A/N: My first slashfic. Hope you enjoy. :)


Tormented Fool

His eyes came to me… and he saw me.

Our gazes were locked awhile…

The song of his sword… it is beautiful.

He smiles at me, only a little smile. But it is enough to make my entire soul sear with agony. It is my folly that caused all these tears to be shed, and my useless self-centeredness that caused me only to do what I had brought others to do: I can do nothing now but weep, for he will never understand!

That smile, it is hardly even there. He kneels and turns his back to me to face his lover. A frown crosses my face as he embraces her and kisses her forehead, comforting her sorrow. Her eyes shine with tears as he strokes her smooth face with his coarse hand…

And I… I fly with jealousy.

My heart is torn apart in grief… a grief as deadly as disease to the race of Men. My bow, it cannot suffice; it gives me no song that is as sweet as his heart can. But because of my icy heart what hope I had left is now gone. It is disallowed… it is forbidden.

I am tormented, a tormented fool.

There is no story to share. My soul tears in anguish. I do not desire her… or her… or her. What, with the law of love in these times, there is no one who will not regard me as one who should be ashamed for whom I wish to love; but even if there is someone, it will not mean anything anymore.

Though the truth is that I am in love with him… I am in love with someone who will now never love me in return.


My eyes came to him… and I saw him.

Our gazes locked awhile…

The glimmer in his eyes… he is beautiful.

I can hardly smile at him. Elbereth, I can hardly smile at all. But I do so anyway… and turn my back to him and weep, for he will never understand…

I kneel to embrace and kiss the brow of my Evenstar, and assure her she is safe. I lift her limp body from the ground, taking care not to worsen her wounds, and when I turn, he is gone.

My heart is torn apart in grief… how I wish grief was as deadly to me as it is to the race of Elves. With two people whom I care for most in the world am I blessed… and cursed. Indeed do I love her as my sister, for she gives me comfort, and her beauty is one that is only ever now told in tales. However it is not she I desire, so that will not suffice. But it is disallowed… it is forbidden.

Who will respect me now as I rule? Who will see me fit to rule when I am torn apart by my morals and what my heart says should be? They will throw fruit at me. They will hiss and shame me for whom I wish to love, and nothing will mean anything anymore.

For the truth is that I am in love with him… I am in love with someone who has never loved me in return.

I am tormented, a tormented fool…



Legolas was jolted out of his sleep and awoke in a cold sweat, seeing at the very first the cold grey roof above the bed in which he lay. Long golden hair clung to his face, and his eyes were wide and astonished, a pale silver-blue in the dark. Drawing a sudden deep breath, he panicked and groped for the trinket that lay against his chest, not able to feel its lightness and hoping against hope that it was there. Relieved to find that it still hung around his neck upon a chain the Elf swept his hair from his cheeks and resumed to ease his stiff body back into the soft covers, using his wake as an advantage to recall exactly what he had just seen in his sleep.

He'd suffered a terrible dream; a sequence of fell visions that he had seen almost every night for quite some time now and always without fail woke him up during the ebony darkness, when the sky was still dark and the stars of Varda glinted against an air that was not yet pale with the grey of morning. He would be roused suddenly from his sleep, sometimes with tears falling from his eyes, and though he did not understand why he would result in staying awake and feeling morose. Each individual image had, with every single dream, passed before his mind's eye so quickly that he could not gaze upon it long enough to decipher it; yet each time the nightmare had managed to raise him from his slumber with the nature of cruel laughter, making him feel exceedingly dispirited and aggrieved.

In his sleep he had seen in a barren place smote with harsh sunlight two thin figures, running and stumbling, weeping with an anguish that seemed would never fade. Blurred figures with flickering torches flew towards them, twice their speed, and they cried with a tortured wail as the passing shadow flogged them and struck them down, leaving them for dead. Then the vision would clear, and the surroundings would soften, white and grey instead of a brutal scorching gold. He would see himself, speaking softly to a slender Elf-like figure, who would teasingly stroke his face and draw him into a tender kiss. He would melt into the warm body that held him, and happiness would fill his soul. But not for long…

Suddenly he could feel fierce hatred pouring into his heart, and he would see a different figure before him; one that was more athletic, yet lithe and light-footed nonetheless. The person was tall and proud, noble and young; the very thought of him filled Legolas with loathing, and he would see himself flailing the harmless figure. An intense pleasure would sweep over him as he saw the individual being mortally blown by his own hand, and though his conscious mind told him to stop, his dream self would disagree, enjoying the ritual too much to stay his hand.

A choked sob would escape the wounded figure, and as the scenery changed into a garden of springy turf he would trip and slide backward into a unusual black abyss abnormal to the rest of the landscape, reaching out to grasp only air and wail with a lamenting cry like that of the dying. Legolas would back away from the chasm and laugh as he saw the dark figure descend, yet turn around and see him again seated against a white wall inside a house, covered in blood. Suddenly the shape of the person changed; his dark hair grew longer and his frame more slender and graceful, and Legolas realized at once that the despised person he had wounded before had metamorphosed into one Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond of Rivendell, who sobbed as blood trickled down her face and her arms that reached out to him in plea.

He wondered where the first person was, and how he had turned into an Elven maiden, and turning around saw that he stood immediately behind. The figure would only stare at him for a moment and smile, before walking past him to Arwen to do the same. Saying a bleary farewell his shape drew backwards, as if he was hovering on air and not using his feet, and in an unhurried motion drifted further and further away – leaving a trail of gruesome blood as he did so – until he could not be seen by either Legolas or Arwen. They looked upon the vanishing figure, and both would suddenly cry out one name that clearly told Legolas who the figure was: 'ARAGORN!'

He would wake and instantly realize his dream and, remembering each time he was jerked from his rest, covered his sad eyes with his palms. He guessed that he had a reason to be given such a fell nightmare, especially ever since he realized exactly how he felt, and was driven mad with fear and shame. And also, above all things, jealousy. It was not unnatural to him that he would gaze upon Aragorn with wonder, struck by awe at his tall, handsome body, and praying that he could have it. Not to have it, that is, as in wishing that his own figure was just like Aragorn's. No, he yearned a different way.

'…So foolish of me,' he suddenly whispered aloud, a flush spreading across his fair Elven cheeks as he did so. He wrinkled his nose and turned gruffly to his side, swishing the blanket in an irritable fashion to cover himself more as he did so. Too deep in his own thoughts, he did not notice his best friend on the other side of the room stirring, giving a loud yawn and stretching his stout arms.

'What did you say Legolas?' he asked, his usually boisterous voice tinged with drowsiness. Legolas shot his head up in surprise and looked at his friend sprawled on the bed not so far away, and frowned with a slight cringe, hoping that the Dwarf had not heard anything that had involuntarily escaped his teeth.

'Nothing, Gimli. Go back to sleep,' said Legolas almost coldly, although he did not mean to speak in such a way. Gimli turned and gazed at the Elf, wrapped in his blankets and facing the opposite direction, looking very comfortable and yet annoyed.

Gimli knew that the Elf had been for some time distressed, waking at night and not returning to sleep. And indeed he had heard everything Legolas had said, for he himself could only pretend to sleep with his concern for such a close friend. He had noticed that the Elf would make many sounds in his sleep, ranging from an uneasy whimper to an anguished wail, and sometimes even one small moan filled with seduction and sensuality. But every night he had suffered his dark unknown nightmares since the first time this had occurred, those sounds would end with one cry: 'ARAGORN!' and Legolas would wake, often weeping and distraught.

Suddenly Gimli heard a faint hiccup from the other side of the room, and he knew instantly that Legolas was crying again. In the midst of the choked sniffles he could hear the Elf uttering Aragorn's Elven name Estel, hardly audible, but Gimli had heard it for sure. And whether Legolas thought that Gimli knew not the name of Estel, or that he was whispering quietly enough for only himself to hear, the Dwarf did not know.

But either way, Legolas' assumptions would be wrong.

(end prologue)