(Author’s Note: A short piece of fluff dedicated to Azaela, who wanted to know just how Aragorn knew exactly what Pippin had done in "Just A Bit of Fun." And Boromir’s quick offer to take the watch results from unguarded words to Pippin during their enforced confinement together in "Recovery in Rivendell." My thanks to Gentle Hobbit for reminding me of the means to pacify the offended party.)

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover.com.  My thanks to my dear Marigold for the beta.

Campfire Tales I (Legolas’ Story)

The weary, discouraged silence in their sheltered camp was disturbing, Aragorn thought. He ran a roasting stick through the last quarter of rabbit and handed it to Sam. The hobbit took it with a nod of thanks, his round face tired. None of the little folk were talking, Aragorn realized. He had grown used to the constant chatter, joking and singing of the hobbits when the day’s march was done and the Fellowship relaxed around their campfire. Even the need for silence and stealth could not long suppress their spirits. But the brooding presence of the mountain before them evidently could do what fear of pursuit and discovery could not.

The very air seemed bitter tonight, the stars remote and uncaring in the black velvet sky. Here at the foot of Caradhras, the Company could feel the mountain looming over them even in the darkness, its great bulk blotting out the stars. Its presence was like a burden on their hearts, unseen but felt as a crushing weight, pressing them flat to the earth. Caradhras towered ahead of them, a malevolent, hostile presence.

Though he was not much given to the telling of tales (the Lay of Lúthien he had sung to the hobbits on Weathertop and the tales spun to entertain Frodo as the Ring-bearer recovered from his wound were exceptions), Aragorn felt moved to lighten their unease. He would ask Legolas to sing, he decided, or coax a tale from Gandalf, if the wizard was feeling garrulous.

Pippin was huddling against Merry’s side, drowsing sitting up. Merry had spread the edge of his cloak over his cousin and sat staring into the fire, elbows propped on knees, seemingly absorbed by the crackling flames. Sam sat cross-legged, turning the spits one by one, ignoring the grease as it dripped and popped on the coals. Frodo sprawled against a rock behind him, already nearly asleep, so obviously exhausted that Aragorn felt anxiety and pity tug at his heart.

"Legolas, my friend," the Ranger said softly, "would you grace us with a song? The cold night would seem more friendly for the beauty of elven music."

"All of us have given a tale or a song except for you," returned the Elf lackadaisically, "however incomprehensible." The last was directed towards Gimli, who had chanted them an epic poem of his people the previous evening. Though none but Gandalf and Aragorn understood the words, all were fascinated by the heavy meter of the song and the obvious harmony of the language. "Or inappropriate for the ears of younglings," he continued with a nod at Boromir’s back.

"I told you," Boromir’s voice drifted to them from where he stood on watch, facing out into the night. "I do not know many tales other than those of blood and battle. The story of the widow and her boardinghouse of retired soldiers seemed the lesser of two evils."

"It was certainly educational," Merry put in wryly. "I told Pippin you would explain certain things to him later." At the sound of his name Pippin sat up, blinking, then closed his eyes and cuddled against Merry again. Boromir groaned.

"Except for you, Aragorn," the Elf repeated. The hobbits looked up, pointed ears pricking. "It is your turn to sing for us, or give us a story." Merry nudged Pippin gently, waking the dozing tweenager. Pippin stretched, yawning, then looked about alertly.

"I am soon to take the watch from Boromir," Aragorn objected.

"I will take it," suggested Gandalf. "Nothing in the night will escape my notice, even with your tale being told." Aragorn glowered at the wizard but Gandalf stared imperviously back, a twinkle glinting in his gaze.

"I will keep the watch until your tale is done, Aragorn," Boromir offered. None but the Elf heard the soldier mutter to himself something about "halflings" and "inappropriate stories" and "explanations." The last was followed by a sound suspiciously like a whimper.

"But we insist," Legolas continued, obviously enjoying himself. When Aragorn glared at him, the Elf only arched an eyebrow. "If you will not give us a tale," he threatened gently, "then we may give a tale of you." Legolas hummed to himself for a moment, star-lit eyes distant. Then a smile curved his lips and he turned to the hobbits. Frodo sat up, dashing the sleep from his eyes, and exchanged a grin with Samwise. "Would you like to hear the tale of my first meeting with Aragorn?"

"I am certain that you could come up with a more interesting tale than that, Legolas," Aragorn returned hurriedly, trying to affix the Elf with a stern eye. Legolas merely smiled at him in amusement.

Pippin was looking from one to the other, interested in the tension he heard in the Ranger’s voice. "Didn’t you once say to me that any tale that raises so many objections must be worth telling?" the tweenager asked. His eyes sparkled when Aragorn scowled in displeasure at hearing his own words returned to him as they had sat by Frodo’s bedside those long first days in Rivendell. Pippin beamed back.

"Well," the Elf began, "it was many years ago. Aragorn was but a child, perhaps twelve years of age as Men measure it. As I recall, he was a rather dirty, loud, adventurous youth."

"Thank you, Legolas," Aragorn said.

The Elf awarded his friend a seated bow. Sam stopped before him and handed him a bowl, then moved on to serve the others. Legolas thanked him but his dinner sat untouched as he considered his words. "It was a fine spring morning when my peoples’ embassy rode into Imladris. We were five, having come to discuss trade and matters of state with the Master of Rivendell. We had come at the invitation of Lord Elrond…"

* * * * *

The boy peered cautiously around the stone pillar, ears alert to every sound and blue-grey eyes roaming over the landscape. Days seemed to pass slowly in the hidden valley, one often very much like the next and for an active, audacious boy, any change in the routine was welcome. Elves might have forever to live their measured, stately lives but the mortal boy was all too aware of time passing him by, taking with it all the exciting adventures he hoped to experience. And guests from one of the other elven abodes were doubly welcome and exciting.

From his hiding point behind one of Rivendell’s columns, the boy clung to the late-afternoon shadow and gawked at the milling horses and their fair riders. Never before had he seen any of Lothlórien’s or Mirkwood’s folk, and he was curious, excited, and shy, all at once. The Mirkwood Elves were as golden-blond as those of Imladris were dark, dressed strangely in forest-colored leggings and tunics, clothes that would blend in with trees and living things rather than the coppers, blues and brighter colors his adopted folk wore. Like all Elves, they were surpassingly fair in form and face. Having grown up among Elves, the boy gave that little note. He was far more interested in their swords and the great, killing bows slung casually across their backs.

His eye was caught by a sudden movement as one of the Elves swung himself gracefully down from his white horse, patting the animal gently. Like the others, he was blond and slender and tall, well-formed and fair. Of more interest to the boy were the long, bone-handled knifes the Elf sported, and great bow and the slender sword that swung from the sheath at his back. From his own intense sword-training, Aragorn knew the difficulty of wearing a sword harness on one’s back – his sword-master had refused him when he had begged to wear his harness so. "Not until you are older, young sir," the sword-master had said. "Only practice and litheness keep one’s head on one’s shoulders long enough to draw a sword so, and I would have great difficultly explaining your death to the Master."

The thought of Elrond reminded him of the need for stealth. His foster father had forbidden him to make a nuisance of himself during the embassy’s visit. Keen ears listened intently for the slightest footfall, and bright eyes tore themselves from the fascinating strangers to examine the surrounding courtyard. For all the good it did him. A long arm reached out from seemingly nowhere and captured the startled boy by the tip of his ear.

"Estel," a melodic voice said sternly, "you know Father said you were not to spy on our Mirkwood guests."

Caught, the boy neither denied his guilt nor tried to excuse himself. "Yes, Elladan," he answered obediently. The not-terribly-tight grip on his ear eased, and he was released with a teasing flick of his earlobe. The boy grinned up at his captor, who returned the smile. "Do you think I may meet them later?" Estel asked eagerly.

Elladan laughed softly and ruffled the boy’s dark hair. "You will meet them tonight in the Hall of Fire. Father has ordered a great feast to celebrate their arrival. We are all to be formally presented to the embassy at that time." Elladan’s silver eyes, so like Elrond’s, turned distant for a moment. "I wish Arwen were here."

Aragorn had no interest in the foster sister he had never met. He knew his foster father and brothers missed her terribly but the concept of girls held little attraction. Though, he reflected, he would very much like to visit Lothlórien and see the fabled mallorn trees. The minstrels never tired of praising their beauty. After a moment’s reflection, he decided that he could endure Arwen if he got to see where she guested.

The Elf’s dark eyes flickered with humor as he effortlessly followed the boy’s thoughts, so clearly written in shining mortal eyes. "There will be singing and tale spinning long into the night." He smiled fondly at the child. "Perhaps you will stay awake longer this time?"

"I’m too old to be carried to my bed," the boy declared. "I will stay awake as long as you."

"Indeed," the thousands-year old Elf remarked noncommittally. "Well, we shall see. Just be certain that you do not bother our distinguished guests. Off with you, now."

* * * * *

It was a grand staircase, one of several that swept down from the higher elevations of the House to the floor of the Valley. Elves do not build as Men do, forcing the landscape to bend to their hand, but instead weave their habitations around the living world. Imladris had been built without disturbing the natural elements of the hidden valley; great trees left in place and honored, the homes of the Elves built around them.

It was this concession to the steepness of the valley wall that necessitated the placement of a staircase, narrow and winding, to connect the higher levels to lower. Estel had been eyeing it for quite some time - months now - burning off some of his ever-present energy in darting up and down it, trailing a hand over the smooth, polished wood of the banister. In his imagination, the banister became a dragon, one of the great Worms of his foster father’s stories, and he the hero sent to break the beast to his will. Only by riding it from tail to head could he defeat it. The boy patted the smooth wood absently, for a moment transported by his fantasy. Then he laughed and recalled himself to the hum-drum existence of growing up in an elven sanctuary. He had slid down the smaller banisters many times, and in honor of the Mirkwood delegation’s arrival, had decided that this was the day to conquer the mammoth, snaking structure.

With a final, quick glance to be sure that no one was around to witness his return to a childhood pastime he felt he had outgrown, Estel swung a leg over the time-worn railing and flung himself up on the wood, balancing precariously for a moment. He ran his hands over the polished wood, sparing a moment to marvel at its smoothness. The wood of the curving rail was satiny, a patina bestowed by the passage of ages of slender hands. Not yet too old to stifle his glee, Estel caged his hands loosely around the top of the rail and threw his weight frontward.

It was almost better than riding one of the swift elven steeds. The boy’s lank hair blew back from his face as his accelerating momentum pulled him forward. Once balanced with legs outstretched, he had no difficulty retaining his seat, the railing slick as butter under his curled fingers. Grinning ridiculously, the boy bit his lip against a scream of pure delight as he hurtled down the balustrade.

Colors and shapes flashed by him too quickly to be identified. His speed was too great to focus on his surroundings, so Estel fastened his gaze on the landing at the base of the banister. Coming off the end, he would need to snap his body into a ball in mid-air and roll carefully or he might well break a bone. The boy was confident of his ability to do so; he enjoyed tumbling and practiced frequently in the long hallways of the House (much to the startlement of its inhabitants).

He had raised his gaze to the cloudless sky when movement at the bottom of his vision caught his attention. His eyes snapped back to the landing. A foot was coming around the corner, followed by a leg. A long robe covered the leg, attached to a body. Time suddenly slowed for the boy. As if his foster father was moving underwater, Estel saw Elrond stride slowly into view. Another figure followed him, seeming to expand in Estel’s sight as he careened down the rail. Then he was rounding the curve, and felt his hands slip from the railing. Estel’s mouth opened and a wordless cry died on his lips. Alerted by some indefinable elvish sense, Elrond’s head raised and a look of absolute horror spread across the serene features as their eyes locked.

Then time jolted into normal passing again. Estel crashed into the second figure. The boy was dimly aware of his foster father turning, his mantle swirling about him, a long arm reaching. His own limbs were entangled in the silk-covered cushion that was swearing in a most unbecoming fashion. His heart hammering, confused and frightened, the boy dug his knee into the writhing body underneath him and levered himself off.

"King Thranduil! Your Majesty, are you harmed?" Elrond’s voice was unaccustomedly shrill as he fought to capture a flailing arm.

Estel’s unintentional landing pad was making choked gasping noises, the royal features contorted, face red and going swiftly to purple. Another form detached itself from the stunned onlookers and knelt by the king’s side. It was the young Elf he had watched dismount. "Father! Father, are you all right?" the Elf asked, his hands supporting the king as he wheezed and coughed.

Estel watched in frozen horror. The king. Oh no, not the king. Vaguely he was aware that other Elves were now crowding about the stricken lord, Elladan and Elrohir as well. Then a hand heavy as a mountain descended on his shoulder.

"Are you hurt, Aragorn?" The boy cringed; use of his given name instead of his fond-name denoted Elrond’s anger.

Estel’s mouth opened but no sound came out. He swallowed and tried again. "I am not hurt, my lord." He swallowed again, feeling as if he were about to be sick. Long-fingered hands moved over him, checking for damage he might not yet feel. Satisfied, Elrond released him and turned away from him, joining the young Elf at King Thranduil’s side. The other Elves fell back to give them room.

The king was sitting up now, his long legs stretched before him as he pressed both hands into his midsection, where Estel had impacted so precipitously. The dangerous flush was fading from his fine features, but he could only grimace in reply to his host’s solicitous queries.

"This is the mortal boy you foster?" the king managed at last.

Estel stepped forward before Elrond could reply and bowed deeply. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, sire." Estel was aware that his voice was quavering and he ruthlessly demanded it not betray him. "I am so very sorry, Your Majesty. It was an accident."

Assisted by the young Elf and Elrond, Thranduil made it to his feet, swaying slightly. He coughed a final time and straightened. Then his gaze traveled to the child, and his face darkened.

"Thranduil," Elrond interposed, "the child truly meant no harm. And no harm has come of it." Elrond paused and inhaled a steadying breath. "Perhaps you would join me in cracking a case of the new white wine from my vineyards? The master vintner assures me that the pressing is quite extraordinary."

"Wine?" the king asked.

"From the last pressing of the grapes, my lord," Elrond continued smoothly, "when the bloom is the sweetest. The vintner assures me that it is quite dry, with just a subtle hint of…" Still extolling the virtues of his wine, Elrond led Thranduil away, the king’s attention obviously wholly engaged by the upcoming pleasure.

The young Elf sighed and traded a glance with Elladan and Elrohir. Mirth sparkled in the twins’ silver eyes that they would never be so unkind as to reflect on their lips. With a wave of his hand, the young Elf dismissed the others of the embassy. They drifted off, smiles lurking on their fair faces. Elladan watched them go, rubbed his forehead. "Elrohir and I will speak to Father, Estel. I think he will be more forgiving after several glasses of the new wine."

The boy knuckled his eyes, embarrassed at the tears that stung there. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone."

The stranger Elf nodded and clasped the boy on his trembling shoulder. "Well for you," the Elf said, "that my royal father’s attention is so easily diverted by wine." The Elf moved gracefully before the boy and knelt, looking into his eyes. "I am Legolas Greenleaf, of the Mirkwood Realm."

"I am honored, Prince," the boy said with a shaky bow.

"The honor is mine," the Elf returned gravely, ignoring the discontinuity of claiming such when speaking to a very young and quite dirty human child. "And please, call me Legolas. There are no titles among friends."

"Friends?" the child echoed, his eyes wide.

"Friends," the Elf confirmed, holding out his hand to shake in that odd gesture Men used. The boy took his hand hesitantly, then pumped it with more enthusiasm when laughter crinkled the corners of the immortal blue eyes. Legolas looked at the child and nodded. "For life, I think."

* * * * *

Legolas smiled, the stars reflecting in his eyes. The fire had burned low while he told his tale and there was little light to see by. But light sufficient for elven eyes. His gaze traveled to his old friend and he saw Aragorn smile in return.

Gimli laughed softly. "That tale has a familiar ring to it. Doesn’t it, Master Peregrin?"

Pippin had the grace to blush, not that it could be seen in the darkness. "I don’t think I ever said it, Gimli, but thank you for not being angry with us." Merry seconded his cousin’s thanks softly, eyes shining in the red coals of the fire.

The dwarf cleared his throat, dismissing the young hobbits’ thanks with a snort. Gandalf stood with a grimace, leaning on his staff. "My turn at guard, I think. If you are ready, Master Boromir?"

While the two exchanged the watch, the Company prepared themselves for sleep. The hobbits rolled themselves into their blankets in their usual sleeping order, while the bigger folk arrayed themselves around the edges of camp. Aragorn and Legolas took the corners of the hobbits’ small square, their heads at an angle to each other.

"Friends," murmured Aragon reflectively as he settled into his bedroll.

"For life," Legolas affirmed.

The End (of Legolas' tale)