He teases. His grin slips delicate about his youthful face, and it gleams brighter than stars and suns at dawn.
Silvery, this elf. Legolas, young among his kin and to these ancient trees, bowed and twisted with the turn of long centuries, bears wit in his soul like a gust through bells; it rings through the canopies, his smile as loud as laughter. Aragorn hums. He feels invigorated.
“Along am I in my years, Legolas, that I now cherish that joy of youth when it would present itself before me. And there, in the shadows of your Mirkwood, would you stand.“ His brows raise subtly, tinged by a cutting edge of fondness and glib contention. It is a look not oft seen; the Ranger is not easily defeated. "You jest, and not unlike a child with that daring you keep.”
The trees chance a rare laugh, leaves overhead shivering and shuddering.
Aragorn turns. The darkness of this realm creeps back into the keenness of his vision, and their footsteps disturb the mosses at their feet. An owl hoots a sad song.
“I look forward to the gates of your home for the roads beyond her are unkind. It has been long since I had trodden these grounds, but it looks to drink the sun in paler a shade. The night’s grown too long here – though it has not reached you. Your eyes are bright, still.”
A light laugh falls from Legolas’ lips, his old friend’s words taken as nothing but light jesting, no matter how scolding they might sound. There is an edge of sadness to them that the elf refuses to acknowledge, like he always does when Aragorn’s mortality is brought back to his conscious mind so unvarnishedly. He cannot bear to think of the future that lies ahead, in the far distance for most mortal men yet not far enough for him. A future of walking these lands with nothing but a memory to travel at his side, the glint in his eyes and the smile on Aragon’s face all but living on in the minds of those who stand the test of time.
“You have many more years ahead of you, my friend. Though frail your body might grow, your spirit was made to outlast the ages.”
Legolas’ gaze follows the ranger’s into the darkness that lurks between the trees, his eyes discerning the night’s soothing cloak from the shadows born of something else, something less natural. It is all around them, threatening and waiting, but it has not yet reached all corners of his home.
“A sickness lies over these woods. It was but a shadow when I left here but it has grown stronger; into what I cannot tell.” It hasn’t reached him and it never will - yet another circumstance he would thank Isildur’s heir for. “Perhaps it would rest heavier on my heart had I not found a home in something else.” Or someone.
“Aragorn-- will you grant me one wish before we reach my father’s halls?”