around a fire with the few riders from their Éored who had survived the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.  Legolas refused to listen to the small piece of his heart that told him the Men deserved to mourn the fallen. There would be plenty of time for that later, when the safety of the future King of Men wasn’t at stake.  He himself had chosen those soldiers, watching from a distance to make sure his orders were followed.  Legolas could not say he had been surprised when, four hours after their watch began, the two Men were drawn away from the tent to join their friends as they shared fond memories of those who had not survived.

Pushing open the flaps of the tent, Legolas slipped inside unnoticed.  His keen Elvish eyes needed no time to adjust to the darkness.  Toward the back of the tent, Aragorn slept amid a bundle of blankets.  Legolas could see that the Man’s sleep was not in the least bit restful.  His left hand was clenched against his stomach, the other wrapped around the hilt of his sword.  It was as if he expected to jump up and be ready to do battle at any moment.  The realization saddened Legolas somewhat.  Even after all that had happened, Aragorn was still unable to have a few moments for only himself.

Sliding his quiver off his shoulder, Legolas knelt down next to the bundle of blankets.  He set his bow within reach, laying an arrow across it before dropping the quiver to the ground as well.  He would be a fine hypocrite indeed if his own carelessness put Aragorn in danger.

Though he would never admit it to another living soul, Legolas had always found Men to be fascinating.  He had always been careful to avoid emotional attachments with them, knowing that no matter how prepared he thought he was, the short years of Men would still take him by surprise.  It was because of this that Legolas had approached his friendship with Aragorn with some trepidation, and the deepening of that friendship into something more with the wariness of one who knew there would be nothing but pain in the end.

The darkness did not stop Legolas from being able to clearly see every line of Aragorn’s face.  He did not possess the delicate beauty of the Elves, but Legolas had come to see a different sort of beauty in Aragorn, one that, while different, was no less attractive.  The lines around his mouth, the hard set of his jaw, the small scar on his chin were all part of the Man, and Legolas knew that he wouldn’t have it any other way.  Even the horrible things that Aragorn had seen and done in his short 87 years were important.  They hadn’t just added to the guarded look in his eyes, no, that was merely the downside to life as a Ranger.  All of those experiences had helped to shape him into someone special. Someone Legolas had so found so easy to give his heart to.

The Elf’s hands moved of their own accord, one gently smoothing a stray lock of hair from Aragorn’s face and the other slowly tracing the Man’s bottom lip. There was a cut there, nearly healed but still easily visible to Legolas.  Quick reflexes were the only thing that saved the Elf from Anduril as his hands stopped their exploration of Aragorn’s face and pulled the sword away.

“What has happened?”  Aragorn demanded as he quickly got to his feet, exerting energy he didn’t have.  The Man crossed the tent in three long strides, throwing open the flaps and looking outside.  He was confused to find the camp orderly, without as much as a soldier raising his voice in song.  He turned back to the Elf, who hadn’t moved from his position on the ground next to Aragorn’s makeshift bed.

“Nothing has happened,” Legolas said softly, his voice lilting with the Elvish words.  He held out his hand, beckoning Aragorn to come back.  He watched as the Man came to stand beside him, not actually taking his hand when he decided to sit back down.  There was some sort of emotion in Aragorn’s eyes, though whether it was uncertainty or confusion, Legolas couldn’t say.  They sat in silence for a moment, neither one quite sure about what to say.

“The last few days have been trying,” Legolas began after he was able to collect his thoughts.

“On everyone,” Aragorn agreed.

“I have lived for millennia, Aragorn,” Legolas said.  “And I have only once witnessed the abject horror of seeing my kin slaughtered in such large numbers.” Aragorn opened his mouth to speak, but Legolas stopped him with a raised hand. “I know that we have spoken of this before, and I do not mean to repeat our earlier conversation.  I mean only to say that I do not take well to losing those I care about.  Death is not something that the Elves take lightly.”

Aragorn nodded and waited for Legolas to continue, knowing what it had cost the Elf to say as much as he had.  After several moments spent in silence, Legolas spoke again.

“You could have been killed today, and I would have stood there and watched it happen.”

“I could have been killed countless times in all the battles we have fought,” Aragorn pointed out. 

“This is different,” Legolas said, his voice hard enough to stop Aragorn from cutting him off.  “I would have been forced to watch as that creature crushed the life out of you.  I was too far off, there were too many bodies between it and me, and so my bow was useless.  I shall never get used to death, Aragorn.”

“And what of me?” Aragorn asked.  “Do you think I take death any more lightly than you do?”

“I did not say that,” Legolas said.  He picked up the arrow that he had earlier set on top of bow.  It felt good in his hands.  It was fletched with leaves, and Legolas could almost pretend that he was a little bit closer to home.  He missed the forests of Mirkwood.

“You may not have said it, but you seemed to imply it.  You are not the only one haunted by death, my friend.”  Aragorn shifted imperceptibly closer to the Elf, reaching out to take the arrow from his hands and setting it on the ground.

“The war is over and we have survived it.  You have nothing to fear tonight, Legolas.”  The words were said softly as Aragorn slowly closed the distance that separated them.  The kiss was slow and gentle, meant to reassure and chase away any lingering doubts.  When Aragorn pulled back, he was witness to a rare sight: there was uncertainty in Legolas’ bright blue eyes.

“And what of tomorrow?” the Elf asked.

“Tomorrow must wait,” Aragorn said simply. 

Legolas nodded.  “You are weary,” he said, reaching out to smooth a hand over Aragorn’s brow.  It was a gesture that effectively ended their conversation.

As Aragorn closed his eyes so his lover’s cool fingers could brush his eyelids, he once again felt his body protesting at the abuse he had heaped upon it.  It was all he could do to force his eyes open again so he could look at Legolas.

“Sleep,” the Elf said softly, pushing Aragorn backwards onto his makeshift bed. He was unprepared for the Man to take hold of his arms and pull him down, too. They settled down amid the blankets, and soon Aragorn’s breathing deepened and became more even.  As Legolas watched him sleep, he was struck by the peaceful expression on Aragorn’s face.  He could not help but wonder who the Man dreamt of. 

~~~~~~~~~

Aragorn sighed as he tightened his hold around the body in his arms.  After all that had happened he could finally be selfish and take time for himself without the intrusion of guilt.  Gentle hands stroked his skin as lips softly pressed kisses along his collarbone.  Blonde hair trailed across his chest as the Elf in his bed made his way lower, nipping and sucking at every tiny scar he found. Aragorn was content in a way that he could scarce remember being.  As to the signs that pointed toward the truth, that Aragorn was merely dreaming, the new King of Gondor ignored them.  At least here, in this moment, he could be happy.

THE END