Okay! I survived my first chapter, thank God. So very sorry for the spelling errors in the first chapter, and thank you so much, SparkyTAS for pointing this out, or I would have gone on and made a fool of myself for God knows who long.

Also, than thank you for the reviews, they have made me realize my idiotic mistakes.

I know, all this tenth walker stuff has me confused, too! Why not just ship the people who are already there! To answer your question, yue-chan, I did not even realize that I had done that. I believe that Aragorn will be on top, though this might change. Sorry for the mix-up! Thank you for the review!

Alanic, thank you for pointing this out. I had started completely ignorant of Celebrian's sailing to the Undying lands some years before when I was writing that part, and I did not mean to change the cannon. But since it is done, I don't think I'll change it, unless it bothers you a lot, in which case I will. I kind of like the idea that Elrond isn't alone at the time of the council. I appreciate your review!

So here is the second chapter, and this will be mostly memories of Aragorn and Legolas's first meeting. I'm not sure if there will be any slashy stuff quite yet, but I'll try to squeeze some in there. Eh, I'll manage it. Oh, and also, I've decided to more closely follow the book and make Legolas's hair dark instead of blond.

This first part comes directly from the script, just saying that. I don't own the script, I'm just using it to get me back into the past.

Thanks for the views, you guys! I appreciate it! Please keep the reviews coming, I really want to know if there's anything I should fix/change/add.

Chapter 2

Aragorn was lost deeply in his subconscious, so it came as a complete shock to him as he heard Gandalf begin to chant in the Black Speech. He jolted out of his mind and came crashing back to the present none too gently. The light faded, and thunder rumbled in the distance as Gandalf's voice twined with another, whispering poisoned words that slid into Aragorn's mind like a snake. A chill went down his spine as he grasped the arms of his chair.

A moment later, it was normal, and Boromir stumbled back to his seat, shocked. Elrond leapt to his feet, dark eyes blazing. "Never before has anyone uttered words of that tongue here in Imladris!"

Gandalf lowered his staff and gave the Lord of Rivendell a steady look. "I do not ask your pardon Master Elrond, for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the west." He turned and looked at each of the assembled men, dwarves, hobbits and elves. "The Ring is altogether evil." Gandalf, having said his part, slowly went to sit back down beside the hobbits.

Boromir, who had finally shaken off his initial shock to Gandalf's display shook his head and stood up again. "Aye, it is a gift! A gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this Ring?" There was a gleam in his eye. A gleam of madness, Aragorn thought, if he knew not that Boromir was mentally stable. He knew how the ring affected people. He had been tempted by it, if only for mere seconds. Boromir began walking around the assembled people of Middle-earth. "Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are you lands kept safe." He clenched his fist as he said blood. "Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy, let us use it against him." He motioned to the ring.

Aragorn slowly relaxed. This could be remedied. He leaned forward. "You cannot wield it. None of us can." He paused as Boromir turned to face him, a smirk on his face. Aragorn plowed on. He had to get this out before all-out war broke out between the different races. "The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

Boromir tilted to his head to the side and gave him a grin that was cocky and scathing. "And what would a Ranger know of this matter?" The gleam in his eye was a beckon to challenge him, the son of the steward of Gondor.

Before Aragorn could even open his mouth to answer, Legolas jumped up, his features icy with anger. "This is no mere Ranger," he spat at Boromir. "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn." His eyes met Aragorn's, and in them, Aragorn could read the love that they had shared in a time when Aragorn was only Estel. "You owe him your allegiance," he said softly.

Boromir's gaze turned to one of disbelief. "Aragorn! This…" he paused, narrowing his eyes slightly, "is Isildur's heir and heir to the throne of Gondor."

But Aragorn barely heard him. His eyes were on Legolas's, the color of a cloudy sky and just as violent as a thunderstorm. He could feel himself falling into the memories that he could hold back no longer. Finally, Aragorn let go and he found himself drifting back to a time of simplicity.

Estel was seated in a tree, resting his head against the trunk. The day was cool and clear as a crystal stream, and the air smelled of the first flowers of Ethuil. The sky above was the exact shade of the flowers that Elrond had planted in front of the entrance to Imladris. He closed his eyes after a moment and let out a sigh. In a fortnight, he would turn twenty, and he had escaped to this tree to think about his options.

Even as a young child, Estel had known that he wasn't an elf. He had always admired them from afar, with their unnatural beauty and graceful mannerisms that he could not match. Elrond had gently told him that he was a child of man, that he was not his father. His father had died and Elrond had taken him in as his own. He also knew that there was something about him that his Ada had refused to tell him about himself. Even his name, Estel was not his own.

When Estel came of age, he was not obliged to stay at Rivendell with Elrond. Elrond had given him full permission to leave the Elven fortress on the eve of the day he had arrived twenty years ago. It had troubled Estel, that Elrond was so willing to give him up, but he had thanked Elrond and taken his leave of his Ada's study. Estel was torn between staying and leaving. It would have seemed like a straightforward choice just a few years ago. He would have gladly stayed with the elves in their lands of never-fading joy and mirth and wine. He would have danced among them on Midsummer's Eve as the most beautiful elf woman sang a haunting melody.

That was before the first humans had arrived in Rivendell five years ago. They had been two soldiers seeking refuge from Orcs in the forest. Estel had found them strange and coarse at first, with their deft and ungraceful movements and accents that were so different than the Elves' and strange customs.

But then, Estel had sat at a near table during the nightly meal. The stories that they had told had enthralled Estel to no end, and he had gone to Ada, asking about the race of men.

For the first time in his life, Estel had been interested in his people. He had become voracious to learn of what lay beyond the fortress of Rivendell, an insatiable desire that had led him to begin searching the forests. He had sought to learn the sword and bow and any other weapon he could get his hands on. He had begun travelling to the very fringes of the Valley of Imladris to hunt Orcs and other obscure creatures in order to learn all that he could about the outer realms without travelling there himself.

Perhaps that was why Elrond had given him up so easily. He knew the craving the man had for something beyond that which he could see in the Valley of Imladris.

Estel sighed again. He desperately wanted to see the world that those soldiers had spoken of, the glory and the honor of battle, but he knew that he would miss moments like this. Moments where he could hear naught but the breeze in the trees and the babble of the stream and the nicker of horses—

Wait, that wasn't a natural noise of the forest. Estel's eyes shot open and he looked down through the trees. There should not be horses passing through here; this road was seldom used. The elves rarely traveled along these forest paths, as they had been forgotten by most. But what else could be travelling these paths?

The forest floor, some four fathoms below, was empty at the moment, and Estel took the chance to lower himself closer to it before the elves got within seeing distance. He focused his eyes on the path below and listened. A moment later, a growl sounded, and Estel reeled back. There weren't wargs in Rivendell's forests, not this close to the fortress and the river. And they did not sound like wargs one would find naturally in a forest, which could only mean one thing: Orcs. Estel shuddered internally. He had heard the men talk about the Orcs; they spoke of their ferocity and cannibalism.

What were Orcs doing so close to Rivendell? Before Estel could dwell on that much longer, a shout echoed through the forest, not Orc. Someone was out there, probably riding the horses he had heard. Without another thought, Estel dropped to the forest floor below and ran towards the noise. It had been one of pain, and whoever it was probably needed help.

As Estel got closer, he could hear the Orcs snarling orders in their vile language. He paused and observed the scene in horror: an elf stood alone at one edge of the clearing, picking off the Orcs with a bow and arrow. Two other elves lay dead beside him, spears lodged deeply into their chests. None of the elves were in battle armor, which made them easy targets. It had probably been the death of the two elves. The remaining man stood tall and proud, whipping arrows quickly out of his quiver and firing them with deadly accuracy. Every target he aimed for, he hit.

However, the odds were not in his favor. It was still twenty against one, and Estel could tell that this elf was not at his full potential. He was covered in dirt, and the horses that lay dead at the edge of the clearing were lathered. Whoever this elf was, he had ridden far and hard.

Estel drew the sword at his hip. He could not simply sit here and watch the last elf perish. The Orcs were milling around the clearing, looking for an opening in the elf's guard. Without his bow, the elf would be defenseless and easy to kill. Estel shouted a hoarse cry to get the closest Orcs' attention. They turned in confusion, and snapped at Estel as he came into the clearing.

"More meat," one growled and lunged. Estel parried his first swing and quickly dispatched the Orc with a neat stab to his stomach. The Orc squealed and fell with a thud to the ground. Estel didn't spare the Orc a glance as he turned to him. Two more Orcs replaced the first, sneering at Estel with glee. Estel took a deep breath and launched himself into one of the many sword techniques Elrond had showed him. Slash, parry, stab. Block, kick, shove. He became one with his blade, never slowing until suddenly, there wasn't another enemy that rushed him.

He blinked and spun in a circle. Only the elf stood about half a furlong from Estel, bow leveled at his chest. Estel raised his hands. "Avo nago nin," he called. "I mean you no harm." The elf hesitated. Estel could see the blood dripping down his shoulder from where he stood; he would need medical attention.

"Why should I trust you?" the elf asked. His accent was not of the Elves of Rivendell. Now that he wasn't in the heat of battle with the elf looking at him, Estel could tell that this elf was the kind of beautiful that would be terrifying to some. He was lean and limberly built, much like other elves. Underneath days of grime and dirt, his skin was as pale as the lilies that grew next to the river, and he was dressed as a wood-elf, one from Mirkwood. His hair was as dark as a raven's wing with battle braids. A warrior of Mirkwood.

Estel sheathed his sword. "Your heart is still beating because I had the good fortune of arriving when I did. I could have easily killed you if I had wanted to." He touched his unstrung bow that was strapped to his back along with a full quiver of arrows.

There was another moment of hesitation, and then the elf lowered his bow slowly, letting off the tension. He pulled the arrow away and set it back in his quiver in one graceful movement. "You are a human," he said after a moment. "What are you doing in the Valley of Imladris, and how do you know our tongue?"

Estel began walking towards the elf, stepping over the dead bodies of the Orcs carefully. "Inquire about my identity later; you are wounded and I have knowledge of healing." The elf looked down at his shoulder, as if he had just realized that he was wounded.

"I am an elf. I will heal."

"You are losing too much blood. If it was to heal by itself, the blood would have stopped flowing by now," Estel said. He stopped three ells away and looked at the elf, searching for any signs that he would attack if he came closer. Up close, he was even more beautiful. His eyes were the color of a thunderstorm and his face was fine and dainty yet masculine enough for it to be a proud face. The elf regarded Estel with as much reservation as the man did him.

Estel sighed inwardly. The elf looked as if he was ready to bolt if he moved too fast. "Would knowing my name ease your distrust?" he asked.

The elf's eyes flicked from his sword back up to his face. His eyes were unreadable. "Perhaps."

"Very well. I am Estel, son of Elrond."

"Estel," the elf repeated, seemingly slightly dazed. "You have a name of our people, and you call the Lord of Imladris your sire, yet you are human. What kind of games do you play?"

"I play no games." Estel took a step forward and reached out and touched the wood-elf's shoulder. "I speak the truth." He flinched slightly, but made no move to get away. Estel took that as a good sign and closed the last few feet between them. The elf stiffened and his hand clenched around his bow, but he still made no move to attack or flee. Estel paused, giving him time to adjust to his presence, and then reached up again and brushed the elf's hair over his shoulder to gain better sight to the wound. He couldn't help but marvel at the silken feel his hair had.

Focus, Estel. He rubbed his fingers to attempt to rid his fingers of the feeling of the elf's hair. It did nothing to help him forget the feeling, however. "Gwestog, Estel?" the elf asked as Estel leaned closer to part the fabric of his shirt. Estel looked up in surprise. The elf looked down at him, ageless eyes waiting for an answer.

"Gweston…" he replied, nodding. He left it open as an implied question for the elf's name.

"I am known as Legolas," the elf replied after a moment of hesitation. No Rivendell elf, save Elrond and a few others knew what meaning his name had. Once Estel had no immediate reaction to the name, Legolas relaxed a bit. This human, despite being the adopted son of Elrond, was ignorant of his existence.

"Well met, Legolas, though I wish it could have been in better circumstances. Were your men escorts?" Estel asked after he had peered at the wound as much as he could with the elf's shirt on.

"They were my friends," Legolas said quietly. Estel looked away. There was true grief in this elf's voice, and elves were masters of keeping their emotions hidden if they so wished.

"Diheno nin," he murmured.

"There is no need for that," Legolas said, making an elegant gesture of dismissal. "It was not your hand that caused their deaths. How fares my shoulder?"

"I cannot tell the full extent of the wound," Estel said, feeling his cheeks heat. He turned away so that the elf would not see his discomfort. "Without you removing your tunic." He glanced back at the elf after a moment to see him looking at Estel quizzically.

"Very well," he said after a moment.

"I will go fetch water to clean your wound," Estel said, and began to walk away, but he stopped after a few steps. "Hand over your bow so that I know that you will not flee." He turned to look at the elf, who was drawing his quiver over his shoulder. His face, in a grimace of pain, went still as he heard what Estel said. Legolas kept his eyes on Estel's as he laid his quiver next to his bow with deliberate care. He stood back up just as slowly and carefully, and then raised an eyebrow, as if daring Estel to demand his weapons again.

Estel opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, closed it and turned. "I will go fetch the water, now," he said and promptly escorted his burning cheeks to the nearest stream.

Legolas turned from the man as he left and surveyed the surrounding area. The Orcs and scouts lay dead at last. It had been five days that they had been trying to outride them through the Misty Mountains pass. They had been outnumbered, and even though Legolas had brought with him ten of his best swordsmen and bowmen, they had been tired after riding hard from Mirkwood, and fighting their way out of the fortress. Some had even contributed their strength for Thranduil's fortress to keep the Orcs out.

His father had sent Legolas to ask for help among the Imladris elves, while he held the fortress as long as he could. If Legolas returned with no armies or they came too late, the wood-elves would have to move north and relinquish the lands to the Orcs. They would then have to hope that the Orcs would be satisfied enough to leave them in peace until they could gather their armies and retaliate.

And if the Rivendell elves responded and dispatched armies quickly enough, then perhaps Mirkwood was not lost after all.

Legolas allowed his eyes to travel to the last two companions he had rode with. Of all of the swordsmen and bowmen Legolas had brought, these were the ones closest to him. One had been his teacher in the ways of the sword, and the other had taught him the ways of the forest when he had wanted to learn more. They made up in fatherly love all that Thranduil lacked. Legolas did not blame his father for his lack of attention or caring. After all, he was a king and only had so much time for every person. It did not help that Legolas was not as vicious or as willing to kill as his father. Legolas could often recall bowing before his father and hearing himself called weak and soft. He feared to give the lands of the Silvian elves to him, for he would not be able to make the decisions that needed to be made.

Legolas heard the returning footsteps of the man and realized that he had been brooding for far too long. He quickly removed his tunic, grimacing as the laceration on his shoulder twanged with pain. The man had fought well and hard, Legolas had to admit. He would have smiled, if he was not standing between the bodies of two of his most trusted friends.

Legolas let his shirt fall to the forest floor and went over to his swordsmaster. Around his waist was one of the great Elven swords that had always been spoken of in legends. When he had accompanied Thranduil to slay the fire beasts of the north, his swordsmaster had killed several dragons with this very blade. Made by the high elves, it was one of the finest swords of his people. He could not simply leave it here.

Kneeling next to the corpse, Legolas gently turned the elf over so that he could unbuckle the sword. He heard Estel pause at the edge of the clearing, but did not turn to look at him. His swordsmaster's eyes were open, and Legolas gently closed them and whispered, "Savo hidh nen gurth." He bowed his head. "May you join your kin in the Halls of Mendos." He gently slid the sword belt out from under the body and set the sword down next to his bow and quiver. He moved to the other elf and repeated his wording and closed the elf's eyes.

After bowing his head over the bodies for a few more heartbeats, Legolas looked to the edge of the clearing. "Make haste, human. I have little time for this. I should be on my way to Rivendell."

Estel, who had been watching the elf warily from the edge of the clearing, walked carefully over to him. A filled water skin as well as a sprig of some sort of herbs were clutched in the man's hands. He set both down a few ells away from the elf and helped him up.

"You may want to sit at the edge of the clearing," Estel said after a few moments of surveying the wound. He couldn't help but let his eyes travel down the elf's torso, which was exquisitely shaped, a perfect balance of lean muscle and white skin. He had never seen an elf as beautiful as Legolas, Estel had to admit.

Legolas nodded and made his way over to the nearest tree. He eased his tired, aching frame against the rough trunk and surveyed the human as he poured some water on his hands to clean them of Orc blood. For a human, Legolas supposed, this one was not bad looking. He did not have the coarse mannerisms, which helped immensely, but he was fair of face as well. His hair was dark in color, but not the inky black of Legolas's hair, as well as a completely different texture. Legolas longed to reach out and feel this strange wavy hair, to see if it felt any different than his own. After a moment, Legolas mastered the urge and looked instead to his eyes which were a light, untroubled gray, much like his own.

Legolas narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to determine the man's age. It had been long since he had thought about the life span of a man; it was so different than the elves' that he rarely took the time to bother thinking it out. Humans lived such short lives compared to elves; their lifespan was a mere blink of an eye to an elf. But Legolas was young for his kind, and perhaps he could relate to this young human, living in a world of ancient beings that hardly remembered their own beginnings, they were so old.

As Estel looked up, Legolas turned his gaze away almost guiltily. Being caught staring was not something Legolas was used to. His emotions were running high from the last few days and the deaths of his people. He was not himself, and did not have the same control over himself that he usually did. He would have to be more careful than usual.

Estel had felt the tingling on the back of his neck as the elf observed him, but hadn't looked up until he absolutely needed to. After finding a suitable piece of fabric that was not stained with Orc blood and that was relatively clean, Estel tore it off from his tunic and wetted it with some of the water. The rest he would pour directly onto the wound, and maybe offer some to the elf to drink, for he looked as if he were about to pass out from exhaustion.

"Do you come from Mirkwood?" Estel asked as he set the water skin down again and walked over to the elf, who had leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes.

At his question, Legolas opened his eyes and watched the man approach. Maybe he did know his name—

Estel frowned as the elf didn't answer and he seemed to become guarded again. Had he said something wrong? "I only ask because the only elves to use these paths are ones crossing the Misty Mountain pass from the Woodland Forest," he said after a few moments. He now stood within touching distance of the elf, who was still observing him with slitted eyes. Legolas visibly relaxed and closed his eyes once more.

"My sire is from Doriath, so I only lay claim to my Silvan blood through the years I have spent there," he said, leaning his head back against the trunk. The man smelled of Orc blood and the tang of excitement.

"Doriath?" Estel asked, though it was more of a rhetorical question than anything else. There was a moment of silence, and then he said, "I must clean around the wound so that I can see the full extent of the damage."

The elf nodded his consent, but didn't open his eyes. A moment later, he felt cool water against his skin, a relief from the burning, hot agony he had been in the last few days. He hadn't been cool since he had fought his way out of the fortress. He let out a deep breath, which caused Estel to pull away and see if he had hurt him. Legolas opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. Should it not be raining, to symbolize the sorrow that weighed his heart down? No, the sun was out and the sky was clear. A moment later, the cool rag touched his shoulder again, and slid just under the burning pain that was the wound. The soft brush of the man's knuckles sent a shiver down Legolas's spine, though he did not move. It is exhaustion, nothing more, he told himself.

Estel tried to focus on the task at hand, not the fact that he was touching such perfection. The elf's skin was as smooth as any other elf's, but it had a supple quality to it that spoke of youth and a softness that was like silk against a plate of armor. Soft to the touch, but hard as steel underneath. After a few painstaking breaths in which he could hear his heart pick up tempo, the area around the wound was clear enough for Estel to clearly see it. He set the rag down and came back over to peer at the wound more closely.

"It is shallow," he said after a few moments. Legolas found that it was hard to concentrate on the man's words, as his breath caressed his skin and that strange hair brushed his collarbone. "And no muscle was damaged. It is only a flesh wound, one that should heal fairly quickly with this." He held up the herb, and Legolas finally brought himself to look down at the man. Immediately, he froze.

Estel hadn't realized that he had stepped so close when he was looking at the wound, and once the elf lowered his head, they were nearly nose to nose. He should step back, Estel thought, but he couldn't quite bring himself to. In Legolas's eyes was such a deep, profound sorrow. He had seen much in this world, and Estel got the feeling that he would see much more in his time.

Legolas's eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, anchored to the man's. He told himself to look away, to stop this before it started, whatever this happened to be, but he couldn't quite bring himself to look away from the man's eyes, so like his own. By the sea and the stars, he was beautiful for a man. A rugged, earthy beauty that no elf could ever compare to. Legolas felt it calling to the wild part of him, the part that wanted to spend his life in the woods, hunting and exploring.

They stayed like that for several moments, breath mixing, eyes on each other's, both caught in the moment and the possibilities. But then Estel broke away, and took a few steps away from the elf. What was he doing? He quickly took the herb and crushed the leaves between his fingers.

"Athelas," Legolas said, catching his breath and his thoughts again, after a few heartbeats. He turned his face to the side to school his features into something that resembled normalcy.

"You know your plants," Estel observed, not daring to look up at the elf. He had never even considered a man this way before; could not imagine considering a man the way he was at this exact moment. Yet here he was, his face red and his blood pumping quickly through his veins.

"I am an elf of the Woodland Forest," Legolas said, somewhat stiffly. "It is only natural that I know my plants."

"Of course," Estel murmured. The juices from the leaves now stained his fingers and the leaves were in as much of a poultice as they were going to get from just his hands. "With this as a poultice for your wounds, you should be as good as new by tomorrow. He came back to the elf again, but this time, he did not step as close. He kept himself at arm's length as he hoisted the water skin between them. "This may cause a small amount of stinging," he warned, and dumped the water onto Legolas's wounds.

Legolas clenched his jaw as he felt the cold water hit his wound. Rhaich, it hurt. He kept his face turned to the side in case his emotions betrayed him, and didn't utter a sound. A moment later, the numbness of the water set in, and he relaxed his grip on the tree behind him. "How is it that you know of plants?" he asked after a moment. "I have met no man who had such knowledge."

Estel chuckled. "I am a man of the Imladris valley," he mocked. "It is only natural that I know my own valley's plants." Legolas turned to look at him, a retort on the tip of his tongue, but when he saw the man smiling, all words fell apart and he was left speechless. He settled for a grimace and did not reply. Estel began spreading the poultice onto the wound, and Legolas was glad for the numbness and the pain, as they almost drowned out the touch of the man.

"I do not have a proper bandage, so I will have to use part of my shirt," Estel said as he continued rubbing the crushed herbs into Legolas's shoulder. It was more to make conversation than anything; the silence between them now was more awkward than when Legolas had been pointing his bow at him. He had no idea what had just happened, but it had been something dangerous. When Legolas did not reply, Estel looked up at him, and was shocked to see that his eyes were fluttering closed.

He only had time to brace himself before the elf passed out cold and landed heavily against him. Estel sighed. This day was far from over.

Okay! I'm finally done! Again, please review, I'd love to know about any dumb mistakes I'm making so that I can fix them. Much appreciated, thank you! And now for the Elvish!

Ethuil—late spring
Avo nago nin—do not kill me
Gwestog—Do you promise?
Gweston—I promise
Diheno nin—Forgive me (in a way that puts the person asking for forgiveness metaphorically under the forgivee)
Savo hidh nen gurth—may you find peace in death
Rhaich—curses