Chapter Text
The night is pulsing with those silent shuffles of forest when Aragorn finds himself awoke. Crickets seem to roar in such times; the short-lived shifts of sleeping prey, the gently whipping breeze. He was a Ranger; grogginess hardly stuck to him, and wakening was as stark a transition as flame in the depths of Moria. There was no slow rising sun for him as there was in the lands of hobbits.
But tonight, he felt a dreariness about him. He felt that sheath of spellbound song surround him and his instinct allowed him to trust. His wizened eyes crinkled with the slightest edge of affection: Legolas was singing.
It was soft - so soft that nearly only another elf should hear it, but Aragorn was elf at heart, and Dunedain in blood. It weaved below the sounds of the forest almost as if filling the discordant sounds and he played Illuvatar. Now that, Aragorn thought, is a great analogy for so quiet a sound.
But the feeling was real.
This tired man listened on for some time without interruption, but soon guilt crept into his reverie. Alas, it was time to give Legolas his rest in turn. At the first rustle of his body as it moved erect, the singing ceased.
“Aragorn!” came the urgent whisper, and Aragorn glimpsed the dark black eyes glisten with intensity. “It is not yet your watch.”
“Yes, my friend,” he answered wryly, “but I have no say in this matter.” His voice of men could not be as gentle as that of Legolas, and though careful, he checked the small bodies around them for any stirring. They rested peacefully, and Boromir lay like a log waiting to be cast into the fire.
A perched smile hung about Legolas. “Ah, it is as I’ve heard. The insomnia that afflicts great men on the precipice of their destiny.”
“I would not go as far as that, Legolas,” answered he with warm restraint. His Rivendellian accent lilted through the elf’s name, a reminder of his upbringing. “But may nearly say it is fear.”
This elf was always cool and knowing. He quipped, and leaned his body forward in insistence, “Aye, but do not all men fear destiny?” He smiled, and pulled away to grab a flask of water, which he offered promptly to Aragorn. “Perhaps it is thirst you feel, not fear.”
Much was easily unspoken between these two, which they discovered early on in the Fellowship. Quickly they understood there was a conversation to be had, and silently moved to a safe distance from the camp. As Aragorn took his first sip, he was struck by how incredible it was, every time, to catch Legolas as so youthful. He had his arms wrapped around his legs in innocent repose and sat looking up at the sky, admiring the few stars who could peek out amongst the clouds.
“Many of the stars hide tonight,” he declared. “But I sense their searching for us. Even the sky has some stake in this matter, I fear.”
Aragorn did not doubt it, and nodded to convey it. “Mm, we can only hope their stake lies on our side.”
Legolas’ laugh rang clinquant. “As if the stars could betray us. It is as though an ancestor should lay brambles on your path. They would not.”
It was Aragorn’s turn to laugh. “My own ancestor is the reason our halfling bears such a burden.”
The blond’s afflicted eyes met the man’s, full of that ironic mirth.
“Yes, well,” he returned slowly, and kindly. “I am sure he did not mean to.”
There was a fullness of heart in that moment that Aragorn could not quite comprehend. He did not agree with this statement, and yet he believed it. In Legolas was both a childish naivete and ancient wisdom, which vacillated so quickly that it, like optic illusion, could pass one for the other. This naivete now felt like the truest truth.
“Perhaps,” was all he replied, but then carefully, “but either way: there are brambles.”
Legolas sighed. “Yes, there are. What I would give that the whole party had halfling soles with elvish arches, we would ache less.”
“And nothing of dwarf?”
Begrudging amusement lit the elf’s features. “Perhaps their oxlike hardness, as hobbit and elf likewise shake like leaves in wind.”
At Aragorn’s raised eyes, Legolas amended: “Though elves have no need to sit like a boulder in a windstorm, save at the end of the world.”
Aragorn released his surprise into a knowing laugh. “You are right, of course. Elves move with the forest - not against,” and he smirked conspiratorially. “Greenleaf as your namesake, you must.”
Legolas smiled, hugged himself closer, and looked to his partner with a proud neck and soft voice: “I must.”
With that, they enjoyed in silence the rush of wind through the overgrowth above, leaves as if in answer flaking off the branch and off past their camp. In it Aragorn heard a symphony. Legolas heard the Valar themselves.
“And of men?”
Legolas looked at him quizzically.
“You would have the crossbred feet of a hobbit and elf, the sturdy frame of a dwarf - but none is spoken of men.”
“The companionship,” said Legolas breezily, though he looked back at the sky and not Aragorn.
“You would have the companionship of men?” Aragorn sounded bewildered. But his tone shifted into a bemused cool as he said, “I did not know you and Boromir had grown so close -”
Legolas laughed so full throated that it was almost loud. He turned his mirthful gaze onto him, and clasped a hand to his shoulder, his almond black gaze narrowing:
“I speak of only one man.”
A tension rose between their distance but Legolas released his hand and stood up. He looked down at him calmly and began, “I would take Boromir’s freedom,” and as he walked back toward camp, “and give it to you.”
Aragorn sat alone, wading into the first minutes of vigil as Legolas faded into sleep.