Chapter Eleven

I am not like my father! Legolas stormed to himself as he left the camp, his boots making no sound on the damp ground. Perhaps his stride, had Aragorn been there to comment on it, was a little too purposeful, his blue eyes narrow with anger. He heard the snap of a twig and suddenly assumed that perfect stillness that only elves are capable of. He heard the running of a squirrel in the branches behind him even as his head twisted back to watch. For a few moments he remained in that cat-like awareness, not just seeing, but sensing the world around him. Then he relaxed, recognizing that there was nothing there that should not be. Nothing but this strange fury that seemed to consume him.

Continuing his retreat from the small camp, he circled around and made his way back to the top of the hill where he'd sat with Boromir earlier. He sat cross-legged and listened to the sound of bats swooping about to feed on the night insects. He shifted position a bit to better reach a patch of clover, the purple flowers glowing silver in the starlight, damp with the evening dew. Breathing in the delicate fragrance, he pulled a handful and absently began to twist the long stems into a wreath. With his hands busy, and the stars above him, he began to examine the rage Aragorn's statement had triggered.

It was only a joke, one the Ranger had used many times before. Why should it bother him this time. If there was one thing the elf had learned to deal with, it was the subtle humour of the Ranger. In some ways it was a compliment. So why now, after the storm of Boromir and Sam's emotions, when all was calm and settled, had it provoked such a reaction?

You snapped at Boromir. The thought came unbidden. But it had worked. Boromir had needed to confess, to tell him of the temptation. Did that justify the coldness he had forced himself to show the man? Or the viciousness of his voice?

He paused in his musings to watch the flight of a small owl from the shelter of the trees. It drifted by on silent wings, off for a night's hunt. He pulled more clover, added it to the rapidly growing chain in his hands.

How had he known that Boromir would react better to coldness than kindness at that moment?

It was what his father would have done. Legolas told himself. Boromir had said enough over the past days for the elf to recognize what his training would have been. Denethor would have accepted no excuses, no apologies.

It was also what your father would have done. His conscience would not let him off so easily. It was true. Thranduil would have treated him in exactly the same way, interrogating him, finding the motive Legolas would not have known he'd had. The elf sighed, his fingers slowing, the clover stems weaving more gently now, the softness of their perfume easing his mind.

In his thoughts, Legolas returned once again to the days of his own adolescence, called to mind by his lighthearted remark to Sam. Archery had always been his first and best love. The days and nights surrounded by the beauty of the Mirkwood with his tutor learning about woodcraft, tracking and herb lore had always filled his soul with peace and contentment. Even the statecraft and diplomacy, such as Thranduil practised, had come easily to the young elf.

In the martial training he had been given, he had excelled with dagger, knife and staff. Wrestling and closely observed mock fights with his friends gave them all an excuse to work off high spirits. Despite all this, it always came back to the bloody sword training in the end. Years and years of training that he'd hated. No matter how hard he'd drilled, practised, it was never enough. Gilon could always get through his guard, swatting him hard to remind him.

He would appear for dinner, the bruises visible on his pallid flesh, and his father's face would darken. How could he ever have explained? With daggers and knives he was untouchable. But with the sword he was competent. Nothing more. Thranduil would stare at him with pale eyes and ask, again and again, why?

For years Legolas had asked himself the same question. In his early adolescence he'd discovered the reason, but shame had forced him to bury it. There was no force on earth that would compel him to explain. How could he? Especially not to his father.

Because in the dreams the Balrog would always take the sword.

A Prince of Mirkwood, afraid of nightmares. It was intolerable. Waking, silent and shaking, covered in the sweat of fear. Yet his father continued to have him drilled. Old Gilon, his sword-master pushed him harder and harder. Even after the incident when his arm had been broken, Thranduil insisted.

So Legolas had continued. Duty was what his father had taught him. He preferred to carry his knives, not the ornate elvish blade his father had commissioned for him. In time it was accepted as a personal idiosyncrasy, like his taste for Dorwinion wine. Yet underneath it still rankled.

The call of a nightbird broke his reverie. There was still no sound out of place, no unnatural movement along the hills. He sighed again and looked at the wreath of clover in his hands, almost surprised at his work. Then he smiled to himself. It was a custom of Thranduil's to wear coronets of spring flowers or autumn leaves in place of the jewelled crowns preferred by mortal kings. He flopped it rakishly on his head, a wry grin on his lips.

"Here's to you, Father," he said softly. "I do love you, you irascible old tyrant."

He began to relax, the rage he'd felt earlier subsiding as he remember happier times with his father.

Aragorn stared into the embers, faintly glowing now, and smiled to himself. "Typical Legolas" he thought. Of course the elf was drawn to Boromir. Like calls to like. Legolas wouldn't recognize it, though. He'd over think each encounter, find some rational explanation for every feeling, and be overwhelmed when the truth finally dawned on him.

Aragorn knew elves, understood them. In some ways Legolas was eaisier for him to read then Boromir. What he saw in Legolas both amused and worried him. The elf was young, inexperienced in his dealings with men. Aragorn was the man he knew best, and Aragorn was used to his ways. Watching Legolas and Boromir develop their friendship would be very interesting.

Boromir, wrapped in the sweet sleep of exhaustion, sighed gently and rolled over.