I don't believe my priorities are in the right order. I mean, I've risked my life in battle more times than I could possibly count. I've stared Death in the face and danced with Pain and Suffering. Yet I don't think I've known fear until now.
I had to state the obvious; someone had to. All those brave souls marching off to certain death – I may not be afraid for myself but to coldly witness the slaughter of innocents requires more indifference than I have at my command. Yet I think that is a failing in me, rather than a strength – only truly great rulers such as he possess that ingrained knowledge of the Game of Thrones.
I think that's what I admire about him most of all. He has the true king's sense of duty. If the people of Rohan have to die, he will die with them. If he lives to take his throne of Gondor, he will do the same for his people. That is one of the many reasons why no one will insult Aragorn son of Arathorn in my hearing and live for very long. Yet that is also one of the reasons that fear claws at me right now, burrowing deeper than any arrow's shaft.
When he went over the cliff, something snapped within me that goes beyond the warrior bonds of men. It was like losing the inner walls of my heart. Gimli and I are friends, and there will be no one happier than I when we find Merry and Pippin again. But we've been following Aragorn for so long – without him I feel aimless; misdirected.
Of course, I'm not merely speaking of the fellowship.
When he returned, that something I had lost returned to me also, but it returned to me so fast and deep that I was tongue-tied. I like to think and imagine that he and I are like Sam and Frodo – to share the power of unspoken communication would be great indeed. Then Aragorn would know my simple "You look terrible" for all I had intended it to be – where were you, how did you survive, are you injured, we missed you, I missed you.
How could I have been so stupid? Me, Legolas the Archer Prince, of the infallible race of Mirkwood elves. My aim is legendary and my honor only slightly less so. To the outward eye, I am complete.
I'm certain that in her eyes I lack nothing.
But Eowyn would no doubt be surprised to learn that I lack quite a lot, and that I cannot define that which I am missing. Nor can I divine where I might discover the missing piece. Is it in his clear dark eyes, or is it in her fair skin and porcelain smile?
When I saw her for the first time, frightened and furious in Theoden's chamber, I sensed a strong spirit. And the fact I sensed spirit at all gave me pause. Royal women, even in Rohan, are seldom consulted on anything. Eowyn immediately showed everyone that she would not be cast aside.
She is wilful and fair; she seems like the type of woman who would not sit at home. She would be a companion on one's travels. What man would not feel blessed with a wife like that? I would not want a meek woman. I have not been raised with meek women. With women like Arwen (notice I do not call her his) as an example, how could I possibly think women were meant to sit at home and sew one's shirts? And yet, I'm like a child; too frightened to give her more than a glance, passing over her coldly like she does not matter to me.
Yet on some level she does not matter to me, because I have him, with his restless spirit and ordered will. I know that they can both take care of themselves. She is strong-willed and he is self-reliant after a lifetime of loneliness.
Perhaps, though, I am deceiving myself. One would have to be blind not to see the sparks between Aragorn and Eowyn. For a moment I want to shake him, to ask him what he thinks he's doing. Does he realize how many hearts he could break?
If Eowyn finds her way to the front and falls, I will be stricken with the grief of potential never realized. She and I could have done great things. Our children would have been the wonders of Middle-earth. And yet, if Aragorn should fall, I don't think I will ever recover. My heart will never recover. Because my heart would be dead.
Still, what can I do? To tell either of them of my feelings would bring my heart another killing blow. Be it scorn, revulsion, or worse, I couldn't take it.
So here I stand, on the walls of Helms' Deep, trying to make ready, and to choke down the fear for my heart.
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