Legolas Greenleaf sat astride his horse, humming tunelessly to himself.
They had set forth at down, while the sun was still a bleary red eye on the
horizon. Now, it was high in the cloudless cerulean sky, nearly noon.
Soon they would stop for lunch. His stomach rumbled greedily at the
thought of nourishment. They'd had only bread and water before departing,
and it had not been sufficient to stifle his gnawing hunger. His sharp
eyes intently surveyed the horizon for signs of movement besides their own,
but he could find none. In the distance, the gloomy Forest of Solitude
beckoned. They would reach its borders just before nightfall.
"Hail, young Legolas," greeted Strider, riding up alongside him. "How are things?"
"Hello, Strider," murmured Legolas, "I have no complaints."
"Yet you say nothing. What troubles you?" he cajoled.
Legolas frowned. "Troubles me? I cannot say. Many worries prey on my mind."
"Do you question your wife's fidelity?"
"That is not among them," he barked, points of his ears reddening in anger.
Strider held up his hands, chagrined. He'd meant no insult. "Peace, friend, I meant no harm. I can see no other reason for such melancholy if she yet lives."
They rode in thoughtful silence for a while, Legolas listening to the steady squeak-thup of the saddle and stirrups as they chafed back and forth against smooth horseflesh. He could not articulate his fear even to himself. It was a cold, nebulous dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach the moment he'd read the letter from his father, an insidious tendril of horror the curled around his heart. At length he spoke.
"I do not know why I fear; I only know that I do," he said at last.
Strider pursed his lips in contemplation. "Methinks you suffer from mere love pangs, my friend."
"No, it is more than that," he insisted. "I know it."
"You're not the only man here who's left a loved one behind," reasoned his companion.
"Yes, but you are accustomed to being parted from your beloved. I am not," he retorted waspishly, instantly regretting his words. This uncertain dread had made his normally jovial demeanor not a little insensitive. "Forgive me-," he began, but Strider cut him off.
"Point taken," he said, his face growing stiff and inscrutable. Well, I think I'll go up and have a word with Gandalf. Ride on." He nudged his horse ahead without a backwards glance.
Brilliant Legolas, he chastised himself. At the rate you're going, you'll have more enemies behind you than in front. Get a hold of yourself.
They did indeed stop for lunch within the hour, much to the delight of all, but especially to the ravenous hobbits, who never seemed to tire of eating. They yelled and chattered gaily at one another as they went about preparing the repast. Their stubby little hands and feet flew as they spread their blankets on the ground beside a small, clear stream. As if by magic, the little fellows produced an incredible quantity of food-tomatoes, apples, bread, dried bacon, and even a fig pudding. Legolas laughed in spite of himself.
"The key to being prepared for anything is a full stomach," admonished the stoutest of the hobbits.
"Right you are, Sam Gamgee," agreed Frodo happily.
"In that case," observed Boromir,"we shall always be prepared for even the gravest eventuality."
The party erupted in laughter, and everyone was soon engaged in happy conversation. The lively hobbits regaled everyone with tales and lore from the Shire, and Legolas sang the saga of Valinor in his clear, clarion voice. Even the dour Gimli was grudgingly impressed. The hour passed as one of the happiest Legolas could remember since leaving Mirkwood. As with all good things, the comfortable luncheon soon ended. The trash was collected and the blankets, pots, and pans put away. Before mounting up, Legolas extended an olive branch to Strider.
"I apologize for my rudeness earlier," he said, extending his hand. "I have not been myself lately."
Strider eyed the outstretched hand dubiously before taking it in his own. "We have all been sorely tested in these strange times. Apology accepted."
"The Elf-folk are notoriously loose-lipped, growled Gimli. "In fact, their lips aren't the only thing about them that's quite loose. How else do you explain the fact that there's too damn many of them?"
"Perhaps your poor hygiene explains why there are so few of you, you filthy little rodent," Legolas shot back. Whatever goodwill Gimli had generated during the pleasant meal evaporated. He itched to unfetter his bow against this hideous little fool.
"Gentlemen, please," sighed Gandalf, eyeing Legolas. "No more fighting amongst ourselves. We are doomed if you cannot learn to coexist." He turned and resumed the slow trek toward the Forest of Solitude.
The unlikely group traveled until darkness forced them to stop for the night, less than one hundred yards from the perimeter of the forest. Everyone busied themselves with preparing the campsite. Frodo set up the sparse bedding while Sam and the other hobbits set about collecting kindling for a fire. Strider and Boromir hunted for water. Gimli was nowhere to be seen.
Legolas was intent on caring for the horses when the hackles on the back of his neck began to rise in apprehension. He turned around slowly, straining his eyes and ears to see what lay beyond in the darkness. A soft, stealthy rustling could be heard. Reckless feet and whispers. He cocked his head, automatically reaching for his bow. It sounded like-
"ORCS!!" shouted Gimli as he emerged from a thick copse of trees, trying to pull up his trousers, draw his sword, and run at the same time. The stuff that dwarves are made of flapped in the breeze as he ran, and had it not been for the twenty orcs chasing him, Legolas would have laughed himself blind.
Legolas' mirth at his dwarf companion's torment did not last long. Orcs were no laughing matter. Short, misshapen, gray creatures who moved in the night, they were a stupid but powerful beast. They hated the fair, golden-haired elves, for they were as beautiful as the orcs were hideous. They swarmed forth from the dense foliage, their harsh, guttural voices resounding in the cool night air.
Legolas drew his arrow and took aim at the orc directly behind Gimli. For just a moment he was tempted to let his bow stray to Gimli's heart, but he pushed the thought away and let fly. The arrow struck home in the orc's beady green eye, and it fell with a grating screech. As soon as the first arrow was released, his swift hand fitted another, instinct replacing thought. "Gimli," he screamed, "stop worrying over your pants and get out of the way!"
Gimli threw himself to the side just as another arrow from Legolas found its mark in the heart of another foe. Strider, Boromir, and the hobbits at last joined the fray, and the piercing clash of metal against metal rang through the field. Legolas winced as cold, black, gelatinous orc blood splattered on his neck. When the orcs drew too close for his bow, he unsheathed his sword and dove into his enemies with animal ferocity. He had no intention of losing this battle. If he should be captured, death would not come quickly for him. The orcs would torture and mutilate him in vengeance for his beauty. Before he died, they would cut out his eyes and tongue and castrate him. They would revel in the ruin of his body, and when he was no more, they would leave his carcass for the vultures of Mordor. He fought for his life.
When the last of the orcs was vanquished at the tip of Strider's blade and the body fell to the ground with a meaty thud, everyone heaved a sigh of relief. Most were splattered in great clots of orc blood to the elbows. Runners of sticky black goop hung from the ends of Legolas' flaxen hair. His skin crawled beneath the drying splotches on his skin. He felt his gorge rising. If he didn't rid himself of this filth soon, he was going to vomit. He dropped his weapons on the ground and headed for the river.
Gimli was already there washing his hands. He started at the sound of footsteps, but when he saw that it was only Legolas, he relaxed. "Come to laugh at my misfortune, have you?"
"No." He hadn't. He only wanted to cleanse his body from the defilement it had suffered. He knelt down and plunged his head beneath the murky water. When he pulled it out again, Gimli was still watching him.
"I suppose I should thank you for saving my life," he said diffidently.
"You are of the fellowship. We are weaker if one falls. I was only protecting the quest."
"Perhaps so, but I still offer my apologies for my conduct. I would like to begin anew." He extended his hand.
"On one condition."
Gimli raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"When we return from this quest, you will accompany me to Mirkwood to apologize to my wife." He stripped of his soiled clothes as he spoke.
"Alright," he huffed.
Legolas' face broke into an enormous grin. "You have answered one question, though."
"Eh?"
"Elves are bigger than dwarfs in ALL areas."
"Not for long," Gimli muttered with a wicked sneer.
Legolas paid him no heed. He was anticipating a quick dip in the cool water to refresh himself. He realized what Gimli was talking about as soon as he hit the water. The ribald dwarf stood on the bank roar with laughter as Legolas yelped in surprise at the frigid water.
"I told you," cackled Gimli as he scurried, spluttering, from the water. Legolas
merely spared him a baleful glare as he dressed. When they returned to camp, Gandalf
assigned a watch. The rest of the night passed in fitful dreams.
"Hail, young Legolas," greeted Strider, riding up alongside him. "How are things?"
"Hello, Strider," murmured Legolas, "I have no complaints."
"Yet you say nothing. What troubles you?" he cajoled.
Legolas frowned. "Troubles me? I cannot say. Many worries prey on my mind."
"Do you question your wife's fidelity?"
"That is not among them," he barked, points of his ears reddening in anger.
Strider held up his hands, chagrined. He'd meant no insult. "Peace, friend, I meant no harm. I can see no other reason for such melancholy if she yet lives."
They rode in thoughtful silence for a while, Legolas listening to the steady squeak-thup of the saddle and stirrups as they chafed back and forth against smooth horseflesh. He could not articulate his fear even to himself. It was a cold, nebulous dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach the moment he'd read the letter from his father, an insidious tendril of horror the curled around his heart. At length he spoke.
"I do not know why I fear; I only know that I do," he said at last.
Strider pursed his lips in contemplation. "Methinks you suffer from mere love pangs, my friend."
"No, it is more than that," he insisted. "I know it."
"You're not the only man here who's left a loved one behind," reasoned his companion.
"Yes, but you are accustomed to being parted from your beloved. I am not," he retorted waspishly, instantly regretting his words. This uncertain dread had made his normally jovial demeanor not a little insensitive. "Forgive me-," he began, but Strider cut him off.
"Point taken," he said, his face growing stiff and inscrutable. Well, I think I'll go up and have a word with Gandalf. Ride on." He nudged his horse ahead without a backwards glance.
Brilliant Legolas, he chastised himself. At the rate you're going, you'll have more enemies behind you than in front. Get a hold of yourself.
They did indeed stop for lunch within the hour, much to the delight of all, but especially to the ravenous hobbits, who never seemed to tire of eating. They yelled and chattered gaily at one another as they went about preparing the repast. Their stubby little hands and feet flew as they spread their blankets on the ground beside a small, clear stream. As if by magic, the little fellows produced an incredible quantity of food-tomatoes, apples, bread, dried bacon, and even a fig pudding. Legolas laughed in spite of himself.
"The key to being prepared for anything is a full stomach," admonished the stoutest of the hobbits.
"Right you are, Sam Gamgee," agreed Frodo happily.
"In that case," observed Boromir,"we shall always be prepared for even the gravest eventuality."
The party erupted in laughter, and everyone was soon engaged in happy conversation. The lively hobbits regaled everyone with tales and lore from the Shire, and Legolas sang the saga of Valinor in his clear, clarion voice. Even the dour Gimli was grudgingly impressed. The hour passed as one of the happiest Legolas could remember since leaving Mirkwood. As with all good things, the comfortable luncheon soon ended. The trash was collected and the blankets, pots, and pans put away. Before mounting up, Legolas extended an olive branch to Strider.
"I apologize for my rudeness earlier," he said, extending his hand. "I have not been myself lately."
Strider eyed the outstretched hand dubiously before taking it in his own. "We have all been sorely tested in these strange times. Apology accepted."
"The Elf-folk are notoriously loose-lipped, growled Gimli. "In fact, their lips aren't the only thing about them that's quite loose. How else do you explain the fact that there's too damn many of them?"
"Perhaps your poor hygiene explains why there are so few of you, you filthy little rodent," Legolas shot back. Whatever goodwill Gimli had generated during the pleasant meal evaporated. He itched to unfetter his bow against this hideous little fool.
"Gentlemen, please," sighed Gandalf, eyeing Legolas. "No more fighting amongst ourselves. We are doomed if you cannot learn to coexist." He turned and resumed the slow trek toward the Forest of Solitude.
The unlikely group traveled until darkness forced them to stop for the night, less than one hundred yards from the perimeter of the forest. Everyone busied themselves with preparing the campsite. Frodo set up the sparse bedding while Sam and the other hobbits set about collecting kindling for a fire. Strider and Boromir hunted for water. Gimli was nowhere to be seen.
Legolas was intent on caring for the horses when the hackles on the back of his neck began to rise in apprehension. He turned around slowly, straining his eyes and ears to see what lay beyond in the darkness. A soft, stealthy rustling could be heard. Reckless feet and whispers. He cocked his head, automatically reaching for his bow. It sounded like-
"ORCS!!" shouted Gimli as he emerged from a thick copse of trees, trying to pull up his trousers, draw his sword, and run at the same time. The stuff that dwarves are made of flapped in the breeze as he ran, and had it not been for the twenty orcs chasing him, Legolas would have laughed himself blind.
Legolas' mirth at his dwarf companion's torment did not last long. Orcs were no laughing matter. Short, misshapen, gray creatures who moved in the night, they were a stupid but powerful beast. They hated the fair, golden-haired elves, for they were as beautiful as the orcs were hideous. They swarmed forth from the dense foliage, their harsh, guttural voices resounding in the cool night air.
Legolas drew his arrow and took aim at the orc directly behind Gimli. For just a moment he was tempted to let his bow stray to Gimli's heart, but he pushed the thought away and let fly. The arrow struck home in the orc's beady green eye, and it fell with a grating screech. As soon as the first arrow was released, his swift hand fitted another, instinct replacing thought. "Gimli," he screamed, "stop worrying over your pants and get out of the way!"
Gimli threw himself to the side just as another arrow from Legolas found its mark in the heart of another foe. Strider, Boromir, and the hobbits at last joined the fray, and the piercing clash of metal against metal rang through the field. Legolas winced as cold, black, gelatinous orc blood splattered on his neck. When the orcs drew too close for his bow, he unsheathed his sword and dove into his enemies with animal ferocity. He had no intention of losing this battle. If he should be captured, death would not come quickly for him. The orcs would torture and mutilate him in vengeance for his beauty. Before he died, they would cut out his eyes and tongue and castrate him. They would revel in the ruin of his body, and when he was no more, they would leave his carcass for the vultures of Mordor. He fought for his life.
When the last of the orcs was vanquished at the tip of Strider's blade and the body fell to the ground with a meaty thud, everyone heaved a sigh of relief. Most were splattered in great clots of orc blood to the elbows. Runners of sticky black goop hung from the ends of Legolas' flaxen hair. His skin crawled beneath the drying splotches on his skin. He felt his gorge rising. If he didn't rid himself of this filth soon, he was going to vomit. He dropped his weapons on the ground and headed for the river.
Gimli was already there washing his hands. He started at the sound of footsteps, but when he saw that it was only Legolas, he relaxed. "Come to laugh at my misfortune, have you?"
"No." He hadn't. He only wanted to cleanse his body from the defilement it had suffered. He knelt down and plunged his head beneath the murky water. When he pulled it out again, Gimli was still watching him.
"I suppose I should thank you for saving my life," he said diffidently.
"You are of the fellowship. We are weaker if one falls. I was only protecting the quest."
"Perhaps so, but I still offer my apologies for my conduct. I would like to begin anew." He extended his hand.
"On one condition."
Gimli raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"When we return from this quest, you will accompany me to Mirkwood to apologize to my wife." He stripped of his soiled clothes as he spoke.
"Alright," he huffed.
Legolas' face broke into an enormous grin. "You have answered one question, though."
"Eh?"
"Elves are bigger than dwarfs in ALL areas."
"Not for long," Gimli muttered with a wicked sneer.
Legolas paid him no heed. He was anticipating a quick dip in the cool water to refresh himself. He realized what Gimli was talking about as soon as he hit the water. The ribald dwarf stood on the bank roar with laughter as Legolas yelped in surprise at the frigid water.
"I told you," cackled Gimli as he scurried, spluttering, from the water. Legolas
merely spared him a baleful glare as he dressed. When they returned to camp, Gandalf
assigned a watch. The rest of the night passed in fitful dreams.