~NOTES: Hoo boy, my first slash fic. ^_^; I've seen LotR three times now, and each time, I can't help but reflect on the utter slash possibilities... so after the third time I saw it, this happened. It was originally supposed to be a 100-worder, but it wound up being somewhat longer than that. Ah well. For those who are curious, "nimbė" is the Elvish word (Quenya Elvish, specifically) for sadness. Angst and probably OOC abound, no doubt. Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, as I am not Tolkien. The fact that I am not dead, and that I am writing fanfiction, should be proof of that. Also, the fact that were Tolkien still alive, he would probably drop dead upon reading this, should indicate to you who owns Middle-Earth and its inhabitants. God save my little hentai soul.~

One: Through My Mind

No... no... we've lost another...

The thought clattered and clanged through Legolas's mind, as noisy as a dwarf trampling through woodlands. A profound sadness swept through him. The Fellowship was all but perished; the little ones were gone--he knew not where--and Gandalf was lost... now Boromir? This was growing to be more than he could take in so short a time.

He heard Gimli stomp up behind him, and pause. He did not look to the dwarf. His eyes were full of Aragorn, the king who wasn't a king, whose fear of weakness made him so strong. The ranger gently kissed his fallen comrade, and as he watched, Legolas knew a new type of sorrow... the loss of that which could never have been his to begin with. The loss of a thing imagined, of shards of a dream... of a desperately hoped-for love.

Farewell, Boromir, Lord of Gondor... and farewell to you, Aragorn.

*****

Two: Does His Name Start With 'A'?

It is said that elvish singing is not a thing to be missed... but elvish tears are something from which any feeling creature should be spared. When elves sing, the heart is elevated so that the very stars appear shallow, and even the bitterest of dwarves and men wonder, deep down in their minds, whether the world might not be so terrible a place after all.

When elves cry, the hearts of those who hear and see are dashed to pieces from utter despair. The most lighthearted beings are reduced to quivering masses of misery; the toughest, stoutest men cannot fight the urge to weep. There is even an ancient tale, largely forgotten by most living men, of a maid who killed herself upon witnessing the elves in mourning.

So tell me... why do you cry, Legolas Greenleaf? I know why my tears are falling--you put them there. But what reasons have you for this?

You're supposed to be keeping watch, my love. Yet your eyes are looking, not at the woods around you, but at your own feet. Your delicate shoulders hitch once in a while, a gesture that could be mistaken for laughter by an unobservant watcher. But I am not just a ranger in name. I can see the lines of pain etched into your pale, smooth skin, and the starlight turns the trails of sadness on your face into a mild silver color. Even in such pain, you are beautiful... is it wrong to think that?

Do you know that I'm watching you?

Can you even see me through those angel's tears?

Gimli suddenly sits up in his sleeping bag. His dark, tiny eyes are wide open. "MORIA!" he declares. "M'kin... m'people..." He falls over just as suddenly as he sat up, loudly snoring. Were we anywhere else, and had I not known of what he spoke, I might have found it amusing... instead, I almost join in his lament. I want to throw all my grief and pain into the air and let it dissipate. Let the clouds and the stars bear this burden... I want no part of it any longer.

My eyes meet Legolas's. A sense of wonder touches me. I try not to think of what I would do to eliminate the sorrow in those green eyes of his... I imagine that I might make myself nervous. He looks back down. My gaze must have unnerved him... perhaps he wasn't as oblivious as I'd hoped.

"Why do you weep?"

Oh, such a silence follows my words. We gaze at each other--I in the shadows beneath the tree that serves as my shelter, he a silhouette of moonlight in the forest. Perhaps this is not real. Perhaps his tears are a figment of a deranged imagination.

And perhaps I only pretend that our deepest feelings can show themselves in silence.

Then, his voice, a mournful melody: "...Sometimes, grief is so profound that nothing else can properly express it."

"You know what I ask, Legolas."

"Do I, Aragorn?" What is wrong with him? He is normally not so curt. "Why do you cry?"

"Because your pain is my pain."

"You cannot comprehend my pain." He looks away from me, into the forest we both love.

"You know that to be false." I slowly rise and move to him. "We all feel mourning over what... and who... we have lost. We all have seen things which the common folk only consider in legends, or in nightmares." I try to smile at him, but I know I am not convincing. "If there are any in Middle-Earth who share each other's pain, it is we."

He still refuses to look at me. I reach out, carefully touch his face, and guide him so that I can see his eyes. His skin is almost the consistency of silk. "Stop," he says, his voice only a shade above silence. "Tell me what hurts you so. It's clearly some other burden you have forced upon yourself, my dear--friend."

Does he notice the pause I took? It seems not. I certainly hope not. He finally responds: "I cry for something that is lost... but was never had at all. For things I am not strong enough to contradict, not stubborn enough to fight against. For..." He appears oddly frustrated for a moment, then mutters something in Elvish, too quickly for me to hear.

"For...?"

He whispers, in Common: "Something cursed... and something blessed."

"You speak in riddles, Legolas. Do you try to deceive me?"

"How can I deceive you?" His eyes lower. "I cannot even deceive myself."

What is he...

And then, I know. Knowledge strikes me, hard and fast as lightning. I am unsure of how to react to it; it seems so loathsomely obvious now...

"You're... you're in love," I say slowly.

I wish I could see what emotions are reflected in his eyes. He wrenches away from my grasp--only now do I realize that I never moved my hand from his face. "Very good guess," he whispers--the words seem harsh, but his voice was so soft, so hopeless... "I have been negligent in my duties as watchman. I--"

"With who?" I inquire, my voice equally soft. I'd like to know who I lost to, my mind cruelly adds. "No one with whom I could ever share anything." He's backing away from me, inch by inch, rather like an animal trying to creep away from a hunter.

"Peace, Legolas!" I lightly take him by the shoulders before he can escape. "Why do you fear me? I am your friend, your comrade-in-arms, and it has always been so. There isn't a word you could utter that could break the bond we have. Let me bear your pain with you." I smile wistfully. He's starting to relax, in body if not in mind. "Why should you think that your love could not be? There are maids of all the races who would give much to be loved by you. Tell me who the lucky woman is."

Something darkens in his eyes, something which I cannot quickly identify... something which I've never seen in him before. "...He is a mortal. One of the race of men."

Now I know. It was shame... but I'm so utterly dumbfounded by this news that I cannot dwell on this shame. A mortal? A male? By all the Valar, who?

"He is a king... or will be. And he will be one of the greatest when he does. But for now, he strides through the darkness of our times, unseen and without fear." Again, he pulls out of my grasp, his eyes speaking sad apologies for his words. "Rest now, Aragorn. The dwarf takes the next watch; you would be wise to try and gain some sleep before yours. It would be a sad thing if we three were lost because of frivolous words, or from nodding off while orcs are near..."

I barely hear him.

Strides.

Strider.

Hell.

"Legolas!" I say sharply, just as he turns to scout out the woods. He looks back at me with such absolute hopelessness... "I... I share your burden more than you know."

Before he can protest, I grasp him by the wrist, pull him close, and gently press my lips against his. Here... here is something which Arwen could never understand, should she live an elven lifespan... and neither could I, were I given the same amount of time. His lips are warm, just as silken as his skin and the luxurious blonde hair which I twist in my fingers. He returns the kiss with the slightest bit of pressure, the lightest of promises. His fingers interweave with mine. Everything said in that one kiss is bright enough to dull the stars and reduce the sun to a sputtering candle.

I find a bit of life.

I pull away for air. I nearly laugh at the look on his fine face--a perfect cross-breeding between confusion and contentment. "Now tell me, Legolas," I murmur, "do you think that you have the heart to sing me to sleep?"

He smiles--such a smile I haven't seen since the little ones disappeared. And, ever so slightly, he nods.

I return to my sleeping-roll and curl up inside it, knowing that he has already disappeared into the forest. After a few moments, his incomparably beautiful voice rises among the sounds of the night, singing an elvish song of celebration. The singing goes on for many minutes, and yet, I do not sleep until its completion.

After all, elvish singing is not a thing to be missed.

~End~ <

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