Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this.  This story links to one Bodkin wrote using my characters.  It’s called “In the West” and is posted on Stories of Arda.  Happy birthday, Bodkin!

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The Help of a Friend

Elowen thumped a plate of bread and a jar of strawberry jam onto the table in front of Legolas.  “Eat,” she said.

Legolas glanced at Siondel, who sat across the table, gluing together the pieces of a broken earthenware platter.  Behind Siondel, a row of rabbits roasted on a spit over the hearth.  A drop of fat spattered into the fire.  Siondel grinned at Legolas and reached back to give the spit’s handle a turn.  “When she takes that tone, you should do as she says.”

Legolas looked up at Elowen, who regarded him with her hands on her hips and her brows lowered.  “She does sound a bit like one of the novice masters.  Elowen, it will soon be time for the evening meal.”

“Have you eaten yet today?” she asked.

He ran his mind over his day.  He had wakened at the cry of the first bird on the maple outside his unshuttered window.  Habit had made him listen for a roof-rattling snore from the other room, but night in the cottage was dissolving in the gray light of dawn with just his own quiet breath to disturb it.  He had pulled on his clothes and gone out to spend the day wandering the woods, letting the trees provide what balm they could to his weary fëa.  Then, as he often did, when the sun had dipped below the treetops, he had come to Elowen and Siondel’s cottage and settled down at their kitchen table.

He gave Elowen a sheepish smile and reached for the jam.

She nodded once.  “You will stay and take evening meal with us too.”  She glanced out the open window to where slate gray clouds scudded before the wind.   “I had better bring the laundry in before it rains.  Emmelin will be lucky if she reaches home without getting soaked first.”  She picked up the wicker basket next to the back door and went out into the yard.

Legolas spread jam on a slice of bread and took a bite.  The summery taste of the jam exploded on his tongue, bringing memories of sitting at Elowen’s table in another cottage east of the Sundering Seas.  He had no idea how old he was the first time he sat there, but his feet had swung freely well above the floor.

“Nobody makes better strawberry jam than Elowen,” Siondel said.

Legolas smiled.  “Annael once accused me of being his friend so his naneth would feed me bread and jam.”

Siondel’s face softened and warmed.  He looked away for a moment.  “Elowen will be happy when Annael finally joins us here.  We all will.  Emmelin misses her adar and naneth.”  He brought his gaze back to Legolas and after a second’s hesitation said, “The grief of Gimli’s passing weighs heavily on you.”

“Yes.”

Siondel fingered a jagged piece of pottery.  “You would not have wished him to linger as he was.”

“No.  He welcomed the release.”  Legolas looked down at his bread.  “I suppose I am a bit lonely.”

“Your family will come.”

“I know.”

Siondel turned the pottery piece in his hand and frowned.  “Something is wrong here.  There does not seem to be a place where this piece will fit.  Perhaps I should just throw it out.”

Legolas laughed and leaned forward to study the broken platter.   Through the window drifted the sound of Elowen singing as she unpinned the laundry from the clothesline:

Summer leaps into the trees,

Winter melts away.

Make merry in the woods, my friend,

Make glad with each new day.

Siondel hummed along, smiling to himself.  For a moment, Legolas thought the clouds must have parted to let the sun flow through the window and wash over his face, but then he realized the light came from within.  Legolas bent his head and was silent.  What had it been like in the Halls of Waiting?  Siondel was the first Elf he knew who had returned from there. Would the others be like him?

Elowen’s voice broke off in a startled cry.  Legolas leapt to his feet, grabbed at the empty place on his hip where he no longer wore a sword, and ran out the door into the yard, with Siondel right behind him.

Elowen stood near the clothesline, clutching a sheet to her breast.  Before her stood a half-grown youth, with dark, untidy braids.  He had evidently come on horseback, for a bay mare was nosing at the grass at the end of the yard.  The youth turned when Legolas and Siondel erupted from the cottage.  Legolas stared at him, mouth agape.

“Mae govannen, Siondel,” the youth said.  He cocked his head to one side.  “Legolas?”

Legolas took a step toward him, struggling to draw air into his too tight chest.  The last time he had seen this youth, the last time…  He gave a cry and ran forward to fling his arms around the sturdy shoulders.  “Turgon!  Turgon!  Is that really you?”

The youth laughed and pulled free.  “I look more like me than you look like you.  My naneth told me where your cottage was, and I went there, but it was empty, so I came here.”

“And I am so glad you did!”  Elowen dropped the sheet into the laundry basket and embraced Turgon. Then she put a hand on his back to guide him toward the cottage door.  “Come in.  I was just feeding bread and jam to Legolas.  You might as well join us and have some too.”

Turgon broke into trot.  “That sounds good.  My parents arrived only last week, just two days before I was released from the Halls, so of course my naneth has not had time to make jam.  They are still unpacking.”

Siondel picked up the basket and grinned at Legolas.  He spoke in a voice low enough that neither Turgon nor Elowen would hear.  “Why does it not surprise me that Namo sent Turgon on his way as soon as his parents were here to receive him?”

Legolas laughed but never took his eyes from Turgon’s back.  “His time in the Halls must have changed him, but he sounds the same!  And he looks the same!  I cannot tell you how happy I am to see him.  I have regretted my role in his death from the day it happened, and I have missed Turgon nearly every day since then.”

Thunder rolled in the distance.  Legolas followed Siondel into the cottage to find Turgon already sitting at the table spreading jam on a thick slice of Elowen’s bread.  He took a large bit, chewed, and moaned.

Legolas laughed and sat down across from him.  “That was my reaction too.”

Turgon’s grin made Legolas’s breath catch in his throat.  How long had it been since he had seen that crooked grin?

Turgon eyed Legolas, crammed the rest of the piece of bread in his mouth, and then mumbled around it.  “I asked my adar where the best place was to swim here, and he said I should ask someone my age, but I cannot find anyone my age.”

Siondel frowned.  “I cannot think of anyone else your age here among us Wood-elves.  I have seen them in Tirion, of course.”

“I know a good place to swim,” Legolas said.  “I can show you tomorrow.”  He was no longer Turgon’s age, but he suddenly realized he still wanted to be Turgon’s friend.  I will do better by him this time, he vowed to himself.

“I would like that.”  Turgon looked down again and ran his right forefinger through a puddle of gleaming ruby jam on the rim of his plate.

Legolas blinked at the shyly lowered head.  Thranduil had always said Turgon was entirely too bold for his own good or Legolas’s, but you would not know that looking at him now.  He too must feel the change in their relationship.  After all, he had left Legolas as a companion with whom he fished and trained and got into trouble.  He was probably uncertain of how to act with the adult across the table from him.

Rain pattered, then dashed across the yard.  A breeze swept in through the window, misting the dishes on the shelves under it.  Elowen hurried across the kitchen and reached for the shutters.

Turgon turned toward the window and inhaled.  His eyes widened.  “The rain smells wonderful!”

He was right, Legolas realized.  The rain had raised the scent of wet earth and green growing things and fanned it into the little kitchen.  Elowen looked from Turgon to Legolas and let her hands fall to her sides.

Siondel rose.  “I will put your horse in the shed, Turgon.”

“Yes, you must stay for the evening meal,” Elowen said.

Turgon jumped to his feet, licking jam from his fingers.  “Thank you, but I have to go home.  My naneth said not to stay away too long.”  His smile made his face light up as Siondel’s had done.  “She missed me.”

Elowen sent a dismayed glance out at the gray curtain of rain.  “You will be soaked!”

Turgon cocked his head.  “I think I might like that.”

“But--,” Elowen began

“Let him go, Elowen.”  Siondel said.  “I remember feeling as he does.  The body is a great gift.”  Her eyes met his, and they shared a smile.  Feeling like an intruder, Legolas looked away and rose to accompany Turgon to the door.

“Tomorrow,” Legolas said.  “I will come in the morning.  You will like getting to know these woods.”

“Tomorrow.”  Turgon raised a hand in farewell, then ran across the yard toward his horse, huddling close to the trunk of a pine.  Sheets of muddy water splashed to all sides as he went.  He hurled himself onto his horse’s back and ducked his head to avoid a downward sweeping branch as he guided the animal into the open.  He waved to Legolas, then twitched his knees and sent his mount straight toward a fallen elm.  With a cry, he lifted both hands over his head and clung precariously as he and the horse sailed over the obstacle.

“Watch out!” Legolas cried, although Turgon could not have heard him over the noise of the rain and was gone in any case.  He blew out his breath.

Emmelin came running across the yard to shelter breathless in the doorway.  She wrinkled her nose and squeezed water out of the end of a brown braid.  “I knew I should have taken a cloak today.  Who was that?”

“That was Turgon.”

Her gray eyes widened.  “Your and Adar’s wild friend?  The one who died?”

“The same.”  Legolas felt his face stretching into a wide grin.  “The very same.”

***

Legolas heard the melancholy music before he emerged from the trees into the clearing that sheltered the cottage.  Dappled sunlight danced over the thatched roof, the puddles in the yard, and Turgon’s father, sitting on the bench next to the open front door, playing his harp and singing:

I sleep far from my home.

I am weary and worn.

These trees are not mine.

I am luckless and lorn.

Legolas waited until Vardalan finished his song and put his hand on his harp strings to still them.  “Mae govannen, Vardalan.  How fare you?”

Vardalan wrapped his arms around the harp.  “Mae govannen, Legolas.  Well enough, I suppose.”  His wide mouth, so like Turgon’s, drooped at the corners.  Legolas recognized the exhaustion and bewilderment he too had felt when he first arrived west of the seas, indeed felt to some degree still.

He held up the bag he carried.  “Elowen sent carrots and early potatoes.”

Vardalan waved toward the door.  “Mírdaniel is in the kitchen.  I would take them in, but I am thatching the roof.”  He caressed his harp again, sending a liquid trill rippling through the clearing.

Legolas glanced at the bundle of reeds and rope lying on the ground near Vardalan’s feet.  He had a sudden memory of playing in Turgon’s room, with rain pinging into a bucket set in one corner.  He suppressed a grin.  Some things remained the same, even in the Undying Lands.

He entered the cottage’s central hall.  “Mírdaniel?”

“Here!”  Her voice came from the other end of the narrow hall.

He found her sitting at the kitchen table sorting through the contents of a small chest.  Her round face creased into a smile.  “Legolas, how good to see you!”

“Welcome to Aman,” he told her.  He held up the bag.  “Elowen sent vegetables.”

She waved vaguely.  “Just set them on the table.”

He nudged aside the worn tunic covering half the table and set the bag down.  Mírdaniel had evidently been picking the tunic apart because one side seam was open.

“The neighbors sent clothes for Turgon,” Mírdaniel said.  “I am altering them.”

“I can give you some things,” Legolas said.

“That would be lovely.”  She held up the paper she had just taken from the chest.  “Do you know what this is?”

He shook his head.

“It’s a letter Amdir sent home when he was in the Northern Border Patrol.  He tells me not to worry because you are looking out for him.”

Legolas felt no need to tell Mírdaniel that guilt had driven him to watch over Turgon’s little brother.  “Amdir did not come with you?”

“No.  He says he will come when your father does, but until then he will serve the Woodland Realm.”  She put the letter down and unfolded a larger, more brittle piece of paper.  “Look!”

She turned the paper toward him, and Legolas saw a scrawl of faded colors that must once have clashed so brightly they vibrated on the page.  As clearly as if he were in the room, Legolas heard Annael’s childish voice saying, “Turgon, what is that?”   And Turgon had replied, “I do not know, but it is beautiful.”

Legolas smiled faintly.  He reached out a finger but hesitated to touch the fragile page.  “That could have come from no elf but Turgon.”

Mírdaniel pulled it back to look at it again.  She smiled.  “You are right.  It is him all over.”

Running footsteps sounded outside.  Turgon clattered through the back door, a string of fish in his hand.  He was bare-legged, and his long, red tunic gaped at the neck and bunched over his belt.  “I have fish, Naneth, but I have not cleaned them because I was so late.  Mae govannen, Legolas.”

“Go on with Legolas,” Mírdaniel said.  “I can clean them.”

Turgon darted forward to kiss her on the cheek and deposit the fish on top of the tunic on the table.  He turned to Legolas his face split in a huge grin.  “I am ready.”

Legolas pointed toward the back door.  “This way is good.”   He followed Turgon out into the yard, then led him toward one of the faint paths that honeycombed this area where the Elves of the Woodland Realm had congregated.  As they went, Legolas heard Vardalan still playing his harp at the front of the cottage.

Turgon hurried forward, face lifted to the leafy canopy.  “Have you noticed how beautiful is it here?  I keep finding unexpected things.”

Legolas suppressed a grin and adjusted his pace to keep up.  “It is beautiful.  I thought we would go to a waterfall to swim.”

“Good.  I have been exploring these woods but have not yet found a waterfall.”  His foot caught on an exposed tree root, and he stumbled, then recovered.  He lowered his eyes to the path.  “Legolas, did you really go to Mordor?  Did you help destroy Sauron?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I wish I had been there!  Was it thrilling?”

“That would be one word for it.”

Turgon shot him a look.  “You do not sound very excited.”

Legolas grimaced.  “I am glad we destroyed Sauron.  It was worth doing, but we all paid a price.  I, for one, am glad you were not there.”

Turgon made a face.  “You sound like Ithilden.”

Legolas laughed.  “I suppose I do.  As I grew older, I came to believe he was sometimes right.”

Turgon rolled his eyes.

Legolas suddenly realized the oddity of the situation.  Turgon would not have been at the Black Gate, but he missed the horrific Battle Under the Trees and the inferno in the Woodland Realm only because he was in the Halls of Waiting.  He glanced at Turgon, who was whistling to a robin and laughing when it hopped along a branch, as if trying to decide how to answer this unusually large and malformed bird.  If Legolas had had to choose Turgon’s fate, which would he have picked?  He had no idea and was glad to leave such things in the hands of the Valar.

Of course, the Valar had not really been responsible for Turgon’s death at the age of forty.

“Turgon,” he said slowly, “how much of that last hunting trip do you remember?”

Turgon frowned.  “Not much.  I remember meeting the Men, and Ithilden telling us off, and then not really anything after that.”

A tightness in Legolas’s chest eased a little.  He had always worried that Turgon died in fear and pain, but the Valar had been kind, although whether that kindness happened before his fëa fled his body or after, Legolas did not know.  “We should never have gone.”

Turgon shrugged and grinned.  “Probably not.  Is that the waterfall I hear?”  He darted ahead.

By the time Legolas emerged from the trees onto the riverbank, Turgon was stripping off the last of his clothes.  He raised his arms and coiled himself to drive into the roiling pool at the base of the falls tumbling between rocks from ten yards above them.

“Wait!”  Legolas’s heart burst into a gallop.

Turgon teetered so precariously he had to swing his arms to keep from falling in.  “What?”

“There are rocks under the water on this side.”  Legolas pointed to the rope stretched between two trees a short distance away.  “We have to cross and swim on the other side.”

“Oh.  All right.”  Turgon loped to the Elven bridge and swung himself up onto it.  He paused for only an instant, flexing his toes, then ran across and leapt to the ground at the other end.  He arced into the pool while Legolas was still reaching for the rope and letting his pulse slow to normal.

Legolas shed his clothes and slipped into the frothy water, where Turgon was ducking back and forth under the falls.  He swam toward Legolas.  “Bet I can beat you to the rope!”  He slid past, arms and legs churning.

Legolas lunged after him.  He was bigger and stronger, but Turgon had a head start and swam under the rope a good three yards in the lead.

Turgon slowed enough to tread water and call, “Let that be a lesson to you.”  He paddled in a lazy circle, watching the water below him.   “There are fish here.”   He dove out of sight.

Legolas rolled onto his back and let the water buoy him up.  The sun was high enough now to warm his chest and face.  He found himself humming the song Elowen had sung the day before:

Summer leaps into the trees.

Winter melts away.

Summer had indeed leapt into the woods some time while Legolas’s attention was elsewhere: on the weariness that had slowly built over the long years he spent defending his father’s people, on the lingering bite of his sea-longing, on the death of Gimli.  He watched the leaves rippling like water as the breeze flowed over them.  A flickwing swooped from one side of the river to the other, its wings opening and closing to show their white undersides.

A splash of water struck him in the face, and he straightened to see Turgon, whose approach had been hidden by the noise of the falls.

“Did you see that doe and fawn?”  Eyes wide, Turgon pointed behind Legolas to where the leaves on a silvertwig bush still shivered, showing deer had brushed against them.

“No.”  Legolas smiled.  “I will have to keep better watch.”

He swam for a while longer, then left the water to the still-energetic Turgon.  He stretched out on the grassy bank to let the sun dry him.  His eyes slid in and out of focus.  He had slept badly over recent weeks, but unlikely as it seemed, this morning with Turgon had relaxed him enough that he was sleepy.

A dream path rose to meet him and take him back to the Woodland Realm.  He walked through an ash grove, one whose leafy green air he recognized with a catch in his throat, for it had burned to blackened, crumbling trunks during the Battle Under the Trees.  Ahead of him, three elflings walked with fishing poles over their shoulders, their cheeks still round with childhood, their voices not yet changed.  The one in the middle was blond; the others had dark hair.

They must have heard his steps because they looked over their shoulders.  “You cannot come,” said the one with Siondel’s eyes.  “I am sorry, but we are going away, and you cannot come.”

They increased their pace.

Legolas’s legs felt weighted down, as if encased in Mannish armor.  “Wait!”

“Good bye!” they called.  “We have to go now.  Good bye!  Good bye!”  They broke into a run and disappeared among the trees.

His eyes snapped into focus.  Overhead, a maple fluttered its leaves and hummed.   To his surprise, he recognized a note in its song that the trees of home had always saved just for him.  He contemplated it, wondering what that meant.

Then he stirred and looked around to find no one splashing in the river.  He sat up, scanning in all directions.  Turgon was nowhere to be found.  Moreover, his clothes were gone from the opposite bank.

Legolas pulled on his clothes, jumped to his feet, and ran back across the rope bridge.  He was not precisely worried.  No Orcs or spiders lurked among the trees here.  On the other hand, he did not like having Turgon out of his sight either.

He examined the ground on the other riverbank and found the trail Turgon had left.  The traces of his passage ran close to the river with occasionally excursions into clearings among the trees.  Legolas had gone only half a mile when he glimpsed a patch of red and realized it was Turgon’s tunic.

Turgon stood in a sunny clearing in front of a clump of blueberry bushes.  His fingers were stained, so he must have been eating the fruit, but when Legolas saw him, he was looking intently at something on the other side of the berry patch.  Legolas followed the line of his gaze.

Two black bear cubs were helping themselves to blueberries, with only the bushes between them and Turgon.  At Legolas’s approach, one of them looked up from gorging himself.  The little creature was all round face and ears and bright button eyes.

Turgon glanced back at him, his own eyes dancing with glee.  “Can you believe how cute they are?”

Something moved in the trees beyond the cubs. Legolas’s breath caught.  The mother bear was coming to retrieve her wayward cubs.  He spoke as calmly as he could with his heart trying to jump into his throat.  “Their naneth is there, Turgon.  Back away slowly.”

Turgon whipped around to see the mother bear pause a few yards away.  She let out a low growl.  He hastily looked off to one side, knowing better than to provoke her by holding her gaze.  He took a slow step back from the bushes.  “Mae govannen, Nana,” he said lightly.  “They are all yours.”

“A nice tall oak is only a little behind you and to your left,” Legolas said pleasantly.  “If you climb high enough, she will probably decide you are not a sufficient threat to bother with before she gets the cubs away.”

Turgon inched toward the oak.  Legolas let his own hand rest on a maple.  He had no more desire than Turgon did to be close friends with Nana Bear.  She prowled slowly forward.  Turgon started up the oak, and Legolas swung himself into the maple.  Both of them moved quickly then, scaling the trees until they were a good ten yards above the clearing.

Legolas looked down to find the mother nudging the cubs away. One of them lingered for a last fistful of berries, then heeded her growl and loped off at her side.  The three of them disappeared into the shadows.  Turgon moved, but Legolas called, “Wait.”  They lingered in the trees until he was sure the bears were gone.   “All right,” he called and climbed down.

Turgon leapt the last few feet to the ground.  Legolas grabbed his arm and spun him around.  “What did you think you were doing there?  You know you have to watch for bears around blueberry patches.”

“I know.   I just did not think.  Blueberries, Legolas!”  Turgon lifted a blue-stained hand.  He evidently could not believe that Legolas would fail to see the reasonableness of his behavior.

Legolas clamped his mouth shut and let go of Turgon’s arm.  “We will go home,” he said stiffly.   He led them through the trees until he found the path that would take them back toward the cottage where Turgon’s family now lived.  Turgon followed him in silence.  The place between Legolas’s shoulder blades twitched, and he glanced back to see Turgon regarding him reproachfully.

“Sorry,” Turgon said.

Legolas ran his hand over his face.  “I am sorry I shouted at you.  You frightened me.”

“I will try to be more careful next time,” Turgon said, “but sometimes I turn a corner in these woods and I see something so wonderful, I just forget.”

Legolas felt his mouth twitching.  “I understand.  This is not the Woodland Realm, but then that realm is not what it was either, and a Wood-elf could learn to love this forest, I think.”

Turgon raised his eyebrows.  “Of course.”

“Perhaps the rest of us will have to keep an eye on you for a while.”

Turgon smiled his crooked smile.  “That would be all right.”

Legolas laughed and waited for Turgon to come abreast before he started off again.  They walked in companionable silence.  Turgon appeared to be watching for birds, and Legolas was lost in thought.

They approached Turgon’s cottage from the front to see the thatching and rope still lying next to the bench.  The music of Vardalan’s harp flowed out the open door.  Legolas eyed the thatching and reached a decision.  “Wait here.”  He ignored Turgon’s startled look and entered the cottage, calling to let Vardalan and Mírdaniel know he was there.  They sat at the kitchen table, Mírdaniel drinking a cup of what smelled like chamomile tea and Vardalan resting his harp on his knee.

“Mae govannen,” Vardalan said.  “How was your morning?”  He craned his neck to peer around Legolas.  “Where is Turgon?”

“I left him out front.  I have something I want to say without him present.”  Legolas drew a deep breath.  He was about to do something his father might have done, although Thranduil would be horrified if he ever heard of Legolas doing it.  “The Valar have blessed you with an affectionate, imaginative, daring Wood-elf child.  I know you are weary.  Believe me, I know.  But you have to pay attention to him!”

They blinked.  “We pay attention.”  Mírdaniel set her tea down.

“Of course we do,” Vardalan said, “but we have things to do.”

Legolas threw up his hands.  “I doubt if a leaky roof will bother Turgon, and I will ask Elowen to alter some of my clothes to fit him.  But sometimes both of you are lost in your own preoccupations, and if you do not keep watch over him until he gains some sense, he will wind up back in the Halls of Waiting.  And if that happens, Namo is unlikely to be pleased with any of us.”

Mírdaniel’s face crumpled.  “I could not bear it if something happened to Turgon again.”

Vardalan patted her hand.  His brow too was furrowed.  “Is he likely to do something dangerous, Legolas?”

“Yes.”  Legolas saw no need to elaborate.

Vardalan chewed a corner of his lower lip.  “I suppose we will have to keep an eye on him for a while.”

“That would be wise.”  Legolas allowed his shoulders to relax a little, but not all the way.  He was sure Mírdaniel and Vardalan loved their son; he was less certain of their ability to carry out their good intentions.  “I will take my leave.  I apologize if I have been rude.”

“Not at all.”  Vardalan snapped his fingers.  “I plan to go to Tirion to see if anyone needs a minstrel for a feast.  Perhaps Turgon would like to go with me.”

Legolas pictured it.  “Let me know when you go,” he said quickly, “and I will accompany you.”

“That would be lovely.”  Vardalan beamed at him.

Legolas nodded to Mírdaniel and went back to the front yard, where he found Turgon sitting on the bench with his legs stretched out in front of him.  “You can go in now,” Legolas said.  “I will come tomorrow morning.  We will mend the roof and then look for wood to make you a bow.”

“Good!  Will you show me places to hunt?”

“Yes.”  Legolas smiled.  “I will enjoy having a friend along again.”

Mírdaniel appeared in the cottage doorway.  “Come in and have something to eat, Turgon.  Will you stay, Legolas?”

He thought about the bare kitchen shelves.  “No, thank you.  I must be on my way.”

Turgon flashed him a grin and ran into the cottage.

Legolas started home, whistling the song Elowen had sung the day before, the one he had hummed on the riverbank.  He smiled to himself.  He looked forward to the next day as he had not looked forward to anything for some time.  Turgon needed a friend, that was true.  But without even knowing it, Legolas too had been waiting for a friend’s help, and today he had received it.