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The quiet of the Fellowship was strange to Aragorn. Unless otherwise engaged, the nine of them stayed generally cheery, if only for the strange and boisterous natures of the youngest Hobbits. It said much about their current predicament for even Pippen to be struck silent. Aragorn couldn’t blame him - the cries of their dwarven companion at the sight of his long-fallen kin were enough to make his blood run cold and his heart ache. It did not feel right to speak in jest when such blood had been spilled.
The halls were deep and cold, no light available under the stones of the mountain but that of Gandalf’s staff, which he could not risk extending too far. Aragorn shivered slightly, the dampness of the river clinging to his clothes and making the air ever colder to him. He kept his eye on the Hobbits especially, his little understanding of them enough to pick out that they were unused to such chills. Though they shivered occasionally, they seemed to be mostly unaffected - perhaps the underground homes that they had described meant that they felt somewhat familiar with the stones around them.
Aragorn certainly wasn’t familiar. He was raised alongside elves, and it seemed that his upbringing had planted in him the same distaste for the underground that it did in his chosen family. Though ignorable, there was an anxiety creeping up his spine at the thought that they were under miles of cold, hard, stone, and the only way out was through it. That the forces of nature, should they choose to, could easily crush the Fellowship and end their quest at any moment. And oh, the cold. It was so different to the snowy mountains that they had failed to traverse - there, it felt like they could be warm, if only they had enough to wear or a shelter to huddle in. But here, the shelter was the cold, the walls and the ceiling and the floor all radiating a deep, bone-chilling cold that was only worsened by the stench of death that could go nowhere.
He swept his eyes over the Hobbits again before turning them to the rest of the company. Gandalf, as always, made no indication that anything was amiss. Aragorn wished that the light on his staff radiated warmth, not the cold white of a reflection off of snow. Gimli was the quietest of the bunch, his hand occasionally reaching up to his face to wipe away the grief that spilled from him. He was as determined as the rest, though whether that was because of his dwarven stubbornness or because his grief pushed him forward, Aragorn could not decipher. Boromir was close to the Hobbits, gently guiding them with muffled whispers and soft touches when they seemed to get distracted or stumble in the dim light over terrain that their well-worn feet were not built for.
The last of their company stayed back aways, his posture and appearance as impeccable as ever to those unfamiliar with the people of the woods. But Aragorn knew Legolas well, and had for many years, to the lifespan of a man. The elf was struggling, and this time Aragorn knew it was stubbornness and pride that prevented him from showing it. Though he himself was uncomfortable with the lack of fresh air and the stones pressing around them, he could not imagine what was going through Legolas’s mind at that moment. Elves were people of the forest and sea, of open spaces and air. Wood-elves, even more so. More wild and free than their more settled counterparts in Rivendell, he knew this cavern was weighing on the prince heavily. Now that he was looking for it, Aragorn could see the minute tremble in his friend’s fingers as he held his bow tightly in his hand. He watched the anxious flicker of those blue eyes dart upwards more often than not, and the breaths that left his mouth were uneven.
Aragorn furrowed his brow slightly, purposefully slowing his steps slightly to allow the rest of the Fellowship to take the lead, dragging behind until he was hip-to-hip with his elven companion. Legolas glanced at him, his head tilting curiously in lieu of asking out loud - it seemed that the silence was one he did not wish to break. Aragorn bumped his shoulder slightly and kept it there, their arms pressed together as they walked. Legolas turned his gaze to the floor for a moment, his exhale stuttering slightly. Aragorn stayed silent, his eyes on the companions before them, waiting for the elf to make the next move. He felt a callused hand slip into his, and he squeezed it tightly, letting the archer have the moment of comfort before Legolas pulled away again, his eyes on the dwarf in front of them.
“Ever stubborn, you are.” Aragorn murmured under his breath, hoping that the halls did not see if appropriate to carry the echo to their companions' ears. Even among none but them, the dwarf-elf rivalry seemed eager to thrive.
Legolas shook his head slightly, his braids catching on the tips of his ears. “It is not that.” He whispered, his voice as uneven as his breaths were. “I need not alarm someone so entangled in his grief. I am fine.”
“You are frightened.”
“Aren’t we all?” Legolas nodded all the same, his gaze flicking again to the roof and walls. He twisted the knife in his hand, “We will not be here long. We have fought foes much more dangerous, and will, perhaps, long for such peace and quiet as the earth allows us now. It is only stone.”
“I think that that is the problem.” Aragorn argued, hushing his voice when he noticed Pippin glance back at them. He smiled at the Hobbit, who grinned and turned around again. Letting his face fall, Aragorn leaned into the elf, his lips almost brushing the archer’s ear. “I feel a bit trapped myself, friend. I know how these walls of stone affect your kind.”
“Then speak no more of it, Estel.” Legolas turned his head sharply away, “I would rather be alert than distracted by-” A loose rock tumbled between their feet and Legolas jumped, his fingers flying to his quiver, nocking an arrow and pointing it in the direction that the stone had rolled from.
Merry squeaked at the sudden weapon pointed directly at him, his hands flying up even as Legolas immediately let the string go slack, an apology quick to leave his lips. The rest of the company turned to him, their hands moving to their weapons. Legolas flushed slightly, the tips of his ears turning pink as he murmured a small, “I thought it came from elsewhere.” Gimli turned back to the path almost immediately, his grieving state keeping him from what would have otherwise been the start of another argument.
When the others kept staring at the elf, Gandalf huffed a comment about “too-eager reflexes” and turned, the light from his staff forcing the company to face back to their path, lest they lose the light. Before he did, he locked eyes with the elf and Aragorn could have sworn there was an apologetic expression briefly on his face. But then he turned and it was gone, and it was only him and Legolas in the dimmest light.
The lack of light bothered neither of them as Legolas’s keen eyes and Aragorn’s ranger skills kept them both sure of their feet, and they fell back into a steady pace a bit behind the company. Legolas trembled harder as he placed his arrow back in its quiver, but Aragorn said nothing, simply offering his silent support as they both fell quiet again. Legolas’s gaze fixated on the walls around them, his knuckles growing white with how hard they clenched his bow. Aragorn yearned to be alone with him, to take his trembling hands in his and hold them until the cold leached from his body. To take all of the company out of these stone hallways that reeked of death and decay and bring them to the forest, where they could run and climb and feel the sun on their skin. To pull Gimli from the grief that he knew would not lighten until they were far beyond these mountains. He wanted to do so much, and felt he could do nothing.
And so, he stayed, walking as close to the elf as was reasonable, his empty hand dangling in a permanent offer, but not pressing the matter again. He stayed watching Legolas as much as it did not interfere with his awareness of the cavern around them. The archer never stopped his minute trembles, nor did he loosen his grip on his bow, but neither did he falter again.
The woods were only as quiet as woods could be, and Aragorn was glad for it. It was the first nightfall since they had lost Gandalf, and he did not think that he would be able to endure anymore stonelike silence. The little ones were all piled atop each other, only some of them asleep, while Gimli and Boromir both slept like the soldiers that they were - people who knew death, and could sleep even when it was fresh, should they have need to. Aragorn was torn, his desire to comfort the Hobbits and allow them the space to learn how to grieve only outweighed by the knowledge of what they still had yet to do. The dangerous road that still lay before them.
A rustle in the tree he was sitting under made him look up, unsurprised to see Legolas nimbly making his way down, landing silently on the forest floor a few paces away. Aragorn caught his eye, and the two of them simply looked at each other for a moment before Aragorn opened his mouth. “You should be resting, my friend.”
“You know that elves need not sleep, Estel.” Legolas murmured, taking the few paces to sit next to the ranger. His hair was loose about his shoulders and slightly windswept from his time in the tree, which Aragorn knew had been since they had made camp.
“You twist my words.” Aragorn watched the way Legolas’s hands twisted slightly around themselves with nothing else to fiddle with. “You understand what I mean. Rest, my friend. We need all of our strength for the rest of our journey.”
Legolas pulled his legs up to his heart as he leaned against the trunk of the tree, a small huff escaping his lips. “I fear risking rest tonight.”
“It is no more or less dangerous than any so far.” Aragorn said, taking his right hand and brushing it against the archer’s, the other moving to rest above the Evenstar, hidden just under his tunic. “There are other things weighing on your mind.”
Legolas did not hesitate, taking the ranger’s hand in his own and grasping it tightly. “I believe…I am realizing what this all entails.” He whispered, as if ashamed. Aragorn stayed silent, waiting for his friend to continue. Legolas glanced at the rest of the company, “I knew. At the start of all this. And yet…I also did not.” He looked down at his lap, “I have not known fear, nor loss, nor such worry, since naneth…” He pressed his head against the tree and closed his eyes, “...and it has been a long time since then. I do not recall her well…But all of this - I feel today was the first I have truly felt so afraid. A deep fear, many, piling atop the others in my heart. And it was not…” He trailed off, searching for words to describe the ache that elves and men and dwarves had struggled to speak for eons.
Aragorn squeezed Legolas’s fingers tightly, turning his gaze back to his watch duties, even as he pressed his shoulder to the elf’s. Legolas had still not completely stopped shaking, but Aragorn could only feel it in the tips of his fingers now. “It is not of your people’s nature to understand death, not truly. It is still something that we all wrestle with, even as mortals, but it is harder when it is not a given truth. Many know, somewhere in our hearts, that we will die. Whether that be now, or in a hundred years, we will die. But elves do not know such things, nor would it be true if they did. It is…not fair to ask you to.”
“And yet.” Legolas opened his eyes again, the stars reflecting in their blue depths.
“And yet.” Aragorn echoed, rubbing his thumb over the elf’s knuckles. “I am not surprised that today shocked you so. It was much upon your heart, in many ways.”
“I am not the one who lost a family. A people.” Legolas looked at the sleeping Gimli, none of the bad blood between their races reflected in his expression. “I acted like a child. A frightened boy, too scared of the dark.”
“A wood-elf, scared of stone walls. It is reasonable and a known fear among your people.” Aragorn corrected, following his expression. Gimli was snoring slightly; his brow furrowed in his sleep. No doubt his dreams were not kind. “And yes, Gimli has lost much. Both can be true.”
“Then why do you comfort me, and not him?”
Aragorn met Legolas’s eyes again, “Because you are awake, and Gimli is asleep, and you are still trembling.”
“Am I.” Legolas spoke a statement instead of a question, and made to pull his hand away. Aragorn gripped his fingers tightly, pulling the elf closer. “Estel…”
“I had wished to hold you in Moria.” Aragorn whispered, pressing his free hand to the elf’s cheek, brushing his hair behind his ear. “I wanted to take us all from that place, but I desperately wanted to whisk you away from the stones. I comfort you because you are my dearest friend and companion, and have been for many years. Because I am afraid.”
Legolas hesitated a moment, his hand twitching slightly in Aragorn’s grasp, as if unsure where to move. “Then hold me.” He whispered, and Aragorn needed no persuading. He pulled the elf against his chest, allowing the archer to wrap his hands around his neck, his face buried in Aragorn’s shoulder. In this way, Legolas might have not been an elf at all. It was easy to forget that he was a prince, that he was the son of one of the coldest leaders in Middle-Earth, that he was, as of the past day, the oldest of their fellowship by many decades.
Legolas did not make a sound as Aragorn wrapped his arms around him, gently stroking his hair, dirtying the white-blond with the residue of the day. Aragorn hoped that the tree he leaned against provided ample cover from any waking residents of their little camp, knowing that many elves would not wish to be caught in such intimate moments - indeed, it was strange, the allowance of touch that Legolas gave Aragorn freely, as he always had.
Elves were fickle creatures, a touch to their heart considered an intimate declaration of love or trust. It was rare that they allowed a touch that was not strictly for play or fighting, and even with Arwen, Aragorn had to be careful not to startle her with a touch. But Legolas had always been a bit odd, even to the elves. He had craved the touch of his father when his mother was gone, and Aragorn knew that he had not gotten it. Perhaps that was why the elf allowed himself to be engulfed in his friend’s embrace.
Aragorn knew that, regardless of the reason or state of mind that Legolas came to him in, it was a gift to hold such a creature in this tender manner. He kept his eyes on the forest in front of them, his cheek resting on Legolas’s temple. He murmured quietly in elvish, telling of all the hopes he had for the journey ahead. Legolas did not respond, but the small trembles that had wracked him all day slowly began to fade away, and he untensed in Aragorn’s grasp.
Legolas did move after a while, sitting back and curling under the tree again. “I believe it’s my watch next.” He said, squeezing Aragorn’s fingers before he let go. “You should go to sleep.”
“I will keep watch for a bit longer, my friend.” Aragorn shook his head, “You have not yet had the chance to rest. Please do. For all of our sakes, not just your own. We must have our sharpest eyes and ears at their most alert. And…I believe you need it.”
Legolas looked to the sky again, “I would make a request.”
“Anything.”
“May I stay by your side? For the night.”
Aragorn smiled softly, leaning forward and pressing his temple to the archer’s. “Always, my friend.”