CHAPTER 36:  THE HEART OF THE MAN

(NOTE:  In case you missed this - there is another NEW chapter - Chapter 35 before this.... )

The night sky outside Legolas’ room glittered with the thousands of stars sprinkled across its expanse, and the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses through the balcony doors delighted the senses of the elf prince that had helped bring the sweetness to these gardens. Legolas loved such a night, when Middle-earth seemed graced with a quiet, untouchable beauty.

But for Aragorn – who was once again in the sleeping quarters of his friend – such joy eluded him tonight.

He stood in a daze waiting for Legolas to prepare himself so that he could lay the healing hands of a king on the accursed mark of Sarambaq and strive to purge the darkness of Mordor from his wounds.

The strong king of Gondor was numbed momentarily by his own pain as he recalled the conversation he had overheard. Would Legolas sail now, leaving his mortal friends to grieve his departure?

If he but asked Legolas to stay, Aragorn thought without pride, the gentle elf would deny his sea-longing and bear the pain for his sake. But could he bring himself to demand such a sacrifice?

The emotions warred within him more violently than any duel he had had with orcs.

Do not depart from my life yet, my friend, for I need you still.

Nay! Find your peace, Legolas, in a land that will welcome you – leave this world of Men in which your kin will fade, in which Men will – in time – fail to recognize your beauty and goodness.

Yet, I would have you stay – please stay till my passing as you said you would.

But… I will not be selfish. I cannot hold you back.

The struggle within him tore him apart, but Aragorn forced himself to cast his attention on Legolas’ wounds instead. When the shirt was finally removed, the healer’s eyes studied them. They looked much as they did this morning: close to festering instead of healing, no matter what the elf said in denial.

The sight of the ugly wounds twisted Aragorn’s heart and ended his battle of emotions. In the end, it had to be Legolas’ recovery that was paramount, he conceded, tasting the bitterness in his mouth.

I will not ask you to stay, my friend, or I would not be a true one to you. Go and find your peace.

It seemed his heart would break with the weight of its grief as he swore silently at a man who was no longer there.

Curse you, Sarambaq. Curse you for doing this to him, curse you for doing this to me.

“Aragorn?”

The voice of the elf jerked him back to the task at hand. He lay reclined on his bed, waiting patiently. Preoccupied with removing his tunic and shirt and preparing himself, Legolas had only sensed the bitter anger in Aragorn’s last thoughts.

“He is gone, Estel. Think of him no more,” the gentle reminder reached the man’s ears. Seeing the look of weariness on the face of the king, Legolas started to sit up. “I know that such ministration of healing demands much of your strength, Estel. If you are too tired, let us leave it…”

“Nay, Legolas, I am not,” Aragorn assured him, composing his features and staying the elf with his hand. “I am merely bending my thoughts towards what I need to do. Lie down, my friend, and close your eyes. Fight this with me.”

Legolas smiled and obeyed, resolved to overcome and discard the accursed remnants of Mordor from his body. Soon, the blue eyes were hidden behind pale lids fringed by long lashes, making the strong warrior and elf prince look for all the world like an innocent child in slumber.

Aragorn studied the elven face for a few moments, moved by the love he felt for this friend he feared losing above all others.

If the power of healing be still in my hands, he called silently to the Valar, let it flow through them now, for there is a Firstborn who needs it – and I cannot tell if this is the last time I shall be able to do this for him.

He had to choke back his emotions and crush them as hard as he crushed the athelas in his hands, little assuaged by the healing scent of the leaves that would have easily lifted his spirits at any other time, were he not so weighted down by grief.

Legolas went limp, his trust in the human king clearly written on the elven face. Aragorn laid a hand first on the smooth, pale brow.

Legolas Thranduilion, I share with you the strength of my body and my spirit. By the power of the line of Númenór, and the blood of Lúthien within me, I bid you be free of the Shadow. Let it haunt you no longer.

At first there was only a calmness – a nothingness – in the touch of the healer. Then Aragorn gasped as a feeling of malevolence surged against his hands and the image of Sarambaq’s leering face entered his mind. Keeping his hand firmly on the brow, he strove with the evil, pouring his own strength into the battle of wills, not yielding for even a moment. The elf beneath him began to tense and breathe a little more rapidly, his brows knitted in discomfort as his friend fought to free him. Voices – whispered incantations woven with malice – filled the healer’s mind and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He strove even more fiercely and more urgently in a silent duel with the demonic spirit of Sarambaq.

Sweat poured from the brow of the healer and down his eyes that were closed in deep concentration, but finally, he prevailed, and the apparition of the minion of Sauron twisted in agony, blurring and dissipating like mist in the heat of day.

Aragorn released a deep sigh at the same time that Legolas did. Opening his eyes, the healer brushed the sweat from them, and noted that Legolas’ lids were still closed, but the pale elven face looked calm again, and a wisp of a smile passed his lips. 

May the ghost of Sarambaq trouble you no more, he said silently to the elf. But I wish this were enough to keep you here in Middle-earth, he thought sadly.

Aragorn did not know if the darkness of Mordor could be kept wholly at bay, or if the wounds would fully heal. But even if he could overcome those, he realized, no army, no king’s hands, and no power in Middle-earth would be able to remove the torment of the sea-longing – for that was the call of the Valar themselves that no mortal or Firstborn could defeat. 

It was a bitter truth, and Aragorn would dwell no further on it. He once again turned back to what he could do for his friend, and looked at the wounds on Legolas’ chest. He studied the four arms of the long, crossed lines and the junction where they met, and marked with his mind the five spots where he would place his hands. The healer breathed against the crushed leaves on his hands and bent all his will toward the task.

Laying both hands on the first of the four arms, he was overwhelmed by his feelings and thoughts about all that the elf meant to him, till his heart seemed like it would break.

May healing flow to you through these hands, noble friend.

This touch is for your unflinching loyalty, my comrade-in-arms, and for the aid you have given me in countless ways and different places, for your readiness to purchase my life with your own.

He lifted his hands slowly and placed them gently on the next spot.

This touch is for the laughter you have sown in my life and the tears we have shed together, for being my faithful companion in good times and bad.

Legolas felt a warm comfort spread slowly across his chest, a comfort that also felt strangely sad.

This is for the many lessons I have learnt from your wisdom, my elven friend, and from your fresh innocence as you bonded yourself to my mortal life. 

This is for the forgiveness you freely give even when I do not deserve it, most patient of souls.

Finally, Aragorn placed his hands at the center of the mark and the center of Legolas’ chest, where the lines met.

And this, Legolas – this is for the pure love you have blessed my life with, dearest of friends, a love poured unceasingly from a heart that demands nothing in return. This heart that beats beneath my hands… this heart would still deny its longing and make its biggest sacrifice for me if I would but ask…

But it is because I know you would give it that I would not ask of it of you.

His hands remained a moment longer for one final surge of his healing power.

And so I let you go, beloved friend, to let you find peace in a Land that will hurt you no more. 

With that, he lifted his hands and felt his tears leak from the corners of his eyes, no longer able to stem his feelings of sorrow. He stifled a sob, and immediately felt two warm hands grasping his own. Through moist eyes, he saw a pair of blue orbs beneath furrowed brows, gazing at him with concern.

“Do not weep for me, Estel,” Legolas said gently.

Aragorn returned his gaze, mute in the grief of his thoughts. Does he know …?

“These wounds are not worth your tears, for I can bear them,” the elf continued in a reassuring tone, “and they will fade just as surely as all others that the hands of the king have touched in healing.”

Legolas, truest of friends – I know they will heal, Aragorn explained silently. I weep not because of these wounds, but because they will heal in a distant place where I cannot follow. I weep because you will leave me far too soon.

He felt his breath catch in his throat.

Yet, I do not want you to see my grief, I do not want you to deny the sea-longing for my sake.

“Yes, my friend, you will heal, and these are but foolish worries,” he said aloud quickly so that Legolas would not sense his thoughts. “I ask only that … whatever happens in consequence, I shall know.”

He masked his sadness even though every fibre of his body dreaded the moment when Legolas would inform him of his desire to sail. He looked at the elf, who merely smiled.

“I will heal, Aragorn, and you will know,” he promised.

The next day, the royal family of Gondor and various other members of the Court bid a fond farewell to the king and prince of Greenwood, their small party of five elves, and the Lord of the Glittering Caves.

Aragorn and Thranduil had exchanged their farewells, and the man now turned his attention to the dwarf, grasping his shoulders before helping him on to his horse.

“Thank you, Aragorn,” the dwarf said graciously. “I can claim to be a rider now, but I am not too proud to admit I need a leg-up,” he declared with an air of nonchalance. “Pride is for those who wish to land on their behinds because they are foolish enough to try mounting on their own when they cannot.” He raised his voice to make sure Legolas heard his next words: “And pride is for those who refuse to be given treatment even though they need it!”

Legolas did indeed hear them, as did his father and everyone else, but they hid their mirth for the sake of the elf prince. He finished whispering something to Eldarion and gave Arwen a final kiss before he turned around and glared at Gimli, muttering a most unprincely comment, although his eyes were merry.

“I will make sure he lets his wounds be treated,” Gimli said conspiratorially to Aragorn. “I will sit on him if I have to.”

The king chuckled in amusement. “Just not on his chest, Gimli,” he warned, but his eyes reflected his gratitude. “And you be well, too, my friend. Let it not be too long before the next visit.”

“If the invitation comes with a generous helping of Southfarthing leaf, that will be all the motive I need,” the dwarf jested. “Farewell for now, Aragorn. The Caves await a visit from the King of Gondor too, and he will always be welcome.”

“Let us be on our way, Dwarf, before you commence on one of your twelve-league-long tales,” Legolas complained in mock impatience. He whispered something to the Rohan horse, and it bolted forward suddenly, startling the dwarf, who let out a decidedly colorful oath. The horse began a slow walk towards the gates of the seventh level and would not stop despite the annoyed commands of its rider. Stifling more laughter, the rest of the party followed slowly, except for the elf prince, who was still dismounted. A young and fiery stallion from the stables of the White City – a gift from the king of Gondor – waited impatiently behind him as he turned to Aragorn with a warm smile on his face.

“Keep well, mellon nin,” Legolas reminded the king, gripping his shoulders.

Aragorn forced a smile from his lips and returned the gesture. He noted that the elf looked much more at ease than he had the previous night, and a small ray of hope pierced the dark clouds in his heart.

 “Ride safely, my friend,” was all he could bring himself to say, not trusting himself to speak more in a steady tone.

The sun was shining brightly over the City as the little group rode off, reflecting off the golden hair of the Greenwood’s royals and blessing the riders with pleasant weather.

The king and queen stood watching the retreating backs of the riders, cheered a little by the sunshine and the spot of colour that seemed to have returned to Legolas’ face.

As soon as the group was out of sight, Eldarion abruptly moved in front of his parents and stood with his legs apart, arms folded, looking at them with a serious expression. The eyes of the king and queen widened in amused and puzzled surprise, and for a fleeting moment, Aragorn wondered if his son had learnt the stance from him.

“Eldarion? Is something the matter, ion nin?” the king queried.

“I am doing my duty, watching over both of you,” the boy replied in all earnestness, his eyes and firm chin reflecting his determination. “I am trying to decide what I need to do first.”

His parents glanced at each other in bewilderment before turning back to him.

“What do you mean, darling?” Arwen asked.

“Legolas said I must look after you,” he replied. “He told me to before he left. Especially you, Father.”

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. “And why is that?”

“Because,” the little prince answered in exasperation, as if his father had just asked for an answer everyone should know. “You are a great king, but you take care of everyone else except yourself, that is what he said.”

A small smile came to Aragorn’s lips. It is just like the elf to say that. He knelt in front of his son and looked at him lovingly.

“And pray tell, Eldarion Telcontar, why have you been assigned the duty of looking after me?” he teased.

“Do you not know, Father?” the child’s eyes widened in surprise. “He said it is because he will not always be around to do it.”

Arwen looked in alarm as the dark clouds in her husband’s heart cut off all light and the blood drained from his face.