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"Brassenor, what is this?"
Standing opposite Legolas, the old soldier that was Legolas' long-trusted comrade smirked. "That, my prince, is Mindirith's request for a transfer."
Legolas frowned as he stared at the document in front of him. Despite the diplomatic nature of his visit to Imladris, he was still required to attend to his martial responsibilities, and he'd resigned himself to an afternoon of paperwork alongside his second-in-command.
What he had not anticipated was seeing his fears materialize in the form of Mindirith's request.
"I can see that, but why? Did he give a reason?"
"Claims the Imladrian guard's a better fit. Said his build lends itself more to the role of a halberdier or swordsman than our own scouts or wardens," Brassenor elaborated, "and while that's true, there might be more to it than that, given his recent escapades."
Legolas threw him a hard look, demanding a more detailed explanation.
Brassenor's lazy smile widened, "He's been disappearing around thrice a week or so. Rumours have it he's been seen with that little Noldo by the river. And when he comes back there's grass stains on his uniform."
Legolas twitched. He knew Melpomaen and Mindirith had struck up a friendship but his little lover had been quick to reassure him there was nothing more. Melpomaen wouldn't… No, Legolas couldn't believe Melpomaen would do that to him.
"Might even be there now," the dark-haired warrior interrupted his thoughts. "Might even be you've lost that dagger to me already."
An image of Mindirith with his little poet flashed into existence, unbidden, unwelcome. His jaw clenched. No, Melpomaen wouldn't… but would Mindirith?
Legolas hissed under his breath, and broke into a run, turning to the path that led down to the water's edge. If Mindirith had… if anything had happened… He reached the threshold of the woods and flung himself into the nearest tree, sprinting from branch to branch. Brassenor laughed in delight, and chased after.
The river's burbling soon reached their ears, and above the trickle of flowing water they heard Mindirith's voice shout, "Faster, Melpomaen!"
Legolas veered sideways towards the voice, almost scrambling the last few boughs before abruptly coming to a stop. There, in a clearing not far from them, Melpomaen and Mindirith were embroiled, not in any amorous embrace, but in… combat?
If you could call it that.
The golden-haired prince rocked back on his heels, gaping, at the absurd spectacle below. Brassenor, arriving breathless to perch on the branch beside him, was similarly astonished. "Huh. That, I did not expect," he murmured quietly.
Legolas could only nod in agreement, grinning broadly. Of all the thoughts that had raced through his mind, this had not been one of them!
"You have to be faster!" Mindirith thundered, as the little elf dove this way and that to avoid his fists. Legolas could see that his guardsman was restraining himself, both in speed and strength, but the untrained Melpomaen was still having a hard time. Gasping and squeaking… squeaking!... the little elf was growing more flustered with every tumble and turn he took.
It didn't take long for Melpomaen's inevitable loss. Mindirith's fist lightly tapped the side of his head, prompting the little elf to concede defeat with an exasperated groan. "Oh, I lost again!"
"You did," rumbled Mindirith, clearly amused. "In fairness, you are better than I was as a novice."
"Really?" Melpomaen managed to ask between wheezes. Thoroughly exhausted, he flopped down onto the grass near his bag and grabbed a flask, eager for a drink. "I find that very hard to believe."
"Your size works for you. You're fast and agile," Mindirith grinned. "It's shocking Imladris refused to teach you. You'd make a fantastic scout, with proper training."
The little elf scowled. "I don't want to join the guard, Minnie; I just want to be able to defend myself. I always thought I might enjoy it as a sport as well, but Glorfindel said I was too short!"
"That is a terrible reason not to train you. Even the biggest warriors are tiny compared to the spiders that infest the Greenwood." Mindirith grimaced, his face a play of unpleasant memories. "For now, focus on your dodging. You're aimless. Start trying to think a step ahead; what your next move will be."
Melpomaen flashed him an unimpressed look, displeased with his own performance. "Can we work on that more next week? I was hoping to learn a blade some day but I guess I'm a long way off that."
"Just a bit," Mindirith agreed. "Not many blades that'd suit you in any case. Knives, darts, maybe… cross that bridge when we get to it."
Mindirith sat next to Melpomaen on the grass, wondering when his life had become so strange. He'd never expected to pick up a scrappy little Noldo as a trainee, especially one more accustomed to the quill, but this was the price he'd agreed to pay in return for help of a more… personal nature.
"Is it my turn now?"
"Of course," Melpomaen said, somewhat recovered. He retrieved two slices of loaf cake from his bag and offered one to Mindirith; a modest treat to reward their efforts. "A deal is a deal. What questions do you have for me today?"
Mindirith regarded the loaf cake with appreciation, suddenly inspired as to where to start his interrogation. "What's his favourite dessert?"
"Hmm, he likes fruit pies as much as the next elf but his real weakness is comfits."
"Favourite colour?"
"Yellow. Says it's bright and cheerful."
"Does he like hair ornaments? I saw quite a few people wearing those little round hair beads."
"Oh, yes," Melpomaen nodded enthusiastically, "those are very popular here. Everyone likes those."
Mindirith mulled over this new information as finished the last of his loaf cake. "Would yellow hair beads make a good gift for him, do you think?"
"Absolutely not!" Melpomaen exclaimed with a laugh. "He's blonde. You wouldn't even be able to see them!"
Mindirith huffed. "What colour should I get him then?"
"Hmm… white and blue are popular choices, but you could also go for a colour that matches his eyes."
"Ah, Saelbeth's eyes are grey."
"They are," Melpomaen smiled fondly, "I wouldn't worry too much. 'Beth may be prim and proper in public, but he's also kind and forgiving and has a good sense of humour. I am sure he'll love whatever you get him. You realise if you hurt him, I'll be using all this training against you."
Mindirith lifted his hand to touch his hair. "If I hurt him, I'll shred my braids myself," he replied and, while the little elf didn't quite understand the expression, he approved of the solemn tone in which it was delivered.
"Wood-elves seem to take a lot of pride in their braids. Are they important in the Greenwood?" Melpomaen asked, curious.
"Very much so. They show our status, our profession, even our reputation. To shred your braids is to accept failure or defeat, and can also be used as a punishment. To offer your braids to another is a pledge of the utmost devotion."
"Different braids have different meanings, then?" Melpomaen was intrigued. Certainly, he'd noticed that the warriors from the Greenwood styled their hair differently to Galion and Silinde, but hadn't thought much of it.
"They most certainly do; it was a bit confusing when we first arrived here. From our perspective, you all wear the wrong braids, and it feels strange to us. In the Greenwood, it would be seen as deceitful," Mindirith explained.
"Oh, I had no idea! In Imladris, we just wear whatever we think looks nice. I don't normally braid my hair at all."
Mindirith gave a bark of laughter.
"You look like a child." He laughed even harder at the affronted expression his trainee gave him. "Really, you do. Only elflings wear their hair loose like you do, because they haven't earned any yet."
Melpomaen looked mortified. "Nooo…," he breathed in dismay. He whirled abruptly on his instructor, demanding, "You have to teach me! Tell me what braids I should be wearing!"
"I'd be glad to. I'm not braiding it for you, though. That's…"
"Not appropriate!" Melpomaen yelped in agreement, scooting away from Mindirith and eyeing him awkwardly. "That's considered rather, um, intimate here, too. For family and… um…"
"Quite," Mindirith interrupted, before Melpomaen could dig himself into a deeper hole.
The pair shared an uncomfortable pause, but then Melpomaen snickered and Mindirith joined in with his gravelly chuckle, and the moment passed. They launched into a detailed discussion on the various shapes and patterns of Greenwood braiding and Imladrian beads, exclaiming with delight at each new revelation.
In the treeline, Brassenor was bitterly grumbling the loss of their wager and the dagger he had hoped to win, but Legolas barely heard him.
Relief, warm and effusive, washed over the prince. Of course. Of course, there was nothing going on between his little poet and his subordinate. He knew that. Melpomaen would never do that to him. As for Mindirith, he wouldn't harm a fly, much less attack another elf. Legolas was ashamed for having even considered it.
The spectre of imagined rivalry dissolved, leaving the prince to ponder his own shortcomings. Oh, but that conversation had given him a lot to think about. He didn't know Melpomaen's favourite dessert, or favourite colour, or any of those important little things.
As he stood to leave, Legolas realised he was jealous of Mindirith for a different reason. Mindirith, who was free to stay in Imladris, free to pursue Saelbeth, free to buy gifts of courtship.
Melpomaen had told him gifts weren't necessary but Legolas found himself disagreeing. He wanted to give his little poet a hundred gifts, a thousand gifts, just to see the light in his lover's eyes and know that he was the one who put it there.
If he were free, he would give Melpomaen all the gifts of courtship his little love merited; sweets and books and songs to reach his heart…
And, perhaps, he would also start with beads; a set of bright beads to dance in Melpomaen's dark hair…
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