"And what of you, master elf?"
Legolas felt his face grow hot. He considered pretending he didn't hear the question, take advantage of his air of mystery for a little bit longer.
This seemed to only encourage Boromir, who reached between the horses and slugged him in the shoulder. "Oh, don't tell me, the elf is shy! Just your silence confirms it, I think. There is a lady at home waiting for you!"
Legolas didn't understand why, but his eyes darted up and searched for Aragorn's. And sure as day, he was there, turning imperceptibly from his horse further ahead. He gave Legolas a knowing look, then turned to Boromir like a predator waiting in the grass.
Boromir jostled with the gait of his horse, smiling up at the pinkish clouds wistfully. "I still can't believe the beauty of those elvan women at Rivendell, I could have stayed there forever! Legolas, what does she look like?"
Some of the hobbits seemed to overhear and listened in expectantly. Aragorn tugged on his reigns, and his horse trotted back toward Boromir. "Let's save the talk of home and families for a little further on in the journey," he said sternly to Boromir, who still refused eye contact. "Some may still be affected with homesickness and it needs time to fade."
"Always so intense, this one!" Boromir laughed, yet Legolas could see a glint of something in his eye. Embarrassment? Anger? The man seemed to be uncomfortable with his station in this group- possibly used to being in charge, but now being shut down by a lowly ranger. Traveling in the presence of a revered wizard. And another prince, not that he's earned that knowledge yet.
Legolas wondered when this façade of cooperation would crack. When the man would finally start to fight for dominance. Aragorn and Legolas would have to wait, like medics watching for the first signs of infection, ready to act with cold precision for the collective good. And Legolas suspected he would take no pity in it.
Gandalf leaned toward Aragorn and Legolas. "Why don't the two of you go ahead and scout out a suitable camp?"
The elf smiled and trotted ahead before he even heard any acknowledgment from Aragorn. Not that he needed to. The ranger was equally eager for some independence, and after so many years they barely relied on verbal communication anymore.
Once away from the group, Legolas drew a long-missed drink of air, sweet with the essence of emerald trees and moss. He forgot how lovely the foothills of the Misty Mountains were, how lush. Where he normally would have had to turn east toward home along this road, the group instead turned south at the junction, toward a new wide-open world. The elf couldn't contain a sense of exhilaration, like they were explorers discovering a new land. He could sense it in the ranger, too. The man spent too long in the harsh lands of the north, and also seemed to come alive with the promise of sun and the novel.
"Thank you, by the way." Legolas turned toward Aragorn.
The ranger grinned. "Of course, you're welcome. But just know, I don't think the questions will stop. Especially from the Shire-folk. Before Imladris, none of them had ever even seen an elf before."
"You're right," Legolas nodded. "I'm not sure why I didn't prepare for that."
"You certainly don't have to give any more than you want to. You could even just make something up. Whatever you say will still be endlessly fascinating to them." Aragorn laughed.
"I assume you also don't plan on divulging too much?" Legolas asked, making the smile on the ranger's face fade a little.
"When it's time, when it makes sense. Maybe it never will."
Legolas smiled at him and didn't need to say more. It took a moment for the heat in his cheeks to fade as they rode on in silence. Despite being such close friends for so long, he still felt embarrassed. It was almost like roles had been reversed and he was fighting to get it right again. The elf knew Estel since he was just a teenager, making the most spectacular mistakes, in constant need of rescue. He had such a baffling disregard for self-preservation and would disappear for days on end. Legolas remembered many nights assuring Lord Elrond, sick with worry, that Estel wasn't in fact suicidal, that he hadn't failed him as an adoptive father. He couldn't seem to find the words to explain what he suspected was really going on. The very same pull Legolas experienced—an overwhelming urge to wander, to always know what was over the next ridge or around the next bend. To find out if there really was more to the world than this.
Legolas was just better at it. He was hundreds of years ahead at that point. He learned the hard way how others don't appreciate him blindly answering the call within, and to make a thoughtful effort to keep track of time, tell someone before he left, make note of the way back.
Which often made him one of the few people not only willing but eager to go track down Estel. He loved running into battle with him, watching him grow as a warrior. In a team of two, they could be as ruthless and blood-thirsty as they wanted. They had to, to survive. But what he loved most of all was how it made him feel like an older brother. A protector. He was too young to save his mother. With Estel, he never had to feel that helpless ever again.
So the memories stung. It made him feel weak again. As though he'd let his little brother down somehow. When Aragorn heard the news, he rode to Mirkwood in one straight shot. Exhausted, he had scoured the halls of the palatial caves looking for his friend, getting no help from the still untrusting tribe of elves in this savage land. He remembered being stunned to find the prince sitting blank-faced in a war meeting once he finally found him. He had thought he'd misheard the news or had been confused. The elf acted strange, rebuffing his friend whenever he tried to get him alone, to talk to him. It wasn't until much later in the night, before Aragorn had nearly given in to the demands to leave, that he dragged Legolas far from everyone else and sealed them away in a private chamber. Before that night, he had never heard his dear friend cry before. Never felt him shake like that when Estel took him in his arms. He never even took the time to imagine it, the concept was so outrageous.
The ranger had been a crucial support for him those first few months. He didn't have to be asked twice to keep the secret. But it wasn't just the shame of breaking down in front of him countless times that filled Legolas with such self-doubt. He wondered if it was obvious. If Aragorn was just being kind by not voicing his objections. Every little smirk, every worried glance. He was too quiet around him now. Were the voices in Legolas's own head being echoed within Aragorn's? You shouldn't be doing this. It's too soon, you should go back home. You're too weak, you're a liability…
There was a crack in the air. The snap of a branch. Far away and faint. Legolas looked through the trees toward the sound, and imagined a deer or even a large bird. But when he heard it again, followed by heavy thumps, he pulled back on his reigns. His horse could sense his anxiety and froze. Aragorn looked back at him, then toward where Legolas was staring.
The sounds grew. Heavy graceless footfalls, clangs of metal, grunts. The two warriors shared a grave and knowing look. Without a word, Aragorn turned his horse and galloped back to the group. Legolas dismounted, grabbed his bow, and gave his horse a soft pat on the neck before slinking into the woods. The dry leaves barely rustled beneath his feet, not that he imagined the orcs could even hear him over their own noise.
He drew close enough to discern words amongst the grunts and shouts. Time to take to the trees. Legolas felt a surge of exhilaration as he reached up and pulled himself into the branches. This felt like flying, like how it felt after finally dropping a heavy pack at the end of a long day. So light, so natural.
Once the orcs were in sight, he came to a stop and crouched on a high branch. A small party, twenty in all. They looked haggard, even for a group of hellish beasts. Blood stained their armor and clothing, both red and black. The prince wondered how many of them had been killed. How many they had killed.
It wouldn't be too difficult to pick them all off before Aragorn even returned, Legolas thought. He couldn't help but smile in the excitement of that. Like a challenge or a game. And better for the halflings to not have to see carnage so soon in their journey, anyway. He strategized his first move as the orcs staggered below, oblivious. Shoot down as many as possible from above. Direct the shots toward the north-east, so as they flee, they do so away from the fellowship.
Just as the elf began to load his bow, a blinding pain struck his side. The breath left his lungs and his vision flashed white. The blow toppled him out of the branch, and just as he regained his sight, he saw himself careening into a larger branch below. The impact sent his bow flying from his hand, and his body tumbling through the air until he came to a painful stop on the forest floor.
Dazed, he caught sight of a wicked grin from high above, in a tree right beside the one he was just perched. A scout with any empty bow.
The sound of swords being ripped from their sheaths and angry shouts got the elf stumbling back to his feet. He winced in pain when he tried to breathe again, and looked down to see an arrow sticking out of his side. With a grunt, he ripped it out, a worrying gush of blood following it.
No time to find his bow, Legolas drew his daggers. Their swords came quick and savagely. Heavy blows swiped at him from all directions, putting him in a defensive posture. Their weapons were so massive, their hits so strong, Legolas's daggers were barely enough.
He began kicking them away just to get some space, to regain his bearings. A swift and powerful blow to their chests sent them tumbling back into the ground. One of the larger orcs seemed to grow furious. He let out a roar and started slashing his heavy blade at the elf as though it were personal. One blow proved too powerful, and Legolas lost his grip on one of his blades. An armored fist cracked into the elf's jaw, blinding his sight again, and slamming him into the ground.
First there was panic. He had erred, let his guard down, and just as all his trainers had warned, it was devolving into a resulting stream of catastrophe from which even the best fighters are unable to recover. Then came rage. The visceral, white-hot hatred. A force disturbing for many to witness in the young, fair prince. But also his secret weapon.
Legolas heard the sing of blades raining down on him. He rolled out of the way, and sprang to his feet, vision returning, holding out his single dagger with a confidence the orcs seemed to find amusing.
As one orc charged toward Legolas, he hopped toward it, planted his foot on its thigh, and launching himself into the air. It stumbled back, stunned, and the elf came crashing down upon another, burying his blade into its neck. He ripped the knife out and painted the onlookers in an arc of murky blood.
Another sword stabbed toward him, and Legolas pushed the arm aside with ease, exposing a vulnerable ribcage that swallowed up a hungry elvan blade. A glint of light caught his eye- the dagger's mate, half buried in foliage. While ducking beneath another swipe, Legolas dropped to the ground, rolled forward, and scooped up his dagger in one smooth motion. Reunited, the blades seemed to move of their own mind. They crossed in front of his attacker's neck, and came apart swiftly, taking the head off with them. He was now in balance. His motions fluid and elegant. The knives worked in beautiful synchronicity, extensions of his own arms.
As Legolas moved in a state of serene focus, he watched as Gondorian arrows sailed past, dropping the remaining orcs around him. In his fugue he could hear shouts, war cries, and he was soon joined in battle by two men and a dwarf. His spirits lifted, Legolas's tactics became swifter and more savage. He grabbed hold of an orc's arm, swung himself around the beast until he was hanging on its back, and tore its throat open, dismounting as it dropped to the ground sputtering and gasping for breath…at the feet of a halfling.
Pippin staggered back, blood splattered on his face, his skin pale and eyes wide. Gandalf stepped in and pulled the hobbit back out of the fray with the others, who also seemed to be frozen in shock.
Legolas stood for a moment, overcome with a strange sense of guilt. He could hear as Gimli and Aragorn took their final death blows, and the woods were silent again. The air was heavy in the stench of blood and sweat.
Boromir jogged toward him grinning and wiping the sweat off his forehead. "Did no one teach you to share, Legolas?!" With a deep belly laugh, he dropped his hands to his knees and gasped for breath. Gimli seemed to be elated, too. His eyes were wild with adrenaline. He was shaking out his arms and looking around the woods, almost desperately hoping there were some fleeing stragglers he could hunt down.
Aragorn walked to Legolas with a smile that immediately faded when he noticed the elf's expression. He looked at the halflings, who only just seemed to be regaining their composer. Sam and Merry were pretending to awkwardly laugh. Frodo was letting out a long-held breath. But Pippin still had his eyes locked on Legolas. The ranger struggled to decipher what his stare seemed to be saying. Fear, it was fear. Not of the orcs, who lay dead around them. But of Legolas.
"I'm so sorry Pippin…I didn't realize you were there." The elf's voice was soft.
"Pippin." Aragorn announced loudly, but with a smile. This seemed to snap the hobbit out of it. He looked at the ranger, unsure of himself. "There's no need to worry. The elf is fierce, but only ever on those who deserve it." He winked at Pippin, which finally got him to laugh. The ranger then stepped forward and rested a hand on his shoulder. "This all may seem overwhelming at first, but I promise you will be war-hardened soon enough. This is all quite normal."
As the other hobbits drew Pippin away, Legolas smiled toward Aragorn, wordlessly thanking him yet again for being his emissary. The ranger shook his head and laughed. But as Aragorn's gaze dropped, something seemed to catch his attention, and his face became serious.
"You're injured." Aragorn said quietly, careful not to alert the others.
"Oh," Legolas was genuinely surprised. He had been so deep in a state of focus, the scout's arrow-wound had slipped his mind altogether. Until now. Right as he touched his hand to his side and saw the blood shine on his fingers, the pain flooded back. He couldn't help but wince as he pressed his hand down hard to stop the bleeding.
"Come with me," Aragorn said, taking the elf's arm and leading him to a nearby stream.
"Is everything alright?" Boromir called after them.
"Nothing beyond my skills. Would you please take Gimli and do a quick perimeter sweep?" Aragorn yelled back while still leading Legolas away. The other man waved his hand and shouted some sort of acknowledgment.
Once at the stream, Aragorn helped Legolas to the ground and began rummaging through his med-pack. The elf stared hard into the water. "I must have gotten a little carried away…"
"Oh, don't worry, the wound doesn't look deep. I should be able to patch you up." Aragorn said. But when he looked back up at the elf - herbs, needle, and thread in hand - he seemed to understand what Legolas really meant.
The ranger thought back to a campfire chat the two had shared many years ago. One of those rare moments when the elf let his guard down and opened up to his human friend.
It was after a joint mission with a mixed Mirkwood-Imladris patrol. After many long months of brutal fighting with invading hordes from the north. When Elrohir and Elladan had teased Legolas for the hundredth time about the savagery of the Sinda elves. Legolas had admitted to Estel that these comments were often said with less humor by some of the others. It wasn't with an admiration for a particularly vicious fighting style. Rather, it usually implied the woodland elves were less evolved, less civilized, less in command of their emotions. Almost no better than the beasts they hunted. Creatures to be feared, not respected.
It was a reputation Lord Thranduil seemed to embrace, perhaps as a defense mechanism. But the prince found himself more ashamed of it. The knowledge that his kind were seen as beneath the more evolved elves bothered him. At every mixed-patrol or council meeting with the elves of Lorien or Imladris, he felt added pressure to be on his best behavior. To prove the rumors wrong, and display a mastery of his emotions. Aragorn even seemed to notice him holding back at times in battle.
"You know I've always admired your fighting style." Aragorn said, lifting the elf's tunic and cleaning the wound with fresh, cool water.
"I know. But you and I have been fighting together for years. We know what to expect from each other. But the others…" Legolas trailed off.
"The others are grateful." Aragorn said sternly. The elf looked away and sighed, so Aragorn continued. "Truly. I think today was good. It was the perfect opportunity to show them what you're capable of, that you're an asset to the team. With you, they have nothing to fear."
Legolas smiled. "Thank you, Estel." He opened his mouth to say more but couldn't seem to.
"I know you're doing better, 'Las." Aragorn said softly.
The elf met his gaze again, his expression pained.
"You can handle this." Aragorn continued. "Grief is an agony we will all meet at least once in our lives…especially for your kind. It's not a defect, it's not a sickness. You have given me no reason to suspect that you're not in control."
"Do you think the hobbits are scared of me? Was it…a good idea to even join this fellowship?"
Aragorn gripped the elf's arm firmly. "You belong in this group as much as I or anyone. It was a good decision you made, Legolas. You and I both know you're doing far more good here with us than back at home."
