cath(art)ic

It is not that they are keeping their relationship a secret, so much as that it is a private thing. One neither of them wants many witnesses for, beyond a brief leaning into each other, a reassuring hand. Around them, all is quiet, only the distant rushing of the Anduin filtering through the trees. Legolas hums a little. “Well, we will just have to find a path past the currents, and then one into Mordor, and I am sure once the Enemy is defeated and the throne is yours, we will have all the time in the world.” Aragorn laughs, and if there is a hint of sadness burrowed beneath it, Legolas does not point it out.

And so he waits a week for Legolas to ask, and then another one. October bleeds into November and the nights become biting, urging them all to huddle close together around the fire, to find abandoned hunting lodges whenever they can and lie pressed together in the main room to preserve warmth. More often than not, Aragorn finds himself beside Legolas, finds himself sleeping with Legolas’ arm thrown over his hip, with his face pressed into the gold-spun hair. The first snow falls, and Legolas shoves half of it down Aragorn’s back as if they are children, and Aragorn burns so brightly that he thinks it must rival Sauron himself. He tackles Legolas into the snow, a little too pleased when Legolas twists and fights beneath him without success, and then he drags them both in front of the fire of the little hut they are currently staying in, heats them up some wine, and finally tells him. The words feel twice as sharp as they sit there, in loose tunics and with damp hair, the idea of losing this an incomprehensible beast, but— But. Legolas deserves to know. Aragorn wants him to know. Legolas tilts his head and listens, and once Aragorn is done, he sits in silence. “Well?” Aragorn finally asks, when he can bear it no longer. Legolas holds his gaze, one, two, steady. Eventually grins, a soft quirk of his mouth, and says, “Well. If you expect me to start calling you Your Highness now and stop shoving snow down your clothes, I hope you are ready to be disappointed. You do just make the funniest noises when you are trying to crawl out of your skin and fight me at the same time.” Aragorn stares, his heart hummingbird-fast inside his chest. Something unravels and settles alongside it and he finally laughs, knocks their shoulders together, and ignores the warmth that burrows into him like something long-sought and sacrosanct.