Disclaimer: I may be many things, but Professor Tolkien is not one of them. All his characters, settings and such belong to him alone – I am merely having fun and playing pretend.
Elves, Frodo thought, had to be the most peculiar characters to grace Arda with their presence. They were light, as if the earth itself couldn't hold them down: their leaps gracious, far more so than any other's would ever hope to be. Nimble fingers, swift feet, alert minds—they seemed to be made of spirit more than flesh. They wrapped themselves into an air of legend without even realising; and between the soft glow emitted by their skin, the emeralds, sapphires and obsidian of their eyes and the ethereal way they moved, spoke, breathed—it was as if he'd been suddenly confronted with how all creatures should be.
They carried a solemn, beautiful quality to them—something he couldn't quite place, though it left him struggling to find his words.
The least expected thing, he believed, was how utterly unaware they were of their own presence. As if they couldn't understand why he'd strive so desperately to see them, listen to them, talk to them. As if they hadn't been each carefully crafted, moulded and sculpted into graceful beings that shone in their own light, companions—not subjects—of nature.
He delighted in their character, in the precious lilt of their voice when they spoke Westron. He sought to make them smile with his stories, sparing no effort in the hope that one of his songs would elicit their clear, melodious laughter and one of their "Again, Master Baggins!"
Frodo found it endearing to no end that they carried such wisdom to them—and at the same time were the most child-like beings he'd ever encountered.
He had shared this thought with Sam and Bilbo alike, relieved as they both eagerly agreed with the sentiment.
"They seem- otherworldly," Samwise had sighed, dreamy-eyed. "They appear to be in between this and another reality, at all times treading the line between earth and elsewhere. 'Tis a most beautiful thing to witness."
Even Bilbo, busy as he was between his nephew and all his new elven friends, had found time to simply observe them, taking in the effortless way they carried out each of their duties. How, he wondered, can they make even the dullest of tasks inviting? As if the greatest desire of my heart was to draw water from the well, and no other activity could ever bring me the same amount of joy.
Frodo had begun to take note of each of them, their differences and similarities and how they complimented each other. Elrond—the healer and Lord of Imladris—carried weight in his eyes, that could only come from eras of knowledge. Elrohir and Elladan, his twin sons whom Frodo had only met sparingly at the beginning of his stay, bore the signs of age in the practised ease of their smiles. Even Arwen, their younger sister, had seen well over two millennia of events take place, her whole being seemingly moulded over the familiar curves and shapes of the earth.
"Careful be you, Master Frodo," Merry had jested, parroting the speech of elder hobbits. "Lest the elves steal your mind as well as your breath."
Oh, but even if it were so—what a joy to surrender his very soul to such peaceful beauty!
The heaviness that had seemed to take its place over his chest found relief in the clear skies and waters around him, the forest itself reaching out to bear part of his burden for him, and the elves carried his thoughts away from the dark corners of his being with as little as a touch, a song, a musical laugh.
It was around his third week, Frodo believed, that he found himself wandering across the palace; Pippin had mentioned a beautiful garth where he'd taken the most pleasant nap that morning, and he was determined to find it. With his pipe in one hand and a ripe apple in the other, he was making his way to the Eastern wing, searching for whatever opening his friend had been musing about.
One thing he had noticed early on in his stay was the easiness with which he navigated the elven realm. The halls were bright with sunlight by day and softly illuminated by suffused lanterns once night came to rest over Arda. Arras were hung on the walls, the thread airy even as it wove into patterns so complicated he had to take a step back to fully appreciate. Comfortable seats were to be found across the colonnade, and there were many homely rooms where one could hide away for some hours.
Frodo turned left, his eyes searching the walls until they found a private, almost hidden door. Opening it with care, he felt his heart leap in his chest as he took in the beautiful scenery that had appeared in front of him: a trickling fountain stood proudly at the centre of a verdant garden, enclosed in a cloister. Ivy ran up the walls, and golden dogwood leaves graced the ground, softening his steps. A feast of calendulas, spider lilies, pearly-white watercress and wild asters he could see peeking out from the grass. A pair of lazy swallows were preening under the streaming water, pluming their feathers with care.
He couldn't stop his staring, for all around him he could see details begging for him to stop and look, studying them with attention until he'd be able to picture them in his mind, even after a century passed.
So intent was he in his admiration that he didn't notice another presence, propped up on the sandstone bannister, grace seeping even from his carelessly bent knee, his outstretched leg, the jutting elbow and thrown back head. A cascade of golden hair fell elegantly down his cheeks, covering his neck and reaching his waist, silken braids meeting at his nape, interwoven into the complex patterns that elves favoured for their braids, with meanings so widely spread among them that they never considered he might not be able to read into the tied strands of hair.
The elf's eyes were closed, the sun shining over his face, and even amidst the stupor that held Frodo tight in its clutches at the sight of such features— for this could very well be the fairest face he'd seen in his entire life—Frodo couldn't keep himself from thinking that he looked just like a cat sunbathing on a windowsill, all stretched limbs and lazy smiles.
He let out a soft exclamation, and the elf opened his eyes.
"Beware of elven eyes!" Old women used to sing when he was a child. "For they will have you drown in them, and beg to not be saved from the tide."
He had never understood the saying until he'd set foot in Rivendell and had found himself face to face with countless Firstborns. Their eyes truly were like the legends he'd heard of—deep and beautiful and ancient, holding a joy that pulled at his heartstrings even as it lifted his spirits.
The elf seemed to have trapped the clearest October skies in a bottle, to mix with mountain springs and fields of periwinkle to create the hue of his eyes, a storm raging just behind them. Frodo knew not to underestimate the hidden power of these creatures and yet found himself at a loss for words as he stared and stared and stared.
"Mae govannen, periannath!" The elf chirped, before he launched into a long, complex sentence that left Frodo confused, his head tilted to the right. He must have painted quite the picture, for the elf let out a peal of cheerful laughter, before repeating himself in a heavily lilted Westron.
"Well met, hobbit," he said, his rather pronounced accent too endearing for Frodo to hide his smile. "I have heard many tales of your heroic deeds, and I have been eager to greet you myself. I apologise for not seeking you out earlier, but I've only reached Imladris this morning."
With an effortless movement, he hopped down from his seat on the bannister and stood in front of him, bringing a hand to his forehead and then moving it away towards the hobbit with a flourish.
"My name is Legolas, I come from the Woodland Realm. It is a pleasure to meet you, Frodo Baggins."
Frodo dared not repeat his gesture for fear of making mistakes, but instead, he bowed his head slightly before offering him a smile of his own.
"The pleasure's mine, Legolas. I didn't mean to startle you, I was only looking for this place—I think, at least."
"Don't you worry, I heard you come in but I assumed you were Master Peregrin instead. He spent the morning here as well, and promised he'd be back with something." He frowned as he recalled their conversation.
"Alas, I'm afraid I didn't quite understand what he was talking about—his words flow out swifter than water from creeks after a downpour—but I think it had to do with gardening, for he mentioned a weed of some type."
Frodo nodded, suspecting what his friend could have been hinting at, and eagerly showed Legolas his pipe.
"I think he meant this, he enjoys smoking after lunch."
Legolas turned his nose at the sight, and let out a short chuckle.
"Ai, between hobbits, humans and Mithrandir himself I fear I will not be able to take a step outside of my room without finding walls of smoke in my path wherever I go."
"Do elves not smoke?" Frodo asked, curiosity seeping through his tone. In truth, he had not seen hide nor hair of pipes in Rivendell, other than Strider's and Gandalf's own. Legolas rolled his eyes playfully.
"And fill our lungs with that foul smell?" He looked so comically disgusted at the mere idea that the hobbit burst out laughing. "I'll pass. Master Peregrin shall have to smoke without me, I fear."
"So you know him?"
Legolas nodded, and sat back down with his back against a column, gesturing for Frodo to do the same.
"Aye," he replied. "I have met him this morning, in this very court. I was looking for someplace to rest, and he'd found my hiding spot. He's the one who told me all of your adventures. You have indeed been very brave, periannath. We should all strive to learn from you."
Frodo felt blood rushing to his cheeks at the elf's words, unable to believe that the compliment was truly meant for him.
"'Twas nothing-" He tried to say, but Legolas cut him off.
"Baw, don't say so! You have gone through great perils to reach Rivendell—though I do not know why precisely—and your name shall be sung by our best minstrels. It has been no easy feat, and it is good that we elves are reminded of what courage can look like."
"Your words are very kind, Legolas, and I thank you." A shadow crossed Frodo's face, and his smile wavered. "But I fear I'm not the hero you have heard about. I am not brave- in fact, I wouldn't have made it past Bree—nay, past the Shire—if it had not been for my friends."
The elf moved swiftly to place a hand on top of Frodo's forearm, the touch gentle though grounding.
"Master Baggins, allow me to share this thought with you. It is rare for the brave to act alone—for courage comes not from running into trouble with no cares for the rest of the world, but rather from allowing yourself to be vulnerable with those you trust and draw strength from their words and presence. You need others to spur you on even when all hope seems lost, and there lies true power."
Frodo took a moment to reply, grateful for once that the elves, having all of eternity at their disposal, did not mind long pauses during conversations, preferring to think over their words with care.
He stared at the scrap of sky that he could see from his seat, relishing the way the crisp air had been long warmed by the sun, and he drew a deep breath.
"You're very wise, Master Elf," he said. "And I agree with you—no hero has ever been alone. And yet-"
"And yet it's never easy to admit our weaknesses, even when they allow our strength to shine. I understand."
There was nothing but utter comprehension in the elf's tone, and for the briefest second Frodo entertained the idea of prolonging his sojourn in the elven realm, if only to spend more time conversing with Legolas. It was rare—nay, unique—to hear his own thoughts voiced back at him with no judgement, no accusation. His words betray his age, he thought.
They sat in silence, merely enjoying the calm while they could. Frodo had noticed that however fair, the elf was clearly fresh from a long journey. The travelling clothes he donned were soiled and covered in dust and dirt from the roads, and his face was visibly tired as if sleep had evaded him for more than one night.
Perhaps, he reckoned, that is why he came here and didn't go to his room to rest. Maybe he simply can't sleep, not even between the walls of Elrond's house.
He dared not ask, but somehow the idea gave him comfort, for his own nightmares had been keeping him from a full night of rest. To know that even in the darkest hours another soul could be awake…
Yes, Frodo reasoned. That does feel reassuring.
A loud noise startled them both, and within a mere second, the door was thrown open, letting a small figure tumble into the previously still and tranquil cloister. With an indignant chirping, the swifts took their leave, fluttering their wings until they disappeared into the sky.
"Pippin, you earthquake of a Hobbit- you better hope I don't get my hands on you!"
Gandalf's powerful voice bellowed from the corridor, announcing his entrance. Frodo and Legolas exchanged a look before their attention went back to the halfling and the wizard.
Pippin gave a shriek, throwing the pouch he'd been holding in his hands into Frodo's lap just as a grey-clothed figure walked inside. Had he been a dragon, Gandalf would have been breathing fire by now, smoke coming out of his thinned nostrils.
Thankfully he wasn't one, so he settled for a rather impressive scowl instead.
"Peregrin Took!" He roared.
He stopped in his tracks as he noticed both Legolas and Frodo's presence in the small garden; his anger seemed to recede like a heaving, fuming stallion. He held out his arms, and his tone sweetened.
"Frodo, there you are! And I see you've met Greenleaf, I'm glad." A charged look was exchanged between the elf and the wizard. Gandalf moved to grasp his hands into his own and stared at him with barely-veiled concern over his weary appearance.
"How are you faring, penneth?" He asked. "It has been far too long."
Legolas smiled and shrugged, the gesture putting everyone at ease now that the wizard had been distracted from his murderous intentions. Frodo stared at the sack he'd found himself holding.
"I am quite alright, Mithrandir. Tired from the long ride, but nothing a good bath and some rest won't fix. We haven't stopped once from Mirkwood to Rivendell, and I know the horses are more fatigued than I."
Gandalf seemed worried at this, a single eyebrow rising as if to say It is grave news, then?
Legolas didn't reply to that and tightened his hold on his hands. "How about you, though? I have heard you've been through a most unpleasant ordeal."
"Ai, Legolas, you take me for a fool if you think you can deflect my attention so easily. But so be it, for our tales will be shared elsewhere-" Frodo needed no time to understand that he was referring to the secret council Elrond had forbidden him to discuss with his friends.
Gandalf cleared his throat, eager to change the subject before Pippin started asking questions.
"I remember not too long ago when you were an elfling smaller than these two- you'd end up in trouble and come ask me for a story, knowing that I'd be too distracted to scold you."
Legolas grinned at that, and the air relaxed once more. Pippin and Frodo looked at the exchange with great interest, for they could hardly imagine Legolas as a child—and were stunned at the idea of how old the wizard must surely be.
"It was hardly my fault if your anger vanished faster than clouds after a summer storm." The cheeky reply was met with a thunderous laugh and a concessive nod.
"I daresay me and your foolish father have been far too permissive with you—we have spoiled you rotten, young prince, as have all elves, in Mirkwood and Rivendell both."
Pippin's head moved so fast that it must have hurt his neck, but he gave no signs of pain as he goggled helplessly at the elf.
"Legolas, you're a prince? You didn't tell me that!" He cried out in surprise, the newfound knowledge wreaking havoc in his mind. Oh, he certainly hadn't shown him the respect an elven prince must have been used to- what if he'd offended him? He hoped he wouldn't have him put in the stocks if elves even had those.
Legolas shook his head reassuringly and knelt down in front of him.
"Aye, that I am. But fear not, my friend, for I care very little about etiquette. We are Wood Elves, and however we choose to rule our people, we know that no one holds more importance or deserves more respect than another. Titles are simply that—words. I am still just Legolas."
That seemed to help the hobbit relax, and with a swift move, he grabbed the small pouch from Frodo's hands before handing it to the elf. This was, after all, what he'd gotten in all that trouble for.
"See, this is what I was telling you about. Pipeweed, the finest you can find—straight from Gandalf's own reserve."
Even as the wizard fumed at the sight of his supply being so carelessly stolen, Pippin held out his pipe invitingly, while Legolas tried to hide his panic. Frodo took pity on his new friend, reading the conflict behind his eyes. He clearly didn't want that dreadful smoke, but he feared his refusal would sadden Pippin.
"Elves don't smoke," he said gently. "The smell doesn't agree with them. But I-" And here he flashed a grin of the likes he'd thought he had left in the Shire. "-would certainly don't mind, if Gandalf agrees."
The wizard threw his hands in the air, admitting defeat. "Cheated by two hobbits, who would have thought."
Legolas laughed, patting his back. "There, there, don't despair. I'm sure Estel has some of that ghastly stuff in his quarters, and he'll gladly share it."
Then, under his breath: "Or I'll share it for him."
The halflings had begun to ready their pipes, chattering about something or the other. Minding his voice's volume, Gandalf leant closer to the elf and began speaking in Sindarin.
"What ails you, penneth?" He asked eagerly. "I can see you have not rested, your hair is unkempt and your eyes are tired. Have you been injured? Is Thranduil alright? Or has something dreadful happened?"
The elf laughed at the sudden burst of questions, but his expression swiftly sobered. "I wish I could lie to you, but I fear you know me too well for that. Aye, I have been unwell after a skirmish with spiders, but I have mostly recovered, otherwise I wouldn't have been allowed to come." He chuckled. "And even then, ada allowed me to come with great reluctance, and only on good faith that I'll avoid trouble as much as I can."
He took a long breath, staring at the sky above him before continuing. "It is hard, Mithrandir, fighting relentlessly against an evil that does not sleep, does not fade. Ada is weary, and I fear we will soon have to abandon some of the northern territories, at least until winter passes. It takes too many lives to secure them, and too many are the attacks. The eastern pass is also blocked after a landslide—nothing to do with orcs and spiders, but we'll have to wait till spring to clear the path. And on top of that-" He sighed deeply, willing his voice not to falter as he delivered what he knew would be terrible news, even if he wasn't sure why.
"Sméagol has escaped. It was a planned raid, two bands of orcs had been sent our way to keep the warriors busy while another squadron ambushed the creature's guards. He was taken, and all the elves with him were slain."
Gandalf exhaled, looking much older all at once. It was gone in a moment, but Legolas could see that he, too, was fatigued.
"I feared as much. I am glad you've recovered, penneth, and I know that your stubborn father would have tied you to your bed otherwise. But if he does forsake the northern borders, and indeed the eastern pass is blocked-"
He lighted his own pipe, much to his companion's disgust, and took a drag before letting out the smoke in neat rings.
"As for Gollum, I am stricken by the news of your slain kin—the Valar knows how precious each one of your lives is, and I cry for your fallen." He rested a hand on the elf's shoulder.
"But I hope this shall ease your grief, young one. For I believe that Gollum's escape could soon play an important part in the destiny of Middle Earth, and all those who live in it. I know nothing for sure, but there is going to be a role for each one of us, and Go- Sméagol shall have one as well."
Legolas nodded sombrely, and Frodo—who had been trying to understand at least part of their discussion, through muttered tones and fluent, quick elvish—noticed that his friend spoke much faster in his native tongue than he did Westron.
Perhaps it wasn't fair of him to say so, as he himself only spoke a clipped, basic form of Sindarin while the elf could surely hold his own in diplomatic discussions or war councils in the Common Tongue. And yet Frodo couldn't help but admire how the lilt that made his Westron so peculiar perfectly complimented the musical tones of elvish.
"-and as I was trying to say, those were not my cabbages, surely, but neither were they yours, Master Proudfoot! And so-"
Pippin's chatter distracted him soon enough from his musings, though he kept glancing at Legolas and Gandalf. They seemed to be discussing something important—and part of him wanted to know.
The other part though was very content with his smoke and his friend and left matters be for the moment. There would be time for gravity later.
As if on cue, the door opened once again, this time followed by Lord Elrond's sure pace and Strider's own. Both the elf and the Ranger seemed surprised by the crowd, but as they saw Legolas their expressions morphed into wide smiles.
"Legolas, mellon-nîn," Strider breathed, closing the distance in two long steps and hugging the elf close to his chest. Immediately, his hands followed, and the two were embracing tightly.
"Ai, I've missed you, Estel," Legolas said without breaking contact. He allowed a long moment to pass as they silently enjoyed the closeness. "But I certainly haven't missed your bathing habits—or lack thereof."
With a cheeky smile, he avoided the playful smack that was coming his way and moved to greet Elrond as well. He bowed his head and made the same gesture as when he'd met Frodo, only this time they were followed by a hug as well.
"It has been too long, penneth," The Elvenlord said. He held his shoulders in his hands, giving him a once-over to check him for injury. "And I've heard about the spiders. How does your father fare?"
"He threatened to never let me out of his sight again and swore it was going to be the last time I went on patrol." His smile grew, and affection was plain in the way he spoke of his father. "Then he broke down crying and hugged me, and he was angry no more."
Elrond rolled his eyes, a small grin on his face. "Thranduil's legendary wrath, and somehow you always manage to evade it."
"Not evade it, my Lord, he has simply learnt to manipulate everyone into letting him do whatever he pleases." Gandalf chided, not a hint of malice in his words. "In Mirkwood, everyone is a slave to the prince's pout and teary eyes, and we have long lost the king to this fight."
Strider laughed. "Ah, adar, I think Imladris has lost as well, for I have yet to meet one of your elves that wouldn't walk over fire if only Legolas asked them to."
This time the smack came from the elf, and the Ranger was not quick enough to avoid it. He soon replied with a jab of his own, with such ease that Frodo didn't have a hard time believing this was a frequent—if not daily—matter for the two of them. They approached the other with an effortlessness that came from years of friendship and companionship, and even Elrond seemed used to it.
The words that left the elf's mouth next were not ones he was familiar with, but he believed he understood 'Orc' and 'kiss'. That would have certainly explained the gasp Strider let out before replying with another hushed elven curse.
"I give up," the Elvenlord cried. "Two grown adults and you insist on behaving like little elflings. Not even Elladan and Elrohir had me age so fast."
"Not quite grown adults, though, isn't it Legolas?" Strider laughed, the sound followed by an indignant snarl and the elf's revenge—which left the Ranger's side smarting from the not so light elbow.
"Both of you, quit it this instant," Gandalf finally said. "I am far too old to endure another century of your scuffles, so either take it outside or act your age and let a poor wizard smoke in peace."
Legolas tried to defend himself but ceased his efforts as he received two pointed looks.
"Greenleaf, do not try to charm your way out of this one. Now, sit."
Pippin broke his silence and pulled on the wizard's sleeve to call for him.
"Gandalf, why do you call Legolas 'Greenleaf'?"
Elrond replied in his stead. "It is the translation of his name in your Common Tongue, for in Sindarin Legolas means indeed, 'green leaf'. His parents picked the name as the young prince decided to join our world in the night between the last day of winter and the first day of spring, the first 'leaf' to a new season."
The lengthy explanation seemed to have pleased the hobbit, who nodded as if to agree that indeed, it sounded very reasonable.
Any further question was interrupted when a black-haired elf knocked on the half-ajar door before letting himself in and turning towards Elrond.
"My Lord, forgive my interruption but the representative from Gondor has arrived and is asking for audience. With them, we have also received-" A deep sigh, and a grimace as if he were swallowing a particularly sour lemon. "The dwarves, my Lord."
If Elrond scowled, he hid it well. "Very well, have rooms arranged for them and some food for they are surely weary from the journey. Then tell them we will hold the meeting tomorrow, for it is far too late to begin such discussions now."
The elf nodded and left. His tone had been deferential, but he had shown no sign of bowing or in other ways submitting to the lord, and Frodo recalled Legolas' words: 'however we choose to rule our people, we know that no one holds more importance or deserves more respect than another.'
Perhaps the elves truly gave those titles no more thought than they would other words, he thought. Maybe a king was merely one entrusted with the care of the realm and yet aided by all others in his mission.
Frodo reckoned it was an interesting approach to the matter and made a mental note of asking Legolas once the occasion came. He had the impression that the elf would not shy away from his questions, and would answer truthfully, with no judgement.
Elrond clapped his hands, calling their attention to the purple-clad Elvenlord who now stood by the door.
"Well, I daresay we are all in need of some refreshing. If you will, tonight we shall all dine together, and then try to rest for tomorrow promises to be an eventful day."
Legolas excused himself first, eager to bathe and change out of his dusty clothes, and Strider—whom the elf also called Estel—promptly followed him. Gandalf escorted the hobbits back to their rooms, and they agreed on meeting in an hour time before joining Elrond for dinner.
Frodo took off his shirt, mindful of the bandages, and made quick work of freshening up. He wondered where Sam could be if perhaps he'd spent all day with Merry and the twins.
He allowed himself a small, private smile at the thought of his friend. He didn't know what he'd do if he didn't have him by his side, and he doubted he would have ever reached the elven realm without his help. This time the thought wasn't followed by shame or embarrassment, but only gratitude filled his mind.
Truly, if he had such a trustworthy hobbit with him, he would have been able to endure anything.
Changing back into a clean shirt and a dark green waistcoat, he gave himself a look in the mirror. His hair was slightly longer now, curling around his neck, and even after three weeks of elvish delicacies, his cheeks hadn't regained the fullness and colour of the Shire.
All in good time, Baggins. He told himself. All in good time.
