Chapter Four: Black and Gold

Aragorn was true to his word, rousing the Fellowship as soon as dawn began to pale the eastern sky through the weighty cloud. As Aragorn had suspected it would, the heavens had emptied onto them, making their bed of stone an even more uncomfortable way to spend a night. The downpour had come in fits and bursts, teasing them by easing off only to drench them further. It drizzled now, a miserable wet that peppered everything in tiny beads of moisture ... though it did entertain him that it made Gimli's already frizzled mop all the more alive, a fact that clearly irritated the dwarf by his expression as he warred to control it. Aragorn could not quite bite back the amused snort enticed by Boromir's observation of his not being aware of dwarves being a prissy folk.

"I am a dwarf of warrior standing, not some elvish princeling!" Gimli all but snarled, his deep baritone containing about as much good humour as a troll being poked in the eye with a large stick.

"No indeed," Aragorn returned before he could stop himself, by no means fazed by Gimli's foul mood. "Elvish princelings are born comely. Don't feel so pressured to compete with them in something you cannot win, my friend!"

Gimli cursed the two men's laughter rather avidly in his own tongue. The individual meanings were not lost on either of them, both whom had seen fit as children to deviate from the chosen path of their studies to do some extracurricular learning of other languages.

The grey light was uninspiring to the hobbits, whose idea of waking in the morning always involved rising when they were good and ready, swiftly followed by a hearty breakfast. It inevitably also involved a comfortable bed and being completely dry and warm, mind. Even after all the months they had spent away from the Shire, they still found adjusting to this lifestyle difficult. Pippin managed to somehow heave a world-weary sigh crossed with a yawn. "I think I've only been asleep ten minutes."

"Trust me," Merry rejoined groggily, rubbing his hair vigorously to shake some of the water from it, "from the snoring you did last night, you were asleep longer than ten minutes."

Pippin looked a little affronted at the accusation, and tried to defend himself with: "But I don't snore!"

A chorus of voices came back to him with a: "Yes, you do," much to the hobbit's perplexity.

"Very loudly," Aragorn added as he poked at the feeble fire he tried to set going.

"Louder than Gimli," Boromir jibbed, to which the dwarf gave a bad tempered huff, extracting his pipe and stuffing it mercilessly with weed. Gimli was always in a less than favourable mood early in the mornings, being possibly even less fond of them than the hobbits were, and his ill temper was particularly riled today following Aragorn and Boromir's teasing. "Well I'm sorry," he all but growled, "but I'll have you know that I suffer from a condition."

"Oh, come now, Gimli: you should stop calling your being a dwarf a condition. We understand perfectly well it is not something you can help. There's no need to apologise."

Legolas was back. Having been on watch duty for the entire night after electing to not wake Gimli to replace him, he was considerably wetter than the others. Unlike everyone else, he didn't seem to care, removing his quiver to shed the waterlogged cloak of his kin and toss it into his and Gimli's boat, not at all bothered by the cold wind like the mortals surrounding him were – which annoyed Gimli all the further.

Legolas was quite unaware that even in his absence he had contributed quite largely to Gimli's foul mood ... had he known, his sense of smug satisfaction would have angered the dwarf even further. As it was, he was a little surprised when Gimli shot the returned elf what he deemed rather a dark glare at his quip. "Oh yes? And where have you been exactly, O Mighty Prince of Mirkwood?"

The elf cocked his head at the petulance in the dwarf's voice as he used his title in evident irritation, not entirely sure that what he had said had been that bad. He elected to dismiss it as a quirk of dwarvish nature. "Gathering breakfast." Legolas placed Sam's tin beside the struggling fire, the contents gleaming deep amber in the strengthening light.

"There's honey! Look!" Pippin's gleeful shout roused his companions somewhat, their interest peaking at the possibility of something far tastier and more interesting than lembas. Even Frodo, whose demeanour had become progressively more subdued and troubled, allowed a grin to his face, the weight in his eyes lifting a little.

Aragorn, for his part, stared in disbelief at the honeycombs dripping liquid gold. There was easily enough there for an ample share each, and he could not help the grin that spread across his own features. He felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards Legolas just then for what he had done for the Fellowship. He knew the severity of the plunge in morale from losing the hare the night before, and this unexpected gift of honey had worked wonders already to elevate depleted spirits, his own included.

"This'll make the lembas more interesting, and no mistake," Sam enthused as he divided the honey into equal portions, positively glowing with pleasure at the sweet scent assailing his nostrils.

Legolas sensed an opportunity for fun and arched a brow at his comment, the unmistakable brightness of mischief in his eyes. "Are you trying to say you find elvish waybread boring, Samwise?"

Sam instantly coloured about the ears, missing the fun in the elf's words and hearing only the level and serious tone with which he chose to deliver the question. His mouth gaped slightly, clear panic that he had offended one of the elves he so revered widening his eyes. "What? Oh, no! No, Legolas, no! It's a very fine food, sir, and I'm grateful for every crumb of it. I was just meaning that lembas is a bit ... well..." the poor hobbit floundered, practically drowning in his ever deepening embarrassment. "Y'know ... it's-"

"The best thing you've ever eaten?" Legolas said, a crooked smile gracing his lips.

Sam's disagreement could not have been plainer on his face if it were written in ink. It was evident that he warred with himself for a deferential way to put across his own view. "Well, no..."

Aragorn chose to come to the hobbit's rescue, pausing in his efforts to strengthen his small fire. "Sam, he's jesting with you."

"Oh. Really?"

The relief in the poor hobbit's face was so strong Legolas felt a pang of guilt for his teasing. "Yes, really," he assured him. "I honestly hate lembas." He offered a warm smile to his naive companion.

Aragorn set a little water beside the fire to heat and resumed his seat on the water-smoothed log. "The Mirkwood elves possess something of a love of mischief, Sam," the ranger informed patiently. "Legolas forgets that his humour is sometimes a little too dry for the company he keeps ... or at least too dry for this early in the morning."

Legolas acknowledged the soft rebuke in his friend's words, and offered Sam a respectful bow. "Aragorn is quite right, Sam: I forget myself sometimes, and I apologise. I only tease through fondness, please understand."

Sam flushed at the ears again, but this time more out of pleasure at Legolas' open affection than embarrassment. Pippin sniggered beside him, a response that elicited a sharp jab in the ribs from his gardener friend.

For a time, none in the company spoke, all too intent on eating their lembas smothered in honey. It really did make all the difference to the dry and unappetising elven travelling bread, and Aragorn allowed for a little more to be rationed out than was normal for them to eat with their treat.

There was only one who did not eat his share of honey: Legolas had far less than the others, offering his own tin to the hobbits to finish between them, choosing instead to pour some hot water into a separate container with honey, dried ginger and what looked like tree bark of some kind from a small pouch at his hip, with a handful of wild mint he had found. The hobbits regarded what he did with intrigue, attracted by their very natures to something new and potentially edible. Only when the liquid was brewed to an unappealing green did Legolas settle down to drink, sitting on the stony ground and leaning his back against the log upon which Aragorn and the hobbits perched.

Aragorn felt his heart pinch with concern when he realised exactly what it was the elf had brewed, but before he could quietly confer with Legolas over it, an entirely different question from another source stopped him in his tracks:

"What is that?" Merry queried, his curiosity finally winning over. "Some kind of elf drink?"

"If only one elf drinking it counts, then yes, it's an elf drink," Aragorn said before Legolas could answer. He grinned as he caught the burning look his friend shot him.

"I will have you know that Lord Glorfindel has something of an appreciation for it," Legolas retaliated, an edge of haughtiness to his tone.

"Indeed he does," Aragorn conceded. "But Lord Glorfindel also enjoys writing volumes concerning rock formations-" the dwarf amongst them gave an approving grunt at this "-and favours riding with bells on every inch of his tack. If I were you, I'd reconsider his merit as a suitable example."

"I shall tell him you said that next time I see him."

"It wouldn't make a difference to him: I believe Glorfindel takes particular pleasure in his reputation of eccentricity."

"Yes, but what's it like?" Pippin pressed, growing bored of this conversation concerning an elf he had vaguely heard of but never before encountered, and far more interested in his borderline discovery of a new beverage. Aragorn's indication of other elves not enjoying it as much as Legolas didn't deter the hobbit in the slightest; Pippin did, after all, liked raspberries with his fried mushrooms.

Half amused by the enthusiasm of the hobbit, and half annoyed that he could not continue with his drink in peace, Legolas finally relented and proffered his tin to Pippin, whose hands cupped about it like they held something truly precious. All eyes were on him as he sniffed at it expertly in an action akin to a wine merchant assessing the quality of a new cask, checking the hue, the scent and the consistency. Sam was becoming quite annoyed with him by the time he finally raised it to his lips.

Pippin sipped carefully.

The Fellowship watched.

All thought he actually liked it for a brief moment. Aragorn was even preparing himself for an apology to his elven friend - until Pippin's face suddenly contorted in a spasm of intense dislike. His body lurched violently forward and his hand made to fling the tin away from him, as though it were filled with something vile and diseased, and it was only through lunging to the rescue of his beverage that Legolas was able to stop the tin flying for the river. Pippin leaped up, dashing to the waters' edge to wash his mouth out, exclaiming and spluttering at the sheer intensity of the bitter taste of the bark assailing his tongue.

The rest of the Fellowship erupted into laughter, the dwarf apparently finding it so hilarious he couldn't breathe properly, tears streaming from his eyes into his already soaked beard. It took them a little time to sober, as it was the single most entertaining thing they had witnessed in a long time.

Aragorn surreptitiously eyed Legolas as the elf cradled his insulted drink. He became suddenly distant. There was no mirth colouring his face now, his eyes staring beyond the camp and his companions, beyond even the quest and the day. Contrary to his outwardly chipper demeanour, a black and troubled mood revealed itself behind the shield of his tin. Despite the vileness of the tea to everyone else's senses, to Legolas, it was a comfort for him when he was deeply uneasy, and Aragorn's stomach knotted with concern that he should feel the need to make it out here in the Wilds. They were all under strain, and had been for so very long. Legolas had never once wavered in his strength, nor his step beside Aragorn faltered, and the ranger dreaded what could have happened in the watches of the night to invoke such a change in Legolas' bearing.

The tea was bad enough, but the distance in Legolas' eyes was more than enough to set a heavy note of trepidation in Aragorn's heart. Unable to restrain his wont of an answer to his own disquiet, he chose to stage his question softly in the elf's ear: "Man prestale?"

Legolas merely gave a barely detectable shake of the head at Aragorn's query, not a request that the ranger let the matter be, but more out of confusion. He blinked, and the dark blue eyes came back to the camp and the present. They turned to Aragorn, and it disturbed him to see the depth of anguish in them. The sharp gaze betrayed Legolas' fear openly to his friend, the only one he could trust with the display of such a dangerous emotion.

"Nin hûn helegnin," Legolas admitted quietly, the words laced with the very ice that clenched his soul.

Aragorn felt the words of his friend raise the hairs at the nape of his neck again. So little riled Legolas into such a sense of fear. If something was coming their way, they had to move, and quickly. He issued such instruction to the camp at large, informing them that they were to move off within the next couple of minutes. His tone did not broach any hint of his worry, and all were quick to comply. None argued, all surrounding the camp feeling their appetites to be suitably sated and their moods restored to a much happier place than the night before. Fingers traced the lining of the tins one last time to ensure that every drop was not wasted. It had been a treat the like of which all present appreciated they were unlikely to have again on their journey as winter deepened, and it fortified them.

There was nothing in the morning air to tell them that an evil was coming for them, nothing to indicate that this would be the last time they ever shared laughter together, or even something so simple as a meal. The wind maintained its biting strength, but the breakfast of honey and lembas set their hearts and their spirits high, and they felt a little more optimistic as they piled into the elven boats, knowing nothing of the oncoming threat, or the deepening fear of their elven companion and the unsettled worry of his ranger friend.

Translation: "Man prestale?"

"What troubles you?"

"Nin hûn helegnin."

"My heart freezes."