"Legolas," Pippin began around a mouthful of rabbit stew, "I thought all the elves were very creative with poetry and words and stories and stuff."
Legolas smiled from the branch he had climbed onto to pester and befriend an unsuspecting lizard, "I wouldn't say 'all elves' as such generalization cannot be made for any race or group. But yes, often among elvish culture theres a certain importance placed upon the value of creations."
Pippin finished chewing and swallowing his mouthful before asking the next question,although Legolas suspected it was more out of fear of Merry or Frodo kicking him in the shins for lack of manners if he didnt, "Aragorn tells us nearly 3 stories or poems a night, Boromir has shared a great deal from his people, and I'm fairly certain Gimli has at least two dozen poetry books memorized. But we haven't heard anything from you, why is that? Do your people not create?"
Momentarily Legolas was at a loss for words, he was just become so accustomed to never sharing his people's creations outside of his home. He was so accustomed to nobody even wanting to hear them anyways. It seemed they preferred their subject lighter, or at the very least their expertly weaved retellings of tragedy and heartbreak to before of a memory than a day to day activity.
"Well," He began carefully, "That's because my people's songs and poems have been very melancholy as of late."
"No offense to Aragorn, but his subjects haven't exactly been what we hobbits call lighthearted."
"No," Legolas agreed, swinging backwards off the branch but hooking his knees around it so that he hung upside down, "You're correct they haven't been cherry, but they're of a far less recent heartbreak. More entertainment is had and less uncomfortable silence afterwards."
"Would you tell us one of your people's poems, Legolas?" Frodo asked carefully, watching for signs that their new friend might be growing uncomfortable, "Anyone at all? It would be lovely to hear it!"
The was a few very near identical noises of agreements from the rest of the hobbits. Legolas contemplated the request for a few moments, now that he was putting thought into it, he couldn't remember any poems.
"Since I know you will never recite you own," Aragorn said pointedly, having spent a great deal of time in his younger years trying to convince Legolas to trust him enough to share his various artworks to almost no effect, "How about somebody on your patrol? I know how many songs and poems you all write to help pass the night away. What about one of Avaleina's?"
Legolas loosened his grip on the tree branch and let himself slip farther toward the ground until his hands touched the dirt. Once they did, he released his legs and balanced perfectly upright on his hands. Finally, with one delicate and fluid forward roll, he came to sit next to Aragorn next to the fire. It all took him about four seconds.
"If it's really what you want-"
"It is," Pippin interrupted in his youthful enthusiasm, and Legolas had to smile. He really did enjoy the young hobbit.
"But I warn you, it is not a light nor a happy subject."
"We understand," Frodo assured him, "May we hear it now, please?"
Legolas thought about it for a few seconds, momentarily getting lost within his own memories of the first time it had been told to him. It had been the dead of night and during a storm, they had been trapped at the back of a deep cave as a new crop of fresh hatchling spiders swarmed their forest in a desperate frenzy to find their first meal before they starved to was a relatively limited window.
He had been sitting right beside her. Her hand gripped tightly in his, and yet he still hardly heard all of the words.
Legolas ensured he was louder in his retelling of it:
"There are things in my trees
There's a voice in my head
There's an ache in my heart
A sword in my hand.
.
The days glow warm with victory,
The night have been stolen and cursed.
They bite with the same cold malice
As the heartache that made us all so callous.
.
We subject ourselves to their cold eyes,
We reveal our dire plight.
The voice.
The ache.
Our dying fight.
.
We confess our fears
Then close our eyes, and then our ears
against their laughter and their sneers.
.
They say its for we havnt seen their trees,
Know not the light their wisdom brings.
They dont listen and they dont care,
That their trees have long since disappeared,
Any wisdom that was whispered long since whisked away by the hateful wind.
.
Our stars still shine,
Our forest still grows.
Our hearts are broken,
But onwards we go.
.
Theres so many things to be said,
Theres too many joy's to be had.
It's too bad that there's things in the trees,
And a voice in my head.
.
Our story goes on and on,
Ever we go on and on.
In darkness or in light,
We will rage on against this hateful plight.
Because there are things in the trees,
A voice in my head,
And either they're going to leave or I will.
.
And if tonight's the night they win,
And our battle comes to a weary and drawn out end,
Well,
At least the stars are out and shining,
Knowing there can't be any voices
If I have no longer have a head."
A deep silence filled their campsite, as the fellowship all soaked in the words. Legolas could still hear the echo of Avaleina's whispered voice in his heart. Absently, he brought up his hand up to tug at the ribbon she had braided into his hair before he left for the council.
"Thank you, Legolas," Frodo said after everybody else remained silent, "I know such things cannot be easy for you to repeat, but I appreciate the opportunity to understand you and your people better. It was beautiful."
"Dark and haunting," Gimli added, ignoring the death glare Aragorn began to give him, "But in the most lovely way I've ever heard."
