A Night To Remember by Liana Wanderwillow

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Story notes: Short and sweet.
Legolas-Elven Prince of Mirkwood

I hate the way he looks at me. He does not think I notice, but I do, and I hate that he cannot keep his eyes to himself. Not that I mind so much why he looks at me, but in his dark eyes there is something that I do not understand, and it frightens me beyond all belief. There is something there that I have seen elsewhere: in the eyes of Elrond and Galadriel, both of whom are of my race an ancient enough to have such wise eyes.

But Aragorn should not. He should not be able to pierce my very soul with a single glance as he does. He should not have the right to make me shift in my chair for guilt of thoughts which I cannot speak aloud. It is as if he sees the dreams I have in which he plays a great part. And he seems to want it, but that cannot possibly be it. I know that Aragorn would neither mock nor criticize if he knew, but I cannot help but wonder whether he wants me to think these things or if he is disgusted by me.

I want it very badly to be the former, but it is most unlikely. In my heart, I cannot tell, and that is a confusion to me, because always before has my heart guided me, and always before has my heart been correct in it's thinking. Not so now, and I fear that is the way it shall always be with Isildur's heir. He was not meant to be undone by me, nor by Arwen, who believes his one true heart lies in her hands.

And yet, I cannot help but look back at him sometimes. When our eyes meet, he smiles a little at me as if he has nothing to hide and he invites me into his mind. I would so love to get into that mind. I would love so dearly to find out what he is thinking when he settles his disconcerting gaze on my back. Unfortunately for me, that will not happen and I shall either have to wait for him to voice it or I shall have to ask. In this I am a coward, for I refuse to ask. I am too afraid.

What I fear, I do not know. But I think he does, and he flaunts it without meaning to. A Man is getting to me and I know that I could not stop it, even if I wanted to. But I don't want to. I truly don't.

My father would be so ashamed.

Aragorn-Heir of Isildur

He is very beautiful. Even hardened Gimli would say that. When I mentioned it to Elrond, whom I trust dearly, even he agreed with me. It is not to say that Elves are not beautiful within themselves, but Legolas has his own special something, which is terribly cliché. Arwen says that she thinks he has a favored soul, whatever that was supposed to mean.

Even now I cannot keep my eyes off of him, as he rests and lets his mind wander in the eaves of Elven-dreams. It is dangerous, for one cannot tell whether he sleeps or wakes, for his brilliant eyes are even now opened. They are deep eyes, eyes that are merry despite the pain that they have seen. I honor the resilience of his spirit. His hair is spun gold about his shoulders, softer than a wing of wind and yet so very, very palpable.

He opens his mouth a little, murmuring softly in Elvish. The curve of his lips is also real, and it makes me squirm to think of what I would so like to do to those lips. And also, in my heart, what I would like them to do to me. Though no one can see into my thoughts, I still blush, for even in the dark of night I know that my admiration of him is wrong and that he could never possibly, even with the luck I seem to carry, love me the way I love him.

For it is love, and not simply lust. I think of his mind as well as his body, and feel a rush in my soul every time I lay my eyes upon him. Were it lust I think I might have sated it long ago, for though the Elves do not disapprove of inter sexual relationships, they are not common either. Legolas has admitted to me before that he has had male lovers; which gave to me, for a time, hope. But it was then that I realized I did not simply want him physically, I wanted to be a part of him or have nothing at all. With that I think I condemned myself to forever longing after my lovely Prince. He blinks now, and stretches languidly. This simple movement makes my blood flow hot in my veins, and I return to staring out into the darkness to cover the flush riding in my face. He stirs, and gets to his feet, walking to stand just behind me. It is as if he expects something. 'Yes, Legolas?' I ask him. He sighs and sits beside me, oh so very close. He is close enough to touch, if I wanted. And I do, but I have not the courage, for I do not think my heart could stand it should he turn me away.

'It is my watch,' he says. I glance at the moon in the sky and see that he is correct. I wonder how he knows when to rouse himself. I peer over at him; his wide eyes are veiled by his long lashes, though I can sense something about him that disturbs me.

'Nay, my friend,' I tell him. 'There is something amiss in your heart.'

Several emotions play across his open face. I wait for him to speak, if he will grace me with such a gift. His words are long and lilting, and without conscious though he speaks in his own Elvish tongue, which suddenly I am grateful to understand. It is a small thing, and yet to me it represents a connection so much larger; one that the rest of the Fellowship cannot make with this flustered Prince of Elves.

'There is, Aragorn, and I yearn to tell you but for fear that stops me.'

Why does he fear me?

Legolas-Elven Rider

There, I have said it. Well, at least I have begun to say it. Long in my heart has there been a yearning for this silent man who is a King in his own right, who ponders the very essence of stars in the heavens. He would fascinate me simply if he had said 'Hello', but he speaks in volumes, though he does not know it.

Perhaps it is just this night, or perhaps it is fate, but I have realized he is what I want, and that he is what I will have. Not because I am Prince and that I think he would heed most any command that I gave him, but because he wants me as well. We have a common spirit, he and I, and no longer can anyone stand in the way of that: including myself.

My denial no longer works as it did, and ignoring the feelings makes them stronger. The very beat of my heart is to me his breath, and every whisper of wind in the treetops the words that he dares not to speak. He is more important to me than my father is, and more important than Mirkwood, though perhaps it is folly to say so, it is as I feel it, and I have been raised to tell the honest truth.

'Why are you frightened of me?' he asks, almost to the night. I am startled.

'I do not fear you, Aragorn,' I say. 'But perhaps I fear the King Elessar?'

'They are all me, Legolas. And so I must say that if you feel heavy-hearted on my account, I should be the one to ease it.'

'It is impossible, to ease this yearning. I could not ask of you what it requires, for it would tear your own heart to pieces, and most probably Arwen's. I could not stand have her angry with me.'

'She would not be angry for long,' sighs the King. 'For I fear she only fancies herself in love with me. Old as she is, and indeed ancient to my eyes, she is still but a child in her thoughts. She will spring back to herself, when she realizes what it is that I will to tell her.'

'The perhaps it is you who fear I,' I counter. Somehow, we both know of what we speak and need not say it aloud.

'Perhaps,' he says. 'But perhaps I fear Prince of Mirkwood.' He throws my own words back at me and I chuckle into the night.

'Would that I could abandon that Prince,' says I to he. In the distance, a wolf or a warg howls at the glowing orb of the moon, hung heavy amidst a sea of blackness and diamond stars. It seems as desolate as this conversation.

'And yet you know that you cannot..." he trails off. We think the same thoughts and breathe the same breaths, and we feel the same wind sweeping across the land that will forever change it. I long for the old days, ancient, as he says, to Aragorn. A time when there is no ache in my heart and no pain in my very soul for the thought that I cannot have him, he cannot have me, and yet we are held apart by the society that claims to idolize us.

I fear that I will break in two. And then all is still, as if the world holds its breath for us. I lean in a place a light kiss on his lips, retracting so he cannot kiss me in return. 'I cannot yet, my Lord Dunedan. But in the future, who knows. The wisest cannot say, and so most certainly I cannot. No one knows what the stars will hold.'

And in this moment our eyes meet without shame, a light looking into a darkness and a darkness simmering away in the light. We know, and yet are still uncertain, and we are content to simply sit in each others company; for the knowledge that we have something the world does not know about and that is only ours comforts us. I know him, and he knows me, for I have laid bare my soul by looking into his eyes. In return, I carry the weight of his soul upon my shoulders.

I will not hurt him. The Ring would destroy us all, and I will not allow it to take us from each other. At least then we shall have the memory of our secret.
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