The Valar must be painters, Legolas thought to himself, and as their paintbrush they are served by the wind. He did not turn his head, confident in his knowledge that the same breeze caressing his face was also flowing over Aragorn's.

He wished to rise from his seat, to go, run to the woods, the trees, the smells of lush greenery around, to the feel of the moments when Earth and air blended into one beneath his feet.

"You will leave me," the newly enthroned king said. The crown on his head was palely reflecting some distant light even in the darkness that was the empty crown room at midnight. He hadn't taken it off since the coronation earlier that day. Somehow, it looked heavier now.

"My Lord, have you any further need of my services?" It sounded like a simple question, and as queries go, seemingly simple questions tend to be the most dangerous ones.

"Do you wish to rejoin your father's court so soon, Legolas?" Aragorn's eyes were quickly lowered, yet the thought that passed through his head was quicker still. They rose again to meet Prince Legolas'. "I would joyfully request your presence in this kingdom as advisor, but I would compel you to naught, my friend."

Only one step separated them, but an it was from across a greater distance that Legolas' hands reached over and took hold of Aragorn's.

"My friend," words spoken with emphasis and reverberating lowly were occupying an ever growing volume of the room, as though it was but a drop of water falling off a petal, too close to be ignored. "What you do not ask, I cannot answer." His gaze was blue and clear. "Likewise, what I ask of you, I must be able to do myself. You are to wed Arwen. It is a good thing for your kingdom; it is the right thing for your people. You have my blessing and approval. Yet as sure as I am of every breath I take, I am certain you cannot be mistaken of whom it is my heart is drawn to. If ever your people are in need, my father's kingdom shall stand beside you, as would I, but at all other times, I cannot offer you companionship."

Aragorn's fingers, their movement nearly unfelt at first, began stroking Legolas' as the words crumbled into silence. "I have not asked, fearing your reply. It is beyond me to imagine the many ways in which events might have occurred." His hand rose and his fingers drew the outline of Legolas' facial contour through air and void. "I would ask you to stay. I would dedicate myself to you despite a dutiful wedlock. Truly, the wish to put forward this request grows stronger in me even now. But if I were to pose this unjust question, if you were to accept and remain by my side as royal consort, it would only be a delay of the inevitable. You will leave me. My heart will break."

Aragorn's hand drew on in appreciation, first Legolas' face and afterwards, his hair, his eyes... A few short moments later found the adoring hand less than an inch away from the Elven neck, tracing a graceful curve.

"I will leave you?" Aragorn did not reply. "When you have already left me, be your reasons as required as they may be, you should not accuse."

"I do not accuse, my love. I describe the future that I see, and dread."

Giving in under its own weight, Aragorn's hand was laid across Legolas' neck, its thumb sensing beneath it a vibrant pulse.

The cloth pulled over the throne had always been made of black velvet. Against its background, there was no room for doubt as to the identity of the two bodies writhing on it.

Legolas led Aragorn by the hand and sat him down on that throne, leaning in to kiss his king. All unanswered questions were shared by a soft touch of lips, slightly parted and scouting a new terrain, touching it softly only to leave and return to it once more, more confident, more demanding, desperate desire more willing to proclaim itself as tongues met, joined by hands, frantic hands, searching for they knew not what.

Clothes gave in quickly enough. No royal robe could withstand the heat of their passion, and soon enough Aragorn discovered that Legolas' scalding trail of kisses on his lips, in his mouth, down his jaw, along his chest and further still had left him bare and on the verge of quivering in his royal seat.

The cloak and crown in his hand, ready to be tossed aside, Legolas stepped back as if to admire a work of art to which he had just added the last brush-strokes. His mouth spelled out, but did not utter, some unheard thought and his eyes pierced Aragorn. He simply let go of the king's items and paid no attention to the dull thud the crown made as it hit the floor.

The Prince's exterior appeared already to be a storm of buttons opened, shirt and tunic pulled off, hair a mess and exposed chest heaving, but he himself strangely kept a graceful composure to him. Tugging at the last buckle holding his outfit together, he emerged out of the pile of clothes landing on the floor.

Reducing the distance between them, Legolas took up a position in Aragorn's lap. His knees at the back of the throne, legs folded over either side of his lover's thighs, hands on Aragorn's shoulders for support, his sensitive scrotum hovering right over a majestic erection, Legolas murmured, "I love you", and drove Aragorn deep inside him with one determined thrust.

He hissed and his fingers dug seemingly as deep into Aragorn's back, as the man was buried in him. Holding on, he found that Aragorn was suckling one of his nipples, toying with the other, dissolving some of the pain. "I love you," Aragorn said as his one hand lifted from Legolas' hips up his back and pulled him closer. He whimpered quietly as his hips lifted a little, gyrating in a motion to descend again. Aragorn groaned and matched his movements. It was all too exquisite for either of them to help but want even more.

Aragorn's hand gravitated to the small of Legolas' back pushing the Prince to further meet his thrusts, the speed of which kept increasing, adding more conviction to the demand to have and give pleasure. Faster he went and soon the King lifted them from the throne, Legolas entwining his legs around Aragorn's hips only to be pinned against the wall behind them. His breaths were short and needy, almost pounded out of him, his mouth searched for Aragorn's skin, to kiss it, to lick it, succeeding only partially, and faltering altogether when he felt his erection being engulfed and handled firmly. A steady pace of stroking began, so different from the erratic rhythm with which Aragorn was urging himself into his lover, but it did not last long. Neither did Legolas. Clenching his legs tighter still and howling his explosion into the side of Aragorn's neck, the Elven Prince collapsed, still held up against the wall, and he was followed only several more thrusts afterwards by his lover. Aragorn, flushed against him, pushed both their bodies to the wall, as spasms overtook his entire form.

Weakened, he let his legs give slowly in and they sank to the carpet-covered floor. Resting against Aragorn's chest, Legolas thought his skin was glowing. He wondered at this, as it was a moonless night, before he drifted off to sleep.

Legolas did not leave. He made no promises either. Whatever nuptials they had, whatever was the nature of the exchange that took place between them, it never included promises or comfortable words of illusion.

As surely as Legolas' body lay by Aragorn's at night and his advice was soundly heard in the court at day, so lay the King's prediction between them.

Arwen had known. It was not in their spirits to lie. With time, she understood as well, though she had never spoken of this. Desiring none of the clarifications they could have made, she had opted for a myriad of diplomatic assignments, leading her life away from the castle, whose queen she was supposed to have been.

There was a child, as she had envisioned, but Eldarion was not to be raised by Arwen. His Father was Aragorn, his Ada was Legolas and the love that he was given was abundant and unconditional. If ever there was a cloud in the skies of his childhood, it was the few times when unexplained grief crept into their lives. He was unable to define it, but the thought had crossed his mind once, as he was nearing puberty, that his parents never did speak of the future. Friends and first-love soon followed, and the pondering of things that were, will be and might have been were left behind as easily as a leaf giving in to gravity at autumn.

They quarreled. It did not occur often, but when it did, the fight ran deep between them, a ravine of hurt between their worlds, echoing in their silent agreement not to mention a prediction that might be fulfilled on any given day.

How terribly palpable, Legolas once bitterly thought, is the prophecy of a king.

The wind, sweet at his ear, was humming.

He longed for the ancient woods of his youth, and for the company of Elves to fill his daily life as they have before, when he did not have to content with the precious few who occasionally ventured a visit to the court of Man. He yearned to feel the sun gleaming freely on his skin, warm and soothing as he raced through lands as yet unknown to him, following little but the whims of his heart and sights attractive to his eyes.

The wind hovering over the King's face was lightly passing across the wrinkles the years had formed in the man's skin. Aragorn's time was nearing its end. Legolas could smell it in each and every element surrounding them. He craved the mad, youthful running in the forest.

"You will leave me." His mind's eye still saw lucidly the pain in Aragorn's eyes when the man spoke, paler even than the light reflected in the silvery crown.

He told himself what he had inwardly said every day of his marriage, for it had indeed been a marriage all along, one the people around them dared not call by its name. He repeated his inner reply to himself, insistently.

'There may come a day when I leave you, but it is not this day.'