Note: This story deals in the 'present' day of Legolas' thought as well as a few flash backs he experiences. The latter will be placed after or between horizontal lines.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or anything about them.
Legolas sat, contemplating. His golden hair fell free; his shirt was loose about him, and his feet were bare. It had been months since he last had time to just...lounge, and that was what he was doing. So, on a plush seat of black velvet and silver tooling, Legolas sat and thought. He thought about the War; he thought about the news he had received from his father in Mirkwood, and he thought about his friends and lost comrades. But mostly, the prince thought about his friend Aragorn. Somewhere between Rivendell and Gondor, Aragorn had outgrown the shell he wore and become who he truly was, who Middle-earth needed him to be. What the elf wondered, though, was exactly when the change had occurred.
The shift could not have been overnight; no, Legolas would have noticed that, but it was a recent change. For so many years Aragorn seemed content to live below his place, probably more out of fear than anything else. Healthy fear–fear for what he believed he could become. How many had attempted to persuade him otherwise? Elrond, for one, and Arwen. And Legolas had done his share of trying. From the first days of their friendship, when Aragorn was still very young by the reckoning of elves, he had hidden from his destiny. . .
'Estel, watch out!' Legolas cried as an arrow flew from his grip toward the youth. He flinched as he saw that the young man did not move quite fast enough and took a small wound from the gilded tip of the arrow. 'Ai!' he shouted, and ran toward Estel, who stood still with shock. His eyes drifted down to the tear in his fine shirt, and they widened impressively as he surveyed the blood leaking from his body. 'Do not fear, Estel,' the elf soothed, 'it is not as bad as it looks.'
The boy's eyes remained large as long, deft fingers attended to his wound. For an archer, Legolas had surprisingly gentle hands with little of the rough callous that Estel had imagined he might have grown from so many years with a bow. The prince tore fabric from his own tunic and wiped the blood from the cut before tearing a few more strips that he tied tightly around the boy's sore arm. Estel watched with interest as the fabric slowly absorbed the blood, and even more interest as the elf tried to counter it with more fabric. Estel supposed it really was not as bad as it looked, or felt, and he imagined that the damage to his pride was far worse. What was he doing that got him into this? Oh, yes, he remembered. He had been wandering through the woods, aimlessly, sorting out his life and what meaning it could have when he stepped into the clearing where Legolas practised archery on his visits to the valley. Legolas had warned him; he just could not move fast enough. The elf, he realised, probably felt worse than he did.
'I am sorry, Estel,' Legolas said in a soft voice. 'Please forgive me; I did not pay enough attention to my surroundings,' he said. His eyes were sad, yet almost glowing with a pale light through glass. Estel saw that the elf was deeply troubled, and he felt even worse.
'No, Legolas,' he said, 'It is I who was not paying attention. I knew you practised here, but I was lost in my own world of thought, and. . .' he trailed off.
'And?'
Estel looked up; his hair had fallen over eyes the colour of the ocean at night, and his mouth hung open. 'I do not know. I was just thinking,' he said. 'Thinking about everything.' For the first time since he had arrived in the clearing, Estel saw Legolas smile. It was a soft, friendly smile that warmed his heart. The elf always made him feel better.
'You worry too much, my young friend. You are not even an adult to your won people, yet you carry a burden that would be too much for many,' Legolas said. 'Do you not desire to be free of this toil?'
'Toil?'
'I see you often, Estel; I see you walking aimlessly through the halls, or lying in the grass and staring into the sky, yet I do not know what it is that you seek. And I do not know why you should expect to find whatever it is in the forest or the stars.'
'I do not know myself,' said the boy. He shook his head and sighed. 'There is always a lot on my mind.'
The sound of bells rang from Legolas' throat as he laughed and patted the back of his young friend. He shook his head and began to lead the boy toward Elrond's house, where he would be properly treated for his wound. 'You are so young, and yet so old, for you are already weary with life,' he said, and Estel was not sure if it was for his ears or the elf's own amusement. Legolas searched the face of the boy for any sign of what troubled him, but all he could see were deep wells of thought and a flicker of something so distant and brief that he was not sure it even existed. Could it be fear? 'You are concerned with your blood,' he said quietly.
Estel knew what the elf meant, but chose to ignore it and shook his head, 'Nay,' he said. 'You were right; it is not as bad as it looks. I am sure to forget it by tomorrow.'
'Do not insult my intelligence, my young friend. For I was counting the springs of millennia past before you were born,' Legolas spoke softly. 'Do not fear these things, Estel; you are your own man. One day you will see that, as your friends already do.'
Legolas' words danced through Estel's head, but he did not reply. He only turned them over in his mind and brought them up against the heavy doubt he carried against himself. The rest of the path to Elrond's home was silent, save the soft singing of Legolas.