.

Perhaps a Witch

"Is this completely necessary, Aragorn?" Legolas asked, adjusting the sleeves of his silkspun tunic and then running hands down his shirt to tug at his belt as they rounded the corner of the long, wide hall edging the Citadel.

He danced busy fingers over the leather knot before glancing intensely at Aragorn, who only huffed a laugh.

"Legolas, if you are to be assisting here for the next year, the workers of the city and the lords of this place—"

Legolas had opened his mouth to interrupt but Aragorn held up a hand to silence him.

"—Prince Imrahil and the Steward do not count, my friend."

He shut his mouth immediately and tucked a hand into the pocket of his trousers as Aragorn continued.

"They need to know you, not just recognize you. You are effervescent among friends, but silent in unfamiliar company; you are intelligent and strong of spirit to those with whom you work, yet strange and foreign to anyone else."

Legolas laughed underbreath and paused as they neared the exit into the courtyard, where several of Aragorn's lords were gathered in heavily embroidered cloaks beneath a vineless arbour at the far side of the square.

"I am only an elf, not an incomprehensible alien from another continent. I do not, I think, understand the issue…"

Aragorn sighed and leaned slightly against the pillar beside which they lingered.

"Come, Legolas! You are the son of a king of an allied land—"

"The youngest son of a king who was sent to service in the Woods to remove him from Court before he even achieved first rank!" Legolas countered with raised brows and a muffled laugh.

"Ah, but you have speared the crux of the matter, my friend," Aragorn said firmly. "The Woods. You are a wood-elf, and they are unused to you, which makes you alien to them."

Legolas blinked. "They did not care I was a wood-elf when I brought them green things last year."

Aragorn said nothing and Legolas watched him in silence for a moment; Aragorn let him observe and did not move.

"Have you initiated Gimli thusly?" Legolas finally asked. "Why is he not here?"

Aragorn sighed and patted him on the shoulder. "I have, last year. I could not pull you from your work at the stables, if you will remember."

"Ah," Legolas murmured. "Yes…"

Aragorn straightened up and tugged at his arm, inclining his head toward the lords across the green criss-crossed with stone paths that stretched out before them.

They began to walk and Aragorn cast a last critical glance over Legolas from the side as they strode.

"Legolas, there are leaves in your hair," he hissed underbreath.

A long hand fluttered to loose braids and patted about before untangling a length of winter-grey vine and tossing it to the grass, where it was caught by the wind and swept away.

"We have been living in kaw-in-taur this past year," the elf explained hurriedly, drawing a shape in the air with his hand as he continued. "How do you call them? Open sides, roofs layered with green—"

Aragorn blinked. "Huts?"

Legolas hmmed while casting him a look of mild reprobation. "No, not that, but… Anyway, I did not think to check—" The elf's energy spiked with ill-controlled anxiety as he patted at his hair again while glancing at the Gondorian lords; it swirled between them like a leaf caught in an eddy. "The wind has been high, and we are not bothered by the— By the— Ai!" he finally spat in frustration. "Srab— I am lost in my mind, Aragorn! I have been too long away from this place." But before he could continue, Aragorn cut in:

"Peace, Legolas," he said firmly, and he grabbed his friend at the arm to turn him away from the lords, forcing him to focus on only him. "You are nervous, and so your Westron suffers—that is all. But you may relax, for you look the princely part—"

"And how different he looks here than home," the elf muttered, though he allowed a small smile when Aragorn shook him slightly.

"Take comfort, Legolas," he reassured, "for I am with you. Folk find you charming somehow, and I have no concern they will like you."

Legolas immediately brightened. "Take comfort!" he laughed and pulled Aragorn back around so they could cross the green, and he was smoothing his shirt and tucking hair behind an ear as if he had never been assailed by such overwhelming, quicksilver doubt. "Little comfort have you ever given, Aragorn, dragging us over hill and dale, through black caves and open plains—"

"You chose to follow me!" Aragorn said, laughing.

But then, just a few dozen yards from the arbour, he froze for—ahead of them and to the left—a seabird had settled on an outcropping of the high wall, and Legolas' gaze drifted, his feet slowed, and he was gone.

Aragorn's heart burned with guilt, and he dropped a hand to his friend's shoulder and squeezed and—when a moment more passed—tugged. The elf stood for a half second more, utterly still, before blinking and shaking his head; he turned grey eyes to Aragorn, once more focused and sharp, and smiled sadly.

"Aye, I did," Legolas reassured softly. "I chose to follow you, and the consequences of that are mine to bear." Aragorn dropped his hand and looked away, and Legolas began to walk again, calling firmly over his shoulder: "I will endure, Aragorn."

By the time Legolas had finished speaking, he was several yards away and in front of him. Aragorn lengthened his strides to catch up, and he watched from behind as the elf lifted a hand into the air: a sparrow leapt from its roost among the dilapidated arbour's eaves and flew toward his friend, where it lit briefly upon his outstretched hand before continuing to the wall where that twice-damned seabird perched.

Aragorn cut his eyes to the side when he heard an understated squawk: the gull stirred in a flurry of feathers to wing itself away, and the sparrow landed lightly—harmless—in its place.

By the time Aragorn was drawn away from the bizarre occurrence, Legolas was well into conversation with the lords, greeting them each in the manner of the Mannish lands of Gondor, accented voice smooth and warm, and he was smiling broadly as he pulled out tokens of goodwill from his pockets, passed them about to each of the gathered nobility… He lowered himself to the ground cross-legged before them, and tilted his head up as the conversation flowed.

Only half a minute had passed since Legolas had hurried ahead, but by the time Aragorn arrived at his side—by the time all the lords had bowed to him as their king—and then resumed their chatter with the elf knelt on the ground at the center of their attention…

Well, they were charmed.

Legolas' fingers absentmindedly brushed the winter-dry grass underhand as he nodded and smiled and offered a response here and there, and Aragorn leaned against the column behind him, quietly observing him work his own quiet magic.

And then—even when one of the lord's inquired directly about how Legolas intended to restore and improve the city, and the wood-elf's fingers caught unintentionally hard at a sliver of unkempt moss in his excitement to answer; even as the austere and still war-shaken lords—who had endured years of unsurety and distrust—looked on as Legolas swallowed a gasp and cradled the torn moss in beseeching palms; even as he pressed it gently back into the crevice from which it had been unintentionally torn—

(The elf had slipped into some dialect for prayer and Aragorn crouched at his side.)

Even as—in that dark midwinter—sprigs of early spring shoots sprang from the dried moss as the wood-elf patted it gingerly into place, as Aragorn dropped a heavy hand on his knee to capture his attention, as Legolas looked up with wide-eyed apology written across his face, for he had unintentionally done that one thing so natural to him that might yet startle these lords' into outright rejection of elven help—

The arbour was silent but for the twitter of the sparrow and its mate across the way until, finally, there was a bark of laughter from the oldest lord seated on a bench at Legolas' knee…

Well—somehow—even then they were charmed.

"I think you have gotten your answer on how he intends to restore this place," the old man offered gruffly, and his rheumy eyes brightened with curiosity as he clapped the lord who had had originally inquired on the thigh.

There was another ripple of laughter amongst the small group.

Legolas cleared his throat and glanced at Aragorn; he wet his lips and offered: "It is not magic, my lords. Even we folk of the Wood do not have—"

"No one has accused you of witchcraft!" one of the men exclaimed with kindness.

Legolas tilted his head to the side, trying to work out how to explain so ancient a thing to so young a folk. He ran a finger over the searching spores and they curled back down, retreating into winter rest.

"It is—" he tried stiltedly. "The Silvan folk, we—"

"Bah!" the older lord said. "We do not care." And he waved a hand dismissively. "It is enough that you are here. The Elvenking's folk have not fared well in the annals of history, perhaps, but brave and fierce they say they are and—above all—good. And a wood-elf is the last person I would worry about this influencing of plants… In humans, yes, perhaps a witch, but you? No."

Aragorn watched these lords he was still learning silently conspire amongst themselves; watched Legolas silently take it in; and he felt the building rush of winter wind suddenly diminish, burst like a cloud over the plains, emptying itself into the ground before burning away in summer sun.

Eventually, the talk began again—from whisper to murmur to raucously enthusiastic chatter—and the sun dropped in the sky as the time for the evening meal crept close. When the bell on the fourth level rang loud to announce the close of markets, the men rose and tugged Legolas to his feet; they shook his hand and clasped his arms, and they promised him any manner of gold and manpower he might need to give Minas Tirith second life, to bring it back strong and bursting with green. The youngest lord invited Legolas to his manor for tea the next day—to which the elf dumbly nodded his agreement—and then they were all drifting away to wife and home, to children and table, and Legolas and Aragorn were left standing close under the rotting boughs of the arbour, staring across the green.

"Well," Aragorn finally said, and he threw an arm about Legolas' shoulders.

"Huh," Legolas muttered in return, and he cocked his hip and crossed his arms over his chest in confused consternation.

They stood that way for half a minute until all the lords had disappeared from the square, and then they glanced at one another before being overtaken: Aragorn threw his head back in laughter while Legolas doubled over and clapped his hands on his knees, chuckling breathlessly as his anxiety finally released.

After a moment he looked up at Aragorn and huffed a long sigh. "I thought for a moment there to be accused of wild treachery."

Aragorn rolled his eyes and hauled him to his feet, patting him on the back as he shoved him back toward the royal quarters, for he had written ahead to Gimli and they were expecting Imrahil and Faramir to join them for supper, as well.

"These people will surprise you, my friend," Aragorn murmured fondly.

"Ha!" Legolas cried. "Indeed."

And then he was walking away, lifting a hand into the air again and twirling it, lifting the other to meet it and then opening them wide, spinning round with arms outstretched to face Aragorn.

"I think your future will be bright here, Aragorn." He jerked his head toward the far arch from which they had originally emerged hours before. "A strong people, and brave—unyielding. They shall spring, I think, eternal. Like Spring herself."

Aragorn shook his head with amusement and hurried to close the space between them as Legolas raised his hands again and let the air weave between long fingers.

"Arwen has been eager for spring, as well," Aragorn murmured, and he shoved his friend along, and Legolas danced ahead, laughing. "But none are as twitchy about it as you."

There was a stirring of wind past his ear as he said it, and Aragorn glanced up just in time to see a group of sparrows flocking by low overhead, returning to the arbour that one had earlier abandoned at Legolas' apparent behest.

When he turned back around, the wood-elf was stood in front of him, feet firmly planted and one hand on his hip, the other extended flat before him, and on it that selfsame sparrow now contentedly sat.

Aragorn shook his head. "Come—dinner. Before you ruin your finery with the excrement of your fine friend."

"I do not know him, Aragorn." And he paused to fling his hand into the air so the sparrow winged away. "For one so fond of elves as you, you are sometimes uneducated on—"

"Legolas," Aragorn interrupted.

"Yes?"

"If you would kindly make the choice to save your words and follow me to supper, I would be most appreciative."

Legolas burst into laughter and clapped Aragorn on the shoulder.

"Aye, yes," he finally managed, and he began to walk, dragging Aragorn behind him. "That is a choice I will happily make. Is Imrahil expected?"

Aragorn nodded as they entered the long hall.

"Faramir?" Legolas continued.

"Aye."

"And your wife, of course, I expect."

Aragorn nodded as they rounded the corner back into the house proper.

"I have been meaning to ask her about the ferns in her greenhouse—"

Aragorn had quit listening—for Legolas was certainly not saving his words, after all—but the next thing he knew, his wife had latched onto Legolas' arm and dragged him away, and Aragorn was left behind staring, as the chatter of Silvan-smattered Sindarin filled the hall around him, diminishing to nothing as the two disappeared behind a curtain to take whatever secret counsel they took whenever in the same place for more than a moment.

Aragorn shook his head, cocked his own hip, and crossed his arms over his chest before heaving a sigh. He turned at the heavy sound of iron-shod boots behind him, and smiled to see Gimli appear.

"We shall not see them until dinner and only then if we are lucky," Gimli muttered gruffly. "How went the meeting with your lords?"

"Fine, he was…" But Aragorn trailed off, and Gimli laughed appreciatively.

"Effervescent? Kindly? Enchanting? Left them forgetting they had ever thought of the Woodland folk as anything but a boon?"

Aragorn shook his head and sighed. "He was absolutely charming," Aragorn agreed perplexedly.

Gimli shook his head and they began their walk to the dining hall without their elven counterparts, where they finally sat down heavily at the table. Gimli pulled a large flagon of ale toward them.

"You could use a drink, then?"

"I could," Aragorn agreed, and he stared at the dwarf thoughtfully as he sipped. "This will be a long year, will it not?"

Gimli shrugged and glanced toward the door, through which Faramir and Imrahil were entering, engaged in familial conversation. Half a moment later Legolas and Arwen slipped in, and they still rapidly conferred in that shared dialect underbreath: Arwen sported a new set of tight braids at the crown of her head, while upon Legolas' own was a circlet of ivy and fern. There was a strange energy about them that had everyone momentarily staring and silent, though the elves took no note of it, and both burst into light but untimely laughter as their friends looked on.

"One becomes somewhat accustomed to him," Gimli muttered, and he ducked as the wood-elf passed for a bottle of wine, for he had attempted to drop a few leaves upon the dwarf's own head as he slipped by.

Legolas returned to his seat, poured himself and Arwen generous glasses of wine, and then leaned back with legs crossed, his intensely elven gaze fixed upon his friends.

"One becomes accustomed to what, you say?" he asked innocently.

Imrahil raised an eyebrow from beside Faramir, and Aragorn shook his head as his wife dissolved into a fit of laughter between them.

"Just the southern air, Master Elf," Gimli finally answered. "Only this strange South, that is all."

The wood-elf's eyes were sparkling and Aragorn heaved a sigh, making eye contact with Faramir as if to say I have told you he is your problem, but Faramir only held up his hands and wordlessly took the ale offered by Gimli.

"Ah yes," Legolas agreed flatly, and he took a sip of his wine and winked at Aragorn. "The Spring comes earlier here, indeed."

And then several servants came in with the food and Arwen and Legolas were engaged again in private conversation, heads nearly pressed together as they whispered. Aragorn turned pointedly toward Gimli as his employees scattered after serving, and he shook his head tiredly.

"Strange folk…" Gimli murmured, and Aragorn snorted and looked up in time to catch Legolas' teasing eye, for he had glanced away from Arwen for half a moment, before turning back to her intently, spearing a slice of yam from her plate for he had—somehow—already finished his own.

"And our brothers arrive next month," Aragorn said to Gimli between bites of quail, "and they are as not Silvan as it is possible to be… I cannot predict how this will end."

At that moment, Legolas disentangled himself from his secret conversation to appreciatively add:

"I find the lords Elladan and Elrohir absolutely intriguing."

And then he had returned to Arwen, and they chattered for another half a minute before she turned away from him to meet her husband's eye meaningfully.

"He insists he looks forward to spending time with our brothers," she offered simply. "And he asks me to tell him more of them before they arrive."

Legolas was fully engaged now in a conversation with Imrahil, replenishing the prince's and Faramir's drinks as he attentively listened to Imrahil speak of the history of Dol Amroth, not even half an ear cast to the conversation he had just abandoned.

"Ah," Gimli said shortly. "Perhaps, then, yes… A long year indeed."

Dear Faramir and Eowyn,

It has been a long year in this city. I know I saw you both just a few moons ago, but I have been so occupied I missed you on each of your trips since, and I can only offer more apologies. News comes that Lothiriel intends to visit soon. Perhaps I shall see you then? The Prince Imrahil wrote recently and spoke of his desire to visit, Faramir; and Arwen is in need of a companion, Eowyn, for she speaks often of you, and being surrounding only by her siblings, her husband, and Gimli and myself is—apparently—often quite galling. (I am useful enough for some things, I have been told—convenient one's for her, too, I think, and less so for me—but utterly useless, I have also been told, at others.)

Things are progressing here, as far as green things go. The place is keeping me busy as spring peaks once more. I will need another year here, I think, to convince all this to stay in order and peaceably grow. But a wood-elf cannot live in stone for so long, so I shall come to you whether you had planned to visit me here or not! Some time working in your gardens will do me good. Gimli can be freed of the stress of living so near my mess for a time, while I will be freed of his chatter about "good stone" and the "strong bones" that run through the mountain. Ha! It shall be beneficial for all. And, Faramir, perhaps you and Mablung can detail your ideas for a vineyard. I do not know grapes so well—as one from so far north—but I have spent some time this year reading and studying and spending time with grapes that are not wild, and I think there is a way forward for it.

A quick note this was meant to be! And yet I go on and on. Alas for you, you are bound to me, I think! Neighbors for all our time here, until my folk away, at least…

Mind the beginning, for that is the meat of this—the rest is only me, missing your company and hoping this finds you well.

With love,

Legolas