I watch him. I watch him move and check the weapons, I listen to his voice speak empty words of encouragement to the men of Rohan who are going to their death. I watch him and see the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He does not realise how often his hand seeks comfort in the finely carved handle of his sword.

Are we all going to die tonight?

He was so weary when he returned, unexpectedly delivered back by death. I placed the silver pendant into his hand at the gates of the Hornburg. For a moment I thought he was going to kiss me, not like a brother, but like what I really am to him. But then the eyes of strangers fixed upon us stopped him. Or so I thought. Now I am not sure what to believe, because he keeps avoiding me. Ever since he returned, he has taken care of not having to be alone with me for one moment. I do not understand it.

Our time together is bound to be short. It is a choice we never had. For me it is but a fluttering beat of a butterfly’s wings. Yet some might say it has marked my heart for all eternity. Even I might say that. But I do not, for all eternity is too long a time to speak of, even for an Elf. He is no more mine to have than I am his; we are stealing fleeting moments under the cold and all-seeing gaze of Fate. One day he shall have to receive Ilúvatar’s dark gift, and my sail will be set for the Undying Lands. All that shall remain of us is a fading image among the infinite patterns in the tapestry of Time, invisible and unimportant and forgettable.

It is strange how the importance of things is determined. War, death and misery will be remembered, but not the experience of two souls belonging together.

I do not know what shall come to pass if this desperate war is won and he shall be King. I believe he does not know either. He was once bound to Evenstar, but does not speak of her these days. I suspect their oath has been emptied of the meaning it held. I am not so blind as to think he broke their bond because of me, but whatever the reason was, it remains hidden from me.

I sometimes wonder if we are connected by our shared guilt more than anything else.

The night is spinning its dark webs outside the walls. The ground is caught in an endless, ever growing tremor of countless heavy pairs of feet heading this way. I am in a small room next to the armoury, watching restless shadows dance inside my eyelids as the flame of a lonely candle on the wall bends, diminishes, grows. I am sitting on a plain wooden bench, my knees bent, my chin leaning on them, my head tilted to one side.

I know he is standing in the doorway. There is no need for me to turn around and see his steel-grey eyes, his strong body that I long for every moment. My voice echoes colder than I intend.

“What do you want?”

He tries to hide his annoyance, but I hear it.

“What am I to make of such a question?”

This time I turn to look at him, holding myself back, suppressing an urge to get up and step closer. My words sound distant and chill the stone walls like a breeze on a winter morning.

“And what am I to make of a lover who seems to be avoiding my company and rejecting my touch?”

I cannot conceal the hurt in my voice, the wound of humiliation from earlier, when he walked away on me after our argument. His eyes remain calm, even though they register slight surprise. He speaks quietly.

“Legolas Greenleaf, you are not a mere lad short of the wisdom of his elders. You are of immortal kin and have seen ages of the world come and go. You should know better.”

I can only take so much of his gaze. I lower my eyes and feel the tips of my ears burn with shame, for I know he is right. Why do I lose my calm, my control, when I am near him?

Without a warning his hands are on my shoulders and his body is pressed against my back. I tremble under his touch, his warm breath caresses my neck as he whispers into my ear,

“Did you believe I would go and face death without claiming another embrace in my lover’s arms?”

I am feeling weak. His arms encircle my body and breath escapes my lips in gasps as his mouth explores the sensitive skin of my neck. After nearly three thousand years on Middle-earth, this allure, this sparkle and flame between two bodies, two minds, remains a mystery to me. Every time it catches me anew and fresh, runs in my veins like liquid fire. And lately it has been his alone to set aflame.

He strokes my hair gently, and trying to seem as calm as if I was preparing for a bath, I take off my tunic and shirt. He lays me down on the wooden bench, looking at my face intensely, oh for the grace of the Valar how he looks at me. I have no defences; my body and soul are laid bare before him. The hands that travel on my skin, the hair that sweeps my face, the lips that taste of salt, soil and metal – it is these fleeting sensations that give a meaning to the eternity I am facing.

He does not claim me as his, but rather accepts as a gift what I have to give. Possession does not play a part in what we share. I am here of my own free will, and he knows what keeps me by his side rather than with my own kin, although we rarely speak the words.

His passion builds quickly, sweeping him away. For my sake he tries to give it time, and for his sake I try to let it absorb me. I hear him murmur those tender, secret names he calls me, my Elf, my light, my fair one, my prince, and I repeat into his ear, melethron, melethron, Estel, Elessar. Our bodies move in a slow dance, entwining, glowing, rocking. We both cry out and for a moment we are one being, all boundaries of flesh and spirit erased away.

Afterwards I rest my head on his chest and listen to the beats of his heart. My fingers touch the silver pendant he is wearing. I know what it stood for in the past; but now I regard it as a token of a different kind of union between Man and Elf. I close my fingers around the jewel and Aragorn places his hand on top of mine, giving it a light squeeze. So many unspoken words between us.

He leans in to kiss me once more and I respond hungrily, unwilling to let him go. My desire is rising again, but I know there is no time. He gets up and starts to get dressed. I watch him. I love watching him. His figure is untamed and tempting. He moves into the armoury. Of course, this time he is getting dressed for a battle. I try to ignore a stab in my heart. He is covering his fragile mortal flesh with equipment that looks far too weak and thin to protect him. The skin that comes alive under my fingertips, the limbs that wrap around mine, the muscles that move like small, alert animals – he is wounded already, what will be left of him when the night is over?

I am quickly back in my own clothing, and as he pulls the heavy mail shirt over his head, I offer him his sword. A warm light is kindled in his eyes. I speak the words that have been looming somewhere inside me for hours.

“We have trusted you this far, you have not led us astray. Forgive me. I was wrong to despair.”

He smiles at me and places his hand on my shoulder.

“There is nothing to forgive, Legolas.”

I want to pull him in my arms, hold him tightly, lose myself in another kiss before our moment is over, but suddenly I know it has already passed. Gimli appears at the door, wearing a chain mail that is far too long for him. Even though we have never spoken of it, he has taken it as his task to stand a guardian between our private moments and the curious eyes of the outside world. His presence is a sign that we are wanted elsewhere; our luxury of intimacy has been spent.

As we stand on the battlements, facing the enemy, Aragorn is suddenly by my side. I look at him and a wave of affection washes over me.

“Your friends are with you, Aragorn,” I say.

Gimli glances at us from his downward position and states,

“Let’s hope they last the night.”

It is a double-edged sentence directed at us, for he knows what we have been up to, and what we would be up to right now, had we a choice. But there is no sharpness in his voice, no scorn; it is his clumsy way of telling us he cares.

A flash of lightning paints everything white momentarily. All I see is Aragorn’s face. And I know all he sees is mine.

We do not know if we are going to survive, but our reason to try is clear as ever.

THE END