"Ten years before the Flood"
PG-13. 01/03/2006.

The War is over, and they say now is the time for peace, because that is what they need. But peace cannot happen just because it was decreed, nor because of the wishes of a woman whose lover has so little time.

Arwen waits, for him, as ever she has. She waits in the chill Hall of Kings, chill only because she holds it in his absence. Estel, Elessar, who has gone off to fight another battle, prevent another war. Her King.

Arwen is quiet when Aragorn is away, but Legolas shadows her, whispers to her in the tongue of her people, urges her out of isolation. They dine together in the royal chambers, away from the curious, adoring eyes of Men. When Aragorn is here, Arwen shall delight in playing hostess, in the exchange of gifts and pleasantries, but when he is gone others of his race only make her feel more alone. Legolas reminds her of home, and of herself, separate from her love. He keeps her whole.

Legolas' kisses are patient, his touch hesitant, waiting. He lets her take from him, work out her loneliness and need on his body, with his hands. She demands from him in a way she does with no other, and he receives, indulgent, but not always passive. He is simply at her command. His Queen. She shivers at the feel of his smooth, hairless skin, so unlike her other lover, so like her own. She melts under his caresses, and he shudders under the weight of her desire. She drowses, in his arms, and they do not speak any of the King's names.

Arwen dreams, in the warm haven of her marriage bed. She sees her father, in a city of splendor, pining endlessly for his daughter. She sees Galadriel, beside him, yearning for a husband who may never follow her. She sees the half-elven child slowly taking form in her womb. She sees Legolas, awake, watching her sleeping face. She sees her husband, alive, whole, on the long march of victory. On the way home.

*********

The King returns, Aragorn returns, and his arrival is heralded. He is greeted with trumpets, with crowds, with flowers. He greets and assures his people, but presses onward through the streets of the White City. In his mind's eye the freshly-painted walls are unblemished flesh, the scattered roses are deeply-kissed lips. He daydreams of home, as he always does when he isn't there, and must endure his own hunger.

The door to his Hall opens before him, his household welcoming him, congratulating him, and he waits. Waits for the moment when he enters the throne room, and the Queen waits for him in his seat, as she always does. Her usual throne, to the right, lies empty, but the one to the left is filled. She and Legolas rise as one to meet him, but she runs while her companion walks.

She is soft and yielding in his arms, her scent of roses and summer drowning out his reek of blood and dust. He kisses her, urgently, and she responds in kind, her body molding to him, seeming to swell between them.

He backs away. "Arwen…?"

"Yes," she says, blushing, smiling radiantly in the sunlit room. "Our child." And he knows without any more questions, without doubt, that he now has a son, an heir.

Legolas takes his arm, and his hand is cool. "You're late," he says, as always, his smile infectious.

"I hope not too late, old friend," Aragorn responds, and embraces him—his brother, his companion, his love.

Aragorn has never explained what Legolas is to him, to them, and he never will. The people see him as the Queen's guard, the King's adviser…whatever they wish. It does not matter what they see when they look on the three filled thrones of Gondor—as long as they trust in their King, and are happy.

No thrones now, though. They leave the King's hall, and retire to their chambers. Aragorn bathes away the stink of battle, his blessedly small wounds tended, without the aid of servants. He lets his beloveds' hands clothe him in a robe of red silk, and comb his long hair. He lies down with them in a bed of down, breathes in the scent of them, and is content.

*********

Arwen and Legolas lie back with Aragorn, but he is so weary. They let him sleep, and rise again, to prepare for bed themselves. Legolas brushes her hair before the mirror, as she loves, and afterward he lets her put his into a plait. His joy is seeing her smile, seeing the King's peaceful sleep. He finds his greatest happiness in their joy.

He takes Arwen back to bed, himself in the middle, immediately flooded with their heat. Aragorn rolls in his sleep, to wrap his arm around Legolas' body, to palm the Queen's hip. Arwen sighs, relaxes, and closes her eyes.

Legolas does not enjoy sleep the way his lovers do. He does not dream, but merely floats in endless black, and it is as if every moment he is not awake is one moment wasted away from them. They have so little time.

Legolas does not like to think about time. Once, it hardly mattered, and perhaps he did not even think of it then, but now there is effort. He knows what he has, here, will not last forever. No, not very long at all.

Aragorn has long been his Captain, if not his King, and Legolas will follow him to the end. Love him, stay at his side. He shall do whatever he can to ease the burdens of kingship, extend Aragorn's allotted years. And Arwen, Undomiel, he will guard and comfort and soothe for as long as she will allow. But he does not know how it will end.

His lovers share the gift of foresight: to one extent or another, they know how it will be, but they do not speak of it. Legolas has no such gift, and so the thought of time, of the future, means uncertainty, anxiousness.

What will happen when the King is gone, and Arwen has left the world of Men, alone, to fade? Legolas lies awake, held close to Aragorn's chest, arm around Arwen's back, and wonders what will become of him, with time.

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