"How did—why are—what happened?" Pippin stammered, staring at the grimy pile of rags on the floor. 

            "Pippin," Legolas cried joyfully, weakly, tears forging tracks through the dirt on his face.  "Oh Pippin, Pippin, Pippin!"  His labored crawl forward brought the hobbit out of his shock and he stopped Legolas' advance with a steady hand.

            "Don't move an inch.  Here," he ordered, retrieving the fallen basket from the floor and thrusting it at the elf.  "I don't want another word out of you until you've eaten everything in there."  He waved aside Legolas' tearful protest.  "Not.  One.  Word."

            "Where's Aragorn?" the elf persisted.  "What have they done to him, Pippin?"

            The hobbit frowned.  "Aragorn?  What has he got to do with anything?  Eat up, you're wilting as you—good heavens, you're injured!"

            Legolas struck at Pippin's anxious hand with a viciousness the hobbit wouldn't have thought possible of one in such poor condition.  "Tell—me—where—he—is."  The elf held Pippin's arm in a grip that hurt.  "Don't lie to me, Pippin.  I know of your oath to Gondor.  What have they done with Elessar?"

            "I know nothing!  Honest!  Legolas, you've got to believe me, all I know is that Elrohir and Elladan showed up on my doorstep in the raiment of the Queen's Guards and told me to keep their—"  Understanding dawned like a cloud in Pippin's face and he sank to the ground.

            "What!  What is it?" hissed Legolas.

            "I don't know.  It's just that…"  He looked at the battered, bleeding elf before him.  "They called you a traitor.  'Look after this traitor to the throne of Gondor until you are contacted,' they said, and I…I…I can't be here!"  He jerked himself from Legolas' grief-slackened grip and dashed toward the door.  "I'll get Merry!  Eat the food, Legolas, you need it!  I was never here!"  He ignored Legolas' anguished yell and backed out the door bowing apologetically, adding once more, "I was never here!"  The door slammed shut behind him.

            Alone but with the light of the lamp to combat the gloom, Legolas' hunger mastered his frustration and he threw himself on the basket prepared with hobbit fare.  It did not disappoint him.  Vegetable pasties, hot bread, and cheese the color of leaves in Lothlorien filled the stuffy little room with the smells of good baking and sweet, sweet sustenance.  Legolas quaffed one filled skin after the other, not even noticing what was in it, so great was his thirst.  But by far the most splendid of the hobbits' generous prison victuals were the apples, sharp and crisp in his mouth, for they reminded him of Aragorn and the Man's patent fondness for the fruit.  Legolas couldn't count the number of times, before the breaking of the Fellowship and after, when he'd turned and caught Aragorn's brilliant teeth just piercing the gleaming hide of another apple, or his gauntleted hands just tossing away a core.  Such thoughts lent power to the sorrow in Legolas over his now-pacified stomach, and the tears which had sprung in joy at the discovery of his old friend returned, this time in remorse.  It was in this woeful state that Merry found the elf when he burst in panting through the door.

            "It is you!"  Merry ran to Legolas' side, grimacing at the glistening wound the lamp shone upon.  "We have to get you up and out of this hole.  Don't mind Pippin, he'll get himself sorted out.  Oh Legolas, what happened?"

            "She had a son," Legolas said softly, seeming not to hear Merry.  "It should have been all right.  She had a son."

            "Who?  Who had a—oh Legolas, look at you!  Come on, get up before you make me carry you.  Or—wait, can you get up?"  At the elf's silence, Merry mumbled an apology and scooped the elf up into his arms, which had grown longer than most hobbits' with the aid of Treebeard's special concoction.  Still, the long pale legs trailed across the floor as Merry hefted him out, begging forgiveness for the confounded low ceilings and narrow doorways all.  Legolas suffered the journey without grunt or complaint, though Merry's shoulder dug rendingly into his chest wound.

            "We can't keep you here," the hobbit winced as Legolas' foot hit a table.  "Not right now, anyway.  Pippin's terrified they'll come back and start asking for you and—oof!  I sent him over to Sam's to—"

            "You live together?" Legolas spoke suddenly.  His voice was tender and brought a smile to Merry's lips as he replied.

            "Well, yes, Pippin and I do.  Sam couldn't stand to see some stranger take over Bag End and took it up himself, but that left the Crickhollow place and we, ah…"

            "It must be nice," Legolas whispered dreamily.  In his mind he was already broadening the doorways, lengthening the windows; touching and tweaking the cozy home around him into the vision of the house he would share with Aragorn.  There would be an apple orchard in the back, of course, and an ample cellar to stow its bounty away into the winter months to please the Man.  And there'd be a fireplace in nearly every room to chase away the cold, but perhaps not in the bedroom where they would provide their own warmth.  Ah yes, there'd be a great bed, plumped with pillows and thick blankets and—

            "You okay there, Legolas?"  Merry set him gently down in front of a dying fire.  "Set just a minute there while I stoke it up and then—gracious, your wound, I forgot!"  Pinkening, the hobbit hurried from the room then back with an armful of towels and a pile of garments.  "I, er, thought you might want to dress before…well, Sam's got little ones running around, you see, and well…"

            Legolas' lips cracked as they smiled.  "Thank you, Merry.  Those windows over there, you know—they could stand to be a little wider."

            Merry's face puckered in a frown.  "How much of that wine did you drink, Legolas?  Are you sure you're—oh, here's Sam!"  With a grateful grimace Merry gestured to the back door, through which a stout hobbit panting for breath stumbled. 

            "Merry, Pippin said to—oh."  Sam stared.  "We ought to—can you—Merry, look at him!  Look at that cut!  Don't just stand there, get me something to clean it with!"

            Merry pointed eagerly to the pile on the table.

            "Well then, what about water?  Needle?  Thread?  We can't do anything without—Legolas?  Legolas!"

            The room had been getting pleasantly warm for a while, for all that the fire at Legolas' side remained dead.  Now it seemed to Legolas that Sam and Merry and all the quaint hobbity décor began to spin, slowly and lullingly, as if part of some great thrumming song before a child's bedtime.  Legolas leaned forward into it, letting himself fall, and instead of falling it felt as though he were being lifted up in arms strong and sure.  Yes, and if he thought about it they felt rather like Aragorn's arms, and he could see Aragorn's smile over him, disarming him, hear his startingly soft voice urging him to rest, to sleep, he would feel so much better afterward.  For a moment the elf fought, desiring to look upon the face of his Elessar longer, feel the strong arms around him for all eternity, but the warmth and safety of his surroundings and the exhaustion of his own body forced him into deep, peaceful slumber.

*    *    *    *

            "Aragorn?"

            "Aragorn's not here, Legolas.  I'm sorry."

            Pale light framing a curly head greeted Legolas upon waking.  The elf let his eyes slide closed.  "I thought…"

            "I know."  Sam coughed awkwardly.  "You talk in your sleep."

            Legolas sat bolt upright and yelped.  "Sleep?  How long have I been sleeping?  I have to go after—"

            "Shh.  You can't go after anyone until you're healed.  Which will be sooner rather than later, I think.  Your wound looks remarkably better already."

            "How long has it been?"

            "Only a day.  No no, don't get upset—that's a record.  Usually two wineskins of Pippin's brew lay them cold for a week.  Does your head hurt?"

            "Only my—only where the arrow went in."  Legolas noted the cozy fire, the semicircle windows, the bed from which his legs stuck out from the knees.  "Do they know anything?" he asked softly.

            Sam shook his head.  "Pippin only knows what comes to his door and anyway he hasn't been…he's still worried.  But give him time."  He turned.  "Rosie, he's up now.  If it wouldn't be too much trouble—"

            "Out of the way, Samwise Gamgee, or do you plan on eating Master Greenleaf's breakfast all by yourself?"  A smiling hobbit, wide of girth and bright of face, entered bearing a large tray heaped with steaming fare.  A pair of wide staring eyes under a mop of dark hair clung to her skirts.  "Oh, don't tell me you've been badgering the poor thing when he's only just gotten up, and without a decent breakfast in him, either?  Out, out!"  Despite her words Rosie smiled as Sam shuffled out of the room, pink as a posy.  "A fine time you'd be having if you'd stayed at Merry and Pippin's place.  What with all the parties they throw over there you'd be lucky if—Elanor, do you mind?"

            The tiny hobbit-child parted from her mother's skirts for an instant, beheld Legolas with jaw dropped in wonder, then reattached her pudgy fist to the apron.  Rosie sighed.  "Don't mind her, she's just a little shy is all.  Anyway, Master Greenleaf—"  At Legolas' wince Rosie tossed her head.  "Now don't even start.  After all you've been through you deserve a little extra respect, even if only in title.  As I was saying, you've got your basic nutbread over here, straight from the oven, with some bayberry jam and then there are the oat farls…"

            Legolas stopped paying attention to the scrupulous housewife.  Instead his eyes followed the antics of little Elanor, who alternately opened her mouth as if to say something then shut it abruptly and buried her face.  At last when Rosie had gone through the naming of all the generous produce on the tray her glace followed Legolas' to the child at her side, whose mouth clack audibly shut in the sudden silence.

            "Goodness, Elanor, if you want to say something, go ahead and say it."  She shot a measuring glance at Legolas and continued, "Come to think of it, Master Greenleaf might want something and I have to go finish the baking.  If you'd keep an eye on him for me I'm sure I could cook up a suitable reward for you."

            "Tarts?" squeaked Elanor. 

            Rosie nodded.

            "Okay!"

            With a last smile at Legolas, the hobbit matron left the room, words already rising to her lips to stem Sam's protest.

            "It'll be good for him," she whispered outside the door.

            "But—"

            "Have you looked at him, really?  Man or Elf, no one can stand that kind of heartstrain for long without something to take his mind off it.  Leave him to Elanor."

            Sam sighed and followed his wife away from the little room.

            Meanwhile Elanor was watching with wonder as Legolas reached for a slice of bread.  "So…" she said at last, voice barely above a whisper.  "You're really an elf?"

            Legolas conjured up a grin.  "The genuine article."

            "Genuine?  What's genuine?"         

            "It means 'real'.  Say, how old are you, anyway?"

            "Three.  How old are you?"

            "Two thousands nine hundred and thirty four."  At the girl's face Legolas chuckled through his scone, sending crumbs spraying out across the bed.  "Can you even count that high?"

            "I can too!" Elanor asserted haughtily, all trace of wonder gone.  Then she changed again.  "But, um…"  She batted her eyes at him and he laughed again.

            "What?"

            "Could I braid your hair, Mr. Elf?"

            Legolas' throat caught mid-swallow and he had to cough.  It stung.  "Sure…" he managed finally, looking away.  "Sure.  Go ahead." 

            "Yay!  I've been practicing on the ponies, it's just that Mommy keeps her hair all short and so does Daddy and…"  The child's babble faded to Legolas' ears as she clambered up the slats at the head of the bed and perched there, gathering his long blonde hair into her plump little fingers.  He said nothing as she prattled on about different ways to braid the hair, how nice it was, all straight and flat and not like everyone's hair around here, all curly and everything.  He said nothing when she asked him to lean forward a minute, he was laying on some of his hair; merely obeyed then sank back down onto the pillow, staring straight at the ceiling.

            Rosie said nothing when from the doorway she caught the glint of tears from the guestroom.  Silently she looked on as her daughter braided the fine golden mane of the elf who remembered another's hands, another's voice behind him.  One by one the gleaming strands twined together, tomorrow and forever.

*    *    *    *

            After three days, and against the arguments of Sam and Rosie both, Legolas insisted he was ready to set out after Aragorn and his captors.  Ruefully Rosie prepared him clothing that she nevertheless put much care into, even taking the time to develop a shade of green Sam deemed closest to the garb he remembered Legolas in before Amon Hen.  When all was ready Merry, who throughout the elf's convalescence had come to visit frequently, and Pippin—who'd been a less recurrent visitor at Bag End—came over and begged Legolas to stay one more night.  "You'll be wanting to start out early in the morning, won't you, Legolas?" Pippin insisted.

            "I've been away from the stars far too long anyway—for all that the hospitality was the best," Legolas hastily added.  He was restless, and wanted Aragorn badly.

            "But doncha think it'd be better to—"

            "I'm going, Pippin," Legolas asserted, firm but kind.  He turned to face the assembled hobbits before Bag End—his old friends and their loved ones.  "Thank you all.  You've no idea what it meant—to be restored to people who knew you."

            "Who still do," Merry butted in, smiling.

            "Good luck, Mr. Elf!" little Elanor blurted, and Legolas gave up attempting speech.  A lump was forming in his throat, anyway.

            "Yes, good luck!" chorused the onlookers.

            All but Pippin.  "I wish you'd stay just a little longer," the hobbit mumbled, until Merry gave him a sharp look and his jaw clanked shut. 

            The sun had passed its zenith when Legolas set out, and by the time he reached the Threefarthing stone it was well near to setting.  The elf was about to leave the road and head cross country south—meaning to start from the Grey Havens in the search for Aragorn and proceed from there—when frantic hoofbeats reached his keen ears.  In an instant he was behind the stone, arrow drawn and ready in the bow he'd fashioned while bedridden.  A cloud of dust rose furiously over the road he'd just been on and he grit his teeth, glaring.  Nothing was going to stop his hunt for Aragorn, and if the same black-outfitted folks who attacked before tried it again, he'd slay them all.

            Soon shouting drifted above the hoofbeats.  "Wait!  Wait, Legolas—where are you?  Wait!"

            Legolas waited until the sweating, heaving pony with its hobbit burden had ground to a halt in front of the stone, its rider turning first one way, then the other.  Then Legolas stepped out from behind the stone, quiet as light.

            "What is it, Merry?"

            The hobbit yelped.  "There you are!  You've got to—he—turn back, turn back now!  There's plenty of places to hide in the Shire and I'm not beholden to—"

            Legolas' blue eyes sparked in the remaining light.  "What is it?  What happened?"

            "He—"  Merry's face screwed up in a grimace.  "He sold you out, Legolas!  Pippin, he—they came asking and…and…"

            "Who?  Where?"  Even as he spoke Legolas melded back into the shadows around the stone, arrow once again cocked. 

            "The same folk who attacked you back near the Grey Havens.  Elves in the garb of Gondor, though not Elrohir or Elladan.  I didn't know them.  You—"

            "Did they say anything about Aragorn?"  Legolas' voice was a hiss in the steeping darkness

            "I…um…"

            "Well?  Merry!"
            "I'm trying to—yes, they said they'd taken him to Gondor.  But Legolas, they—"

            "Who?  Did they have a name?"

            "Yes, Glorfindel, but—"

            "Glorfindel!"  A thousand and one memories of Glorfindel leaped to Legolas' mind, each one now tainted with malice.  "That vile, reeking scum—"

            "Legolas!"  Following Merry's stricken gaze the elf whirled.  The barest shadows were making there way up out of a dip of land to the south of the road, and at Merry's shout they increased speed, throwing back their cloaks to reveal glittering blades.  "I tried to tell you—Pippin told them where you were—he said he had to," the hobbit moaned.

            Legolas seemed not to notice.  "Hear me!" he called to the shadows, which ceased their advance.  "I am Legolas son of Thranduil, and I do not forget when I am wronged."  His voice shook with rage.  "You attacked me in the northern lands and that was a wrong.  You wounded me, and that was a wrong.  And you kidnapped Aragorn of the Dunadain, and for that I will fight until the blood of every last one of you drips from my hands!"  He let out a howl then the likes of which hadn't been heard in the Shire even in Frodo's vision in Galadriel's mirror, and the shadows hesitated.

            "And I, Meriadoc Brandybuck, will fight with him!" cried Merry, leaping of his frightened pony with sword drawn. 

            The two friends stood against the Threefarthing Stone in the last of the day's light, sword bared and arrows drawn, a revival of the Fellowship.  But one of the figures bearing toward them stopped suddenly, and the five or six cohorts froze after it.  "Then know whom it is you fight," the figure spoke, voice ringing like dark music in the air.  A gloved hand threw back a hood, but the angle of the sun ringed the face in shadow; left only the eyes to flash out into the oncoming night.  "For I am Arwen Evenstar."