Legolas stood motionless on the stony wall of Helm's Deep, gazing out over the empty landscape that soon would march with Sauron's vile militia. Even now, the sky seemed pale with foreboding, the land itself cowering in fear, drawing within itself in an effort to become less obtrusive, less of a target.

There was no hope. Legolas felt it deep within his bones as he observed the Men reinforcing the gates, scouring the far off hills for any signs of the coming onslaught. Staring down at Lady Arwen's pendant, its silver chain wound between his trembling fingers, he felt the grief seize him anew, tearing at his chest as if it were a physical being, wretched and writhing within his heart.

Aragorn was no more.

The name echoed in his thoughts as the drumbeat of the enemy. It pulsed and burned in his throat, pouring from him in painful ribbons of grief. It was with true shock that Legolas reached up and touched the tears that wet his cheeks. How many generations of Men had he seen come and leave these lands? How many generations had laid to waste in the womb of Middle Earth in the span of time he had grown to maturity? How could this- the death of a single Man- have wounded him so thoroughly?

"Laddie," a gruff voice came from behind Legolas. Turning without attempting to mask his true emotions, Legolas stared down at Gimli. "Come down from there and join us in the preparation for battle."

Legolas wordlessly lept down to stand before Gimli. He slipped Aragorn's pendant into his breast pocket and followed his friend through the stony maze of Helm's Deep into the mute and pensive preparations. Around him the sound of terse conversation and the clank of metal on stone assaulted his sensitive ears. Legolas felt lost for the first time in his existence.

Wandering off from Gimli's kind and watchful gaze, Legolas let himself become engulfed in the hurried throngs of Rohan's people. Their coloring was much the same as his own- fair and blond- but the lines that wind and battle had etched around their eyes gave them an ancient appearance for humans. Legolas touched his unlined cheek and felt an unfamiliar bitterness for his youthful appearance, for the impassive blue of his eyes, for the ripe color of his lips. Why could not his own grief reflect itself in lines and hollows?

Legolas fell back into a shadowy crevice in a stony archway and felt his breath quicken and the will to move on leave his bones. Blackness began to take him, but, as ever, Gimli's voice cut through the bleak onslaught.

"Laddie," his growled. "I'm going to kill him," he bellowed. Legolas pushed himself out into the filtered daylight of the keep to see Gimli shoving through the milling crowd towards a tall, hunched figure.

Gimli's thick, dwarf arms found Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the throne of Gondor and king of Legolas' heart. Aragorn smiled wearily, his face split into a million fine lines by his quiet pleasure. Legolas crept forward, his eyes following the ranger as he moved slowly towards him on the staircase.

"You're late," he murmured, wondering if the streaks of his tears were still evident on his pale cheeks. Aragorn did not speak, but his eyes were light and young as he met Legolas' gaze. "You look terrible," Legolas found himself adding, taking in the gash that marred Aragorn's right shoulder. His hair fell down over his handsome, haggard face in long, wet strands and his cloak clung to his broad shoulders limply.

Remembering the pendant, Legolas took it from his breast pocket and placed it in Aragorn's palm with trembling fingers. Aragorn's eyes never left his as he accepted the returned charm. Legolas felt his world return to normal and he was cheered by the presence of his leader.

---

Legolas carefully bathed Aragorn's shoulder in a soft cloth, soaked in the clear waters of Lothlorien. He was heartened by his foresight as he saw the soot and dried blood immediately disperse beneath the blessing of Galadriel.

"You were lucky, Aragorn," he murmured, his voice low. He was pleased for this moment of solitude before the battle. Had it not been for Aragorn's certainty, he would have lost himself to despair at the news of Saruman's approaching army. But Aragorn remained straight and keen, his face exuding a new calm. Soon, Legolas knew, he would lead them all.

"I was not lucky, Legolas." Aragorn watched his expert fingers rip at the bits of leaf and apply them to the open wound with the utmost delicacy. "I never doubted my survival."

"Nor did I," Legolas lied, avoiding Aragorn's steady gaze.

"Then why do your eyes tell a different story?"

Legolas paused, uncertain of the warmth in his friend's tone. He dared glance up to meet Aragorn's dark eyes and immediately he was frozen, lost in them. "Aragorn?" he murmured uncertainly.

"Legolas. My friend." Aragorn broke their contact, staring down at Arwen's pendant in his palm. He held it tenderly and it sparkled in the reflection of some unknown light source, twinkling as if in response to his emotions.

Legolas rested his palm against Aragorn's neck, tracing his cheek with his fingers. His sensitive fingertips worshipped every sharp bristle of stubble, the elegant line of his jaw.

"Legolas, my thoughts were of you," Aragorn breathed, his words more of a sigh. He spoke in elvish now, his voice lilting and trembling in a manner that was unfamiliar to Legolas. "When I thought that death was at hand, my thoughts were only of you."

"My lord," Legolas murmured, letting his fingers follow a bolder path to Aragorn's parted lips. "My king." He leaned closer and rested his lips against Aragorn's cheek, basking in the warmth of the Man's strength, the heat of his passionate nature.

"My friend," Aragorn moaned, tilted his head towards Legolas now so that their lips met. For a moment they hesitated. Legolas was unsure of how they had come to this, but he knew with everything in his soul that this was correct. Carefully parting his lips, frightened of Aragorn's intense gaze and furrowed brow, Legolas reached up with his other hand and twisted his fingers through Aragorn's long hair to trace his skull and pull him closer. Their lips parted and their breath and spit and sighs mingled in an elvish prayer.

"Aragorn," Legolas breathed, leaning closer so that he could rest his cheek against Aragorn's chest. Through the metal rings of his armor and the layers of cloth, Legolas heard his unsteady heartbeat. "This is meant to happen."

"I know."

"The battle will begin soon," Legolas reluctantly pulled himself free to stare into Aragorn's haggard features. His eyes were bright with a quiet wonder, his lips slack from their kisses. "We will finish this thought when we have defeated Saruman's forces."

"Yes." Aragorn cupped Legolas' face with his calloused hands, leaning forward to brush Legolas' cheek, then brow, then lips with his own. Legolas inhaled Aragorn's breath, aching for more of this swift, powerful drug.

Gimli's voice reverberated through the corridors as he entered, his ill-fitting chainmail falling with a cheerful clatter past his feet and splaying out across the stone. "It's a bit tight around the chest," he muttered.

Aragorn caught Legolas' eye in understanding and they stood as one, ready to face the enemy with renewed faith in their own fates and the fate of Middle Earth.