A/N: No, I haven't abandoned Heir of Meduseld! This was a plot bunny that simply wouldn't let me be 'til I'd worked it out. Chapter 25 is in the works, and hopefully it'll be up to standard shortly.

I have always wondered about Legolas and Boromir (not in the slashy sense). Throughout Fellowship of the Ring Boromir never seems to regard Legolas as anything but a tagalong, and seems to fear and disdain all things Elvish; so why did Legolas sing such a lovely dirge for him after his death on Amon Hen? This, such as it is, is my take on it. I hope you enjoy it.

--Le Rouret

The man of Gondor watches me. I can feel his presence. I am not discommoded however; ere he arrived at Imladris he had never seen one of the Eldar before. I am strange to him; I know this. But he is not so strange to me, though he come of a far-off land, many leagues from my beloved Dale. He is a man, mortal, noble perhaps; I would own him as my friend were he to allow it.

I place the mouthpiece of the pipe to my lips. I taste tar, smoke. I ease a glistening ball from the bowl; its iridescent swirls roll and undulate. It separates; I breathe out upon it and it rises slowly into the damp air. But I have put too much extra liquid on it; it sinks, and I am constrained to lay the pipe aside. I place my hands beneath it, stroking the air upward; it rises, floats, drifts toward the larch leaves rustling over my head.

He steps forward; I do not turn. I know he is there, and if he thinks he approach me in stealth I do not wish to disabuse him of that notion – I am strange enough to him, methinks. So I play with the bubble, let it dance with my hands and my breath, until it is pierced by a branch. I can hear the little pop as it disintegrates; tiny droplets of soap sprinkle down. I smile.

His foot treads upon a stick. He is alerting me to his presence. Kind of him, but unnecessary. I turn to him, and smile.

He looks puzzled; his dark brows form a V over his eyes, and he is frowning.

“Well met, man of Gondor,” I say.

“Well met to you, Elf of Mirkwood,” he replies cautiously, but says naught else. I smile again at him, then pick up the pipe, and put it to my lips. There is yet enough soap on the bowl, and I coax another bubble out the end. I blow slowly, watching the soap spin and glitter upon the sphere of air; when it separates I am pleased to see it is yet larger than my last effort.

“Ah,” I say. I have not used overmuch soap on it so it floats of its own volition, glistening in the afternoon light. The man of Gondor and I watch it as it drifts upward, catching upon a broad oak leaf ere it shatters. I turn to the man and smile. “That was a good one.”

He studies me; he is still puzzled, this one. He glances at the pipe, and up at the leaf where my late creation died. “I do not mean to be rude, O Elf of Mirkwood, but what are you doing?”

“I am making soap bubbles,” I reply. Do they not make soap bubbles, the children of Gondor? The children of Dale adore soap bubbles; indeed the Dwarves of Erebor make little pipes and bowls with which to create such things. They are popular there, and housewives like them, because it occupies the young ones so that they might get on with their laundry. Well, should I go to Gondor and meet children, perchance I might bring the pastime with me.

Still the man of Gondor studies me. I can see he is a canny warrior, this one; his eyes are hard and appraising, trusting no one but himself; he is proud, and strong, and stubborn. I should like to be friends with him; he reminds me of my friend Meivel.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

I dip the pipe into the plate of soap and water until the viscous stuff clings to the bowl; I tap the edge, and ere I reply put the stem to my lips and blow out slowly. Another bubble, larger this time, swells and spins; it splits from the bowl and it is heavy, so I must needs breathe upon it to get it to rise. At last I ease it to the branches, where once again it bursts, and rains upon me bits of soap. I laugh.

“Because I want to,” I say.

As I blow another bubble he watches me, his face shuttered. I think he would smile if he dared, but he is of the type I can tell that if one attempts to coax a smile all one gets for one’s efforts is a scowl. So I will let him smile when he likes. He will eventually I am sure, once we are the better acquainted.

“You are suffering ennui perhaps?” he asks slowly.

I find this very amusing, and I laugh, and lay the pipe down. I rub my hands together; they are greasy and slippery from the soap. “Nay, I do not easily succumb to boredom,” I say, smiling at him. “’Twas the two little Halflings, the young ones; I caught them wandering about complaining of the dearth of entertainment, and strove to assuage their tedium.”

“Oh?” He looks round, peering into the bushes as though looking for a rabbit. “And where are the two little ones?”

“They tired of soap bubbles and went to the buttery,” I say, and tip the dish of soapy water into a nearby boxwood. “Food, not bubbles, attracts hungry Halflings.”

He stares at me. “And you have stood here and made soap bubbles in their absence?” he asks. It is not the question preying upon his mind, but he is too gentle to ask what he truly wants to know.

“I like soap bubbles,” I say, answering the unspoken question and not the spoken one. “Besides which I am harrowed in my mind, and I have learnt over the years that such humble pastimes calm me, and make me to be better focused upon my tasks.”

“Yes,” he says slowly; “though I would not have thought – that is to say, when I am in that state I tend to use my whetstone.”

“I have also been known to so do,” I admit; “however my knife is sharp enough, and as I do not smoke and do not possess mine own pipe, I took advantage of little Peregrin’s offer of his spare pipe – though I suspect it is not his own but his cousin’s – to indulge myself in this admittedly childlike pastime.”

He falls silent, and watches me as I gather my things. I will have to wash the pipe carefully, lest its owner taste upon it soap and not pipeweed – not that I could tell the difference, but then I find the smell of smoke engenders in me not pleasant memories but warlike ones.

I think I am making him uncomfortable; he does not seem to know what to say to me. He is not alone in this, for I also am unsure what to say to him. He and I are tested soldiers; our fathers hold desperate sway over trammeled lands, and we have come to Imladris seeking Elrond’s wisdom. Yet the silence extends despite our similarities, or mayhap because of them. Shall we not be friends after all? I stand still and look at him, my hands full of dripping pipe and bowl and plate. He regards me with confusion and suspicion mingled; his eyes are troubled and he shields his thoughts from me. My gaze appears to discommode him, for he gives me a curt nod and a “good afternoon,” turns upon his heel, and strides from the clearing.

I stand for a while listening to the birds sing. Imladris is lovely, but it is not home. Perhaps I shall leave next week, and return to the battle there to fight alongside my father and kin.

The Dwarf is on watch. Oh, I should not call him simply that; he is my companion and I need to think of him by his name. Gimli. Gimli, whose father quite fairly implanted hatred of all things Elvish, in particular that which is engendered through Thranduil, into his son’s breast. Ironic, truly; for I was not even home at the time. I had to hear it off Hirilcúllas later. How I laughed! Gallion was not impressed with me, but then he and I have never been very close.

I do not think the Dwarf and I shall be friends. Indeed I am not certain I might even attempt it. Surely it would be impossible.

It is a shame, for we are compatriots bound upon a quest. I should rather be friendly with him. At least we are civil; I have teeth-marks upon my tongue betimes but I remind myself it is for the good. Frodo Baggins’ task is greater than our dislike of each other.

The Ring! Of all evil things, for this to be found! And I am the more deeply grieved, for my soldiers slain and the creature released, and the unintended mischief caused. I was not present at his rescue but as the men were under my command the fault lies with me.

The Ring! Detestable, horrible creation! O that Isildur had destroyed it when he found it, or that the Halfling Bilbo Baggins left it to molder in Gollum’s cave! O that it had not been made at all; then perhaps Arda would be a better place, or at least a place less fraught with death.

I cannot sleep; I am not weary. Yet we stop at night, and the mortals eat, and the mortals sleep. Even Mithrandir sleeps. I beg to take the watches to cure me of this restlessness, but both Aragorn and Mithrandir say me nay. “It would not do to make them feel you shall always watch over them,” chided the Istar with a smile. “This fellowship is far too important to rely on but one person.”

“Besides which,” muttered Aragorn under his breath, looking round to make sure the others were not listening. “Gimli and Boromir would think you self-aggrandizing.”

That hurt me; he did not mean to hurt me by that yet it hurt nonetheless. Why should those two think such things of me? I do not think it very logical to deny I am efficacious in the dark, moreso than man and dwarf. The Halflings; they are canny and see and hear well, near as well as I; yet they need much sleep and rest, for their legs are so short and we travel so far. Why should they not use me, since I am able and quite willing? I know I am strange to them; but we shall be abroad some time; may they not grow accustomed to me soon?

It is like bees in my feet; I must get up. I rise silently, shedding my blankets, and step outside the circle of my companions. They sleep; some snore, especially the Halflings. I smile, seeing Peregrin’s bag upon the perimeter; I lift it, and flit lightly to the edge of the stream. The water dimples and flashes in the starlight. I dig through the bag, humming under my breath, until I find that which he promised me I could borrow “whenever I liked.” To be sure; he probably did not mean in the middle of the night, but I shall not quibble over inanities.

I find soap flakes and a dish, and before long I am sending gleaming balls to the heavens, where they quiver and shimmer against the stars. O Elbereth, how long? How long shall I wander far from my fold? How long shall I be but the lone Elf in a band of mortals? How long shall this evil have hold of our earth; how long shall we be constrained to fight against it? I produce a delightful double sphere that spins and rotates upon itself, and I must refrain from laughing aloud. Like stars that orbit in tandem it seems to me, but light, insubstantial, a faery-ball. I hear the crunch of steps behind me, and a voice; it is Boromir and Gimli. The man mutters, but I can hear him.

“What is he about? He is not blowing soap bubbles again!”

The Dwarf snorts. “Again? You have caught him at this spurious activity before?”

“Aye, ere we departed Imladris. I cannot decide if he is mad or merely silly.”

I wait for the Dwarf’s snide retort, bracing myself for the eavesdropper’s malady of hearing exactly what others think of one. But there is silence a moment; then I hear him say:

“Mad, nay; silly, perhaps. But I would not cross that one for anything; he is like unto his father, but thankfully not so capricious. Let him have his fad; it is harmless, and if it amuses him what of it? I imagine a thousand years in Middle Earth might engender odd behavior in anyone.”

This surprises me; I have never heard a Dwarf speak anything but disparagement upon my kind. I let fly a stream of small bubbles, which weave and dance about the cold air; they begin to fall into the stream one by one, immolating themselves upon the water. Short-lived, tenuous, vacuous; yet beautiful and amusing, like the pretty maids who flirt with me on the docks of Esgaroth. Then Boromir speaks.

“It is all very well to excuse his actions for his immortality, but I would have expected more gravity from one who is said to be a warrior.” Then crunching footsteps recede, and I hear the Dwarf sigh.

No, I do not think Boromir and I will be friends. Twenty-three days have we traveled from Imladris, and he speaks naught to me but what is necessary. Gimli, however …

I rinse the little pipe and bowl, and stow it back in the bag. I am not sleepy, but perhaps Gimli will not mind if I walk the perimeter for him. I am so restless, and evil is so near.

O, I am cold! It is not so bad for me as it is for the poor Halflings, so I let them crowd round my legs toward the fire. I have to pull Meriadoc back though; he is about to set his cloak on fire, which would be inconvenient.

We are to go through Moria. I am discontent. I do not wish to go to that place; despite Gimli’s enthusiasm it has an evil reputation. I do not mind living underground – was I not born in a cavern? – but to travel so far, and in the dark – ! Surely there is a better way; surely we could risk the Gap of Rohan?

Boromir stands beside me, chafing his hands in their heavy gauntlets. It has been a strange few weeks. Knowing he looks askance at me makes me diffident about speaking to him; yet betimes I surprise in his eyes a look of reluctant approbation, as though he wishes to approve yet is confined by his beliefs. What is his father like; his brother? I have heard Mithrandir speak of them highly, yet for a man to have produced a son of this caliber, this pride, this stubborn nobility – surely the brother is like unto this one. I might like Boromir some day, if he would but unbend toward me! The Dwarf is more outwardly disapproving of my high spirits and antics; yet I do not feel from him the censure that emanates from the man of Gondor. I am a warrior, this I know; why should I always act as though life is but a burden? To be certain it can be difficult betimes, but spring follows winter and the stars are always there. I do not see why he must needs be so solemn, nor impose his standard upon me.

He is shivering, yet allows the Halflings as well to stand closest to the blaze. I smile at this, and he glances at me; behind his dark beard I see his lips twitch.

“We will miss the snow anon,” he says in a low voice, and turns his gaze upon Gimli. The Dwarf confers with Aragorn and Mithrandir; his eyes are glowing, and he is very happy. I cannot help but sigh, and Boromir says: “What is it? I know you do not wish to go into Moria; nor do I! A pity it is no one listened to our arguments.”

“So long as we manage to cross the range safely, I do not see if it matters,” I say carefully; I have no desire to foster dissention against Mithrandir. “Besides it makes Gimli happy.”

Boromir grunts. “Not two nights ago you conceded to let little Master Gamgee stir herbs in the broth, saying it ‘made him happy.’ And you gave up the breast of the goose to the Ringbearer, simply because he had let his gaze linger upon it, when we camped in that ravine. Last week I watched with my eyes you cover the Halflings with your own blanket for they shivered in their sleep. Now you wish to make the Dwarf happy by going through Moria! I hazard a guess that you came along simply to make Mithrandir happy; is that so? Or was it Aragorn you wished to please?”

I am not certain what he means; I cannot tell if he is angry or no. I study him carefully. He still shivers, and his lips are blue; he looks tired and worried. I wonder when the last time was someone did something simply to make him happy. Also I have never heard him speak of a mother, or a sweetheart; is he so fierce a man that the gentle passions have lost their hold upon him? If that is so he is to be pitied more than anyone in our company! When I sing he averts his face; when the Halflings tell jokes and riddles he sits apart; he is no merry companion this, though he is stout enough, and I trust him with my back. How I wish we could be friends! I should like to see through that shell of his; I should like to see him laugh without bitterness, without rancor, without scorn. He feels my eyes upon him and looks back at me; there is a trace of contrition there.

“My pardon, Legolas,” he says roughly. “I did not mean to sound so disparaging.”

“I do not understand you,” I say simply.

Boromir does not answer for a moment, but then he says quietly: “Nor I you.”

I ponder this; perhaps it is my desire for others’ comforts that so puzzles him. For myself I know not why the mortals round me should be so grasping for their own consolation; I have considered this before, and think perhaps it has aught to do with their short lives, and their fear that they shall not have their just due of comforts in this world. Certes it is I have time aplenty on my hands; I can see past the brief discomfort to the many feasts beyond; perhaps this is why Boromir does not understand me. He is young, so young; he has but seen a brief handful of springs and is so serious. Perhaps if he live long enough I might teach him the joy in the journey and not the sorrow only. Perhaps if we survive Moria we might finally be friends! How can I explain this to him though? It should seem, as Mithrandir did say, self-aggrandizing to so flaunt my age. Yet I want above all for him to understand me, so that he might grow to like me. I think I could like him, if he would simply give me the chance.

“Boromir,” I say, “what could I do that would make you happy?”

He is flabbergasted by this; I can see the astonishment writ clear upon his fair face. He stares at me as though I have sprouted three extra noses and a pair of horns. Does he not see I am returning to our previous conversation? “It is not so tricky a question,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. “I know food and warmth and song bring happiness to the Halflings; I know my eyes and ears and presence bring happiness to Aragorn and Mithrandir; I know to travel beneath the mountains to the ancient keep of the Dwarves will bring Gimli much happiness. But I do not know what makes you happy; I have not seen you happy since I met you. And how can I do something to make you happy when I do not know what it could be? That is why I say I do not understand you; I would make you happy if I could.”

“Why?” he asks in amazement.

I shrug. “Why not? I like to.”

He thinks for a moment, rubbing his stiff hands slowly together. “For the same reason you make soap bubbles then,” he mutters, almost to himself. I raise my eyebrows, and he turns, and gives me the ghost of a smile. “For your own good pleasure,” he says; “to quell your disquiet and take up time – soap bubbles, and making your companions happy. Well, they are harmless hobbies I suppose, and as there is little enough loveliness in our world I cannot gainsay you this.” Before I can reply he moves away to check the pony and baggage. I know he left me because he fears to give himself away; he fears to draw too close to me. Why should he fear friendship with me? I am about to pursue him, to continue our conversation in hopes he will open further; but Sam asks me a question then about my shoes, and the matter drops.

It is an astonishing thing that I find myself here; it is all the more astonishing I should find that companionship I craved not with my fellow Elves but with Gimli. I am grieved over Mithrandir’s death, more than my companions know save perhaps Aragorn; yet Gimli lets me weep, or rage, or sing, or laugh, and gainsays me naught. I did not know in myself such a hunger for talk! And we talk, or walk in silence, or climb hills, or listen to my kinsmen speak or sing; sometimes we will sit upon a high place with our arms wrapped round our knees and look out to the tree-girt horizon; he will smoke and blow rings round my head, and I rest my chin upon my knees and hum under my breath. He is so comfortable; I can say what I like to him without fear of censure, and he is so at ease with me it quite dumbfounds me. How could I have ever thought he and I would not be friends? At this moment I am astounded that we were not friends from the moment we met. It is like wakening one morn to find a brother in one’s bed one has never known; there is no constraint or fear for he is closest kin though the two never met before.

O shall his father rage, and mine own be confounded! Almost do I crave that moment to come for sheer mirth; we could use the laughter now.

Peregrin has loaned me his little pipe again, and I have begged a bowl of soap chips from Maelaëri up at the city. She looked at me oddly when I requested them but gave them without comment; we might all be Wood-Elves here but I am more like unto Gimli than the Galadrim. Gimli watches me as I stir the soap and water with my fingers; the flakes soften and dissolve, and I depress them against the bottom of the bowl.

“Why do you blow soap bubbles anyway?” he asks, sending a lovely big smoke ring to hover over my head. I exhale upon it, and it quivers and expands; I rotate one finger into the middle as though to stir it, and it spins. Gimli laughs.

“For the same reason I blow smoke rings. Very well; I have answered mine own question have I not?” he says good-naturedly. He sucks upon the pipe and it pops, and he sends another ring to dancing; it drifts away from me though before I can play with it.

I begin to make soap bubbles, and Gimli and I see if we can get his smoke rings to embrace the bubbles or no. It is challenging; the closest we get is to send the bubbles through the rings, and only once do we manage to set a ring fully round one particularly large bubble. We are laughing now, and the sun is shining; there are rooks wheeling about the mallorn beneath which we sit, and they cry of snails and lizards and nestlings to come. At last we tire of this, and set down our pipes; I lie upon the grass and look up at the sky, and Gimli folds his hands across his breast and soon begins to snore.

The sun westers. I decide to rinse the pipe and bowl ere I return them to their owner. I rise silently, giving my Dwarf-friend an indulgent smile; collecting my toys I descend the hill to the stream below which chuckles round a steep bank. Many roots thrust into this stream, for the trees are thirsty here, and it is cool and shady. I remove my shoes and hose and paddle amongst the rocks, letting the water rush over my bare feet and legs. Almost do I feel refreshed; were it not for the shadow which haunts us I should be quite happy.

There is the sound of steps behind me. Not Elvish to be sure for they would be silent; nor Halfling, for the tread is far too heavy; and anyway the Halflings cannot walk and cease to talk here, and there are no voices. One man’s footsteps, growing closer, crashing through the underbrush – it cannot be Aragorn for he is not of habit so careless. It must be Boromir.

My heart is heavy on his account. I know not why he regards Galadriel so strange – what could she have offered him, in exchange for his quest? She offered me naught; I could hear her voice within my head: Son of Thranduil, faithful and true! she said; what could she have said to the man of Gondor? But he is sad I can tell; he as the others weeps for Mithrandir. I knew not how deep ran Boromir’s regard for the Istar ‘til I beheld him weep upon the rocks when we quit Moria at last. I saw then the passions within him ran deep; he hid his affection well, and I wonder what other affections afflict him, that he veils so assiduously. Has he any affection for Aragorn, for the Halflings, for Gimli or me? And if so need I wait ‘til my death to descry it? That is a sad thought! I should dearly like for him to be my friend, for I like him quite well, though he is a dour companion. And to date I know not what would make him happy! I must be quite stupid regarding him, for I have mine other friends reckoned well enough. Sam, for instance; I have but to teach him a few words in my tongue and he glows like a lamp. But Boromir is a puzzle to me.

I do not wish to startle him; he is uncomfortable enough here I deem, so while I wash Peregrin’s pipe I begin to sing that he might descry my presence. The footsteps falter, but then quicken; I am pleased to note he hurries to me. I look up the bank to him; he stands gazing down at me. He is almost awkward like a young boy, and so unsure of himself. I check my song and smile at him.

“Well met, Boromir,” I say cheerfully. I hold up the dripping pipe. “You have just missed it I fear; I am out of soap.”

His brow knits, but then a small smile twitches the corner of his lips, like a hook in a fish’s mouth. Ah, I believe I might have you, I think. He is not so cheerless as he would have me believe. Indeed I have caught him at this several times; he is patient at least with the younger Halflings, and not averse to the odd twist of phrase to make us chuckle. “Have you?” he asks, his shoulders losing some of their tenseness. “Ah that is unfortunate; perchance we might find else with which to occupy ourselves.”

“My knife is yet sufficiently sharp,” I say with a smile. “Gimli and I have been at play up the hill; he slumbers there yet I believe. Come roust him with me, and we shall go to Caras Galadon and watch the maidens dance upon the lawn.”

Whatever he wanted of me that was evidently not it. He stiffens, and his eyes so friendly before shutter again. Does he fear to see Galadriel there? Not wishing to forego his company more I add as though on afterthought: “Or let us instead return to the others at the pavilion; I am hungry and if we do not go soon then the Halflings shall eat all the food ere we arrive; they would not spare us a crumb if they had the chance!”

“That … would be most agreeable,” he says, though he is on his guard yet. Stubborn man! Why must he be so difficult? Any of the others should have leapt at the suggestion we watch a dance; is he so fearful of Galadriel’s influence he would avoid the city at all cost? I collect my things and climb up the bank. He smells too of pipeweed, and I cannot help but smile.

“Ah,” I say; “with whom have you foregathered; the Halflings, or Aragorn?” At his startled look I explain: “I smell pipe smoke upon you; and as neither of us indulges ourselves in that vice certes it is the scent is externally laid.”

“I sat for a time with Meriadoc,” he says, and now the smile is genuine. “He told me of his father and mother, and his land the Shire; he and Peregrin also did regale me quite with tales of their own depredations, and while they talked they did smoke.”

“It is puzzling is it not?” I ask as he follows me up the hill. “They cannot speak but the pipe is in their hands! For myself if I would hold aught as I converse it shall be a glass of good strong wine.”

“I concur with you in this,” smiles Boromir, and we ascend in the closest state to comfortable silence we have yet attained.

We rouse Gimli, who growls that he wanted to continue his nap; however the promise of wine and meat and quiet conversation overcomes him and he goes with us to the pavilion. Only Peregrin and Meriadoc are there; when Boromir inquires as to the whereabouts of Aragorn, Frodo, and Sam Peregrin waves his pipe negligently and says: “O gadding about I suppose! Now do come sit with us you fellows; Merry and I have been holding back as best we can but these rolls and pastries and pies are still hot, and our mouths are watering.”

“Give me the wine-jug then,” I say with a laugh; “and let us fall to ere you waste away to nothing!”

We eat and drink and laugh, and Boromir I am pleased to note unbends; he smiles and laughs with us, and argues good-naturedly with Meriadoc over the distribution of the last meat pastry. I make sure his goblet is ever full, for wine loosens both tongue and propriety and he has far too strong a hold on both; it is unnatural in one so young as he. Men ought not take themselves so serious; it is not good for them. At last when the conversation wanes he turns to me; his eyes are warm and half-closed, and he reclines upon the couch with goblet in hand. “Legolas,” he says indolently; “tell me, for I am very curious; how is it you began curtail your disquiet blowing soap bubbles? In all tales I heard as a boy of your ilk it was said only that the Elves were tall and wise and fierce and fair; I did not connect such mundanities with you.”

Ah! So I upset his calculations; I was not as he expected; I did not fit his mold. No wonder he regarded me so charily; he must have thought I made fun with him. “To be honest I am not certain,” I admit. “I do remember blowing soap bubbles with my Lady Mother when I was very young; she had a garden then with a fountain in the middle, and we would send them up into the shooting water, to watch them shatter into pieces when the font struck them. I counted it good fun then, and as I have yet to grow up I suppose the delight of them remains.”

“Haven’t grown up!” cries Peregrin. “Why I thought you were old, Legolas!”

“I grow older but not up,” I laugh. “That is what my Lady Mother tells me anyway! Why the first thing I do when I come home from deeds errant is to secrete myself in the oak tree in her garden and blow soap bubbles down upon her; it is in that way she knows her son has returned safely.”

Gimli and the Halflings laugh, but Boromir looks disapproving. “You do not report the outcome of your duty to your father first?” he asks with a frown.

My heart twists within me; I cannot help but feel that coldness when I recall my last foray into south Mirkwood: the ground littered with bodies, the stench of death and the caw of crows. One hundred forty-seven kin slain, and we beat back the orcs but barely; the blood ran upon the earth like rivers, and I thrust the goblin-captain’s head upon a spike with my own hands. But I lay a bland visage upon me and say with steady voice, “My Lord Father comprehends full well that oftimes the events occurring in the fulfillment of my duties are fraught with sorrow; it is for that reason he allows me first to calm my soul ere I report more death to him.”

He starts; he did not expect that I see. What did you think, son of Gondor; that an Elven prince has naught to do save sing and dance upon the green? I am a captain too; I lose men as do you, though I am not certain if it hurts you as it hurts me. After all mortal men are doomed to Mandos in any case; twenty, thirty years earlier, what can it matter? But my poor soldiers were meant to dwell happily for decades, centuries, millennia. To arrest their state is an affront to everything that makes us what we are.

I remember Dale then, as it was before the Dragon came, and am struck anew by grief. All those merry people, those women and children, the blithe men, and my friends! No; though they had upon them the doom of men and not of Elves it was obscene to watch them fall so young. Mortal, immortal; what matters it? Even Mithrandir fell. Again the cold sorrow; O Mithrandir, why did you die? What shall we do without you? How can we go on without your wisdom? How terrible it is to think I shall go for day after day after day missing your voice and your beard and your laugh and your growl! You were worth far more than I; why could I not have died in your place? And would I not give up mine own immortal life, bid farewell to kin and tree and star, to protect one of my companions here? I would; and gladly; I have lived long enough I suppose. To be sure the happiness is oftimes outweighed by the sorrow, but there are loves and fêtes and silent solitary moments watching sunrises that pierce one’s soul. It has been worth it after all.

I must have been silent longer than I thought. When Gimli touches my hand and I come to myself I see that the Halflings regard me with sympathy, and Boromir looks very uncomfortable. “I – beg your pardon, friends,” I say, and I am surprised to hear my voice is unsteady. “I did not mean to dash cold water upon our nice party.” I rise and dust off my hands. “I am going to Caras Galadon,” I say; my voice is stronger. “I have need of anonymous gaiety. I shall bid you good-night.” And I depart the pavilion ere another can speak.

I walk quickly, wishing to put as much distance betwixt my person and theirs. I want to be alone; I want to curl into a ball and forget the Necromancer, Dol Guldur, the spiders and orcs, my childhood companions who fell beneath the trees of my homeland. I want to forget Lady Celebrian, Mithrandir, all the other ones who have been hurt or slain by the dark lord’s minions. I hear footsteps behind me. I can tell it is Boromir by the weight and length of his stride. This surprises me; I did not think I merited his interest or sympathy.

I turn. He trots up to me, his handsome face neutral; but in his eyes I see a little of the horrors I have felt. He too has lived all his life beneath Sauron’s shadow; he too has known naught but war and privation. Moreso than the Halflings and even Gimli we two understand this together.

“Legolas,” he says, and lays a hand on my arm. In his face is diffidence, embarrassment, pride warring together. I take pity on him; after all, what care I if my faults are laid open?

“There is no offense,” I say, and force a smile. “No doubt your father and mine are of differing temperament.”

He says naught a moment; he is thinking. I let him think. It takes longer than I expected. What is it, son of Gondor? I see the doubt in your face; I see your reluctance to own me as friend. I am strange to you I know; my kind were naught but legend ere you set foot in Imladris. Even after all this time you are wary of me, and no blame to you; that I have known mortal men my whole life and am used to their ways does not mean all men are comfortable to me.

I wait. Will the shell break; will he lower that shield? Alone of the Fellowship he has held aloof; he speaks with wry humor and is ineffably politic, yet there is always that barrier betwixt us. Something, something dark pursues him; is he consumed by pride, or fear, or doubt? I have known all those; do not let them overtake you, Boromir! A burden shared is halved. Will you not disclose your mind to me, that your load may be the lighter, and we be friends at last?

But his eyes shutter; he smiles and removes his hand. “Very good, very good,” he says affably. “I meant no affront; no doubt the Elves run their kingdoms differently than do we.” And he turns on his heel and disappears into the brush.

Now my heart is heavier than before. Why will you not be friends with me, Boromir? I long to have this sweet fellowship with you; I long to speak at ease and rest in comfort in your presence; I long to know the consolation of amity when we stand together. But you are not willing.

The air is heavy; all round us the mist swirls, pearlescent, iridescent like my soap bubbles would be, were I allowed to play with them. I cannot blow bubbles now however, much as I would like to. It would lift my tension and give me a modicum of respite. But even I see such an action is unfitting our current task. Poor Frodo! I should not like to be in his position; how glad I am the Ring did not pass to one such as I! I would not touch it; I do not want to see it; it gives me a terrible chill even to glimpse the chain about his neck that bears the awful thing. How I wish it were already destroyed! The only time I wish to fix my gaze upon it is when it is dropped into the boiling rock of the fiery mountain. I will watch it dissolve, watch its evil soften and liquefy, and in my heart I will feel a fierce joy to know Sauron is finally vanquished.

So much will fade when the Ring is destroyed. O yes; I say when not if; I dare not contemplate an alternative ending to our dark faery-tale. I shall fade; the Elves shall fade; we shall diminish and vanish. What shall I do then? I shall return to my Lord Father’s keep; I shall aid him in cleaning up the rest of Morgoth’s twisted bastards; we shall continue our trade and our friendship with the mortals by the Lake … and in a hundred years’ time what then? Obscurity, perhaps … mortals are so forgetful. Will I be weary of Middle Earth by then? I do not know; there are so many beautiful things yet I should like to see. Why I have never even seen the Sea yet. Perhaps Gimli and I will go to the Shire to visit our little friends; perhaps I will reacquaint myself with Círdan whom I met in Imladris. I have heard the Sea is huge and dark and sonorous and cold. I cannot imagine I will like it overmuch; but still I should like to see it.

Boromir and I are sharpening our weapons. My arrow heads are nicked, and the steel points bent; my whetstone makes a rhythmic grating sound, grrt grrt grrt like a grasshopper, as I work them smooth. Boromir’s whetstone by contrast sings a shrill scraping song …. shrrrrrkkkk it says, shrrrrrkkkk … it sounds like a crow.

He is haunted and alone. I can feel it; I can feel the heaviness of his soul, the knot of despair and anger. I would inquire of him his ailment but he would not own it to me. Ever since we left Lothlórien he has sunk further into his handmade hell. If only he would speak! But though he wears his habitual mask of urbanity there is great agitation beneath it. O Boromir, Boromir; will you not trust me enough to unburden your heart? I ache for you; I long to be your friend, but you will not let me in!

We are alone in the clearing for now. All the others are stretching their legs, gathering firewood, seeing to the boats. If there were any time to open this man’s mind it should be now, but I cannot speak; the longer we are silent the heavier the silence becomes. It is like the air – damp, thick, impenetrable, maddening. And why should I attempt to unwind his cocoon when I have been rebuffed before? Now will be no different; he will shut me out as always.

I lay aside my stone and arrows and gather my limbs up close to my body. I am rarely one to feel the discomforts of the atmosphere but I am cold. I think it is the fog. How it clings to one, penetrates one’s clothing and skin! I rest my chin upon my knees and stare into the swirling milky air. Then I hear Boromir stir beside me, and lay his own weapon aside. May I speak? I think perhaps it is time for me to speak. I do not turn to him, but fixing my eyes upon the filmy trees before me I say:

“My heart is heavy; I wish it were the morrow, for then our choices would be made and we would know where we are going.”

“I know where I am going,” he says curtly. Still I do not face him; I have noticed he does not like it much when I meet his eyes. Why is that, I wonder? I have never noted that my gaze made others in the Fellowship uncomfortable; why should Boromir be so chary of me?

“You go to your father,” I say. I miss my Lord Father; I miss his brash laugh and quick temper, his brilliant smile and embrace that threatens to crush my ribs. And I miss my Lady Mother, her sly twinkling eyes and laughing mouth, her hand upon my hair stroking the sorrow from my heart.

“I go alone,” he says. He is bitter. I know the arguments; I know the compulsion laid on Frodo by the Council; I know the desires of both Boromir’s and Aragorn’s hearts, to go to Gondor and engage the battle there. And whence go I? I do not know. I would go with Frodo; I would like to help him. He might have need of me, and from the way Boromir regards me I do not think he would countenance one lone Elf’s aid in Minas Tirith to be a thing greatly desired.

“You do not know yet that you go alone,” I say, attempting to placate him. “After all Frodo and the others have decided nothing yet.”

Silence again. I am growing used to this. Boromir used to speak more, I know it; he has grown so taciturn of late. I cannot see the Anduin but I can hear it, rustling, rushing, gurgling, chuckling. Oromë speaks to me. Beware, beware, he says, but I know not of what he warns me.

The man of Gondor clears his throat. He does this, I have noticed, when he is about to ask a boon of someone, or give a compliment. Such things do not issue forth of him artlessly. I wonder again what sort of man his father is, to have raised a son in this proud fashion. And what of his mother; he has never mentioned a mother! Did she die that one, surrounded by proud cold men, far from her own land? I feel pity for her, though I do not even know her name, or whether she yet lives.

“I should be glad to have you go to Minas Tirith with me,” he says; his voice is neutral, cautious. “You are fearless and quick and strong with a bow. You could stand upon the ramparts of the Tower and pick off the fell beasts as they come; such valiance would be a help to my city.”

I am uncomfortable; I did not wish to be asked to go with him, for rather should I accompany Frodo where he goes. It places a burden upon my shoulders that does not belong there. To be certain I should not mind going to Gondor did Aragorn request it of me; I would like to see him claim the kingship as is his due, and I would work hard to ensure the establishment of his throne. But I speculate Boromir’s proud father would not countenance such a thing as a usurper; King might Aragorn become but his authority may not sit well with this Denethor from what I have heard tell.

Yes, I could well enough slay more of the creatures upon which the Wraiths fly; the bow of Lórien is stout and strong and as an archer I concede I am passing fair. But where and for whom shall this strength be best used? For that is what I am, a vessel to be used up, poured out ‘til I am dried up; I am but on loan from Thranduil Oropherion in this terrible war. Well, should Minas Tirith fall that would go ill indeed; but if Frodo fail and the Ring be captured – Ah! No, it is clear enough where mine own steps lie. I go with Frodo, if he will have me.

Boromir is waiting; I must needs answer. “Your confidence is flattering,” I say carefully. “But I await Frodo’s decision. I go with him.”

“Even if he goes to Mordor, to deliver the Ring into the Enemy’s hands?” Boromir cries; he sounds angry. I turn to him at last. He glares at me, his fair face contorted with frustration. “I did not brand you a fool Legolas, but now I see you are as blind as the rest! I give to you the opportunity to stay the hand of evil, and yet you will throw our one chance away on a fool’s errand!” He leaps to his feet, his teeth bared. “Go back to your woodland realm then, and dance upon the lawns ‘til darkness overtakes you,” he growls; his face is dark with anger. “You may as well sit upon the ramparts of my city and blow soap-bubbles – that is as much as I should have expected, of someone as puling and womanish as you!”

I have felt cold steel cleave my flesh; I have felt the poisoned dart pierce my skin. This is worse, for it is wounds from one I have wanted to befriend, one beside whom I have fought and labored. How can he think thus of me, that when I am at home I do naught but gavotte upon the grass? Is Minas Tirith the only bastion against the Enemy? Did I learn marksmanship at the clout alone? Do orcs dwell solely in the caves of Ephel Dúath? This blind man has fought since birth the depredations of Sauron’s evil; does he think his forty years to be compared to the centuries I have contested the darkness? I am on my feet in a heartbeat, standing before him; I can feel the muscle in my cheek twitch as it does when I am very angry, and as I am half a hand his height he must look up to me. He likes this not I can tell; his eyes are alarmed, for his goading has stirred my wrath, seldom seen but an awful thing. I draw the rage around me; it bubbles out of me like smoke and swirls the fog round us; it is oppressive, throbbing like a huge heart-beat, flickering with sparks of flame. The blood of Cardolan burgeons through my veins – Mother’s magic fueled by Father’s fire, and just enough of my grandsire’s temper to sting my cursed tongue to speak.

“Abase me not, impudent child!” I say; my voice is harsh, and Boromir leans back from me, alarmed. “Think you I have not coveted some magical token for mine own Lord Father to battle Dol Guldur’s stinking minions? Alone and ringless does my sire hold back evil from his kingdom, for his power and lineage is of Doriath and he has stood firm ere the Necromancer came to his kingdom. Had he one of the Three he could stand upon the ramparts of your city, to throw it down and build thereupon an Elven realm to rival Gondolin! Go to Minas Tirith alone then, and ask no more help of the Elves, for we have fought Morgoth’s slave since before the first stone was laid in your city!”

He answers not but turns, his eyes hot with resentment and fear; he gathers his things and leaves me alone. The tight angry grip round my heart slowly eases, and I let disperse the darkness into the milky fog; the anger leaves me too, and my heart sinks. O why did I do that! Could I not hold my tongue but one minute ‘til the wrath faded? I am more like unto my father than my mother; Boromir grieved me yes, but there was no cause for me to strike out at him so.

He will avoid me now and not speak, for I have frightened and abashed him, and he will be embarrassed by this, for he is proud and does not wish to show such weakness. Well though he provoked me first I shall be first to apologize; thus perhaps his heart will soften toward me, and our harsh words be forgiven. It would not do to travel on, whether to Mordor or Minas Tirith, with such dissention between us.

O that we were friends! Then I should have loved enough to hold my tongue! I have failed him; I let my wrath move me and not my pity. Would I not be as anxious, were my father so pressed? But I am glad my Lord Father did never possess one of the Three … such a burden would be far too great; rather I shall have him as he is; stubborn, fierce, strong. Surely Boromir feels the same way! For who would sacrifice one’s father for power? Power ought have but one purpose, which is protection; power for its own sake is merely tyranny.

It is too late for me to recant those words, but I will try to make amends for them at least. When next I see him I shall draw him aside, and humble myself, and try to build a bridge between us. And then who knows? Perhaps it will be enough to break down the wall he has erected; perhaps with true congress we might speak and know one another. Perhaps we shall become friends at last.

The moon is at the quarter and is ringed round with white light. He bleaches the stars from the heavens, and tints the black dome purple as he rides proudly round the circle of the earth. He has just risen from the tip of the mountains behind me and his face is serene – that evil-blasted land upon which he gazes is quiet, subdued, and he is happy.

My back is to him, for I face Rohan. I am lonely. Aragorn and his bride are in Minas Tirith; the Halflings have gone home; and Gimli is gone with Éomer and Éowyn to Rohan that he might see Aglarond once more. I put the stem of the pipe to my lips and ease a bubble from the bowl. “Blow soap bubbles to the west at night,” Gimli begged me, “and I will blow you smoke rings east. Perhaps they’ll meet over Calenhad.” I had laughed at him and agreed, and took the little black carven pipe of him. Peregrin left with his own two pipes – I cannot borrow that one again. I wonder what he will do with it? I wonder if it tastes of soap? Well if it does, perhaps he will give it away – maybe its recipient will dislike the flavor, and disdain pipeweed. That would be something at least.

The bubble floats, lazy, dissolute, glistening in the moonlight over the white broken stones. I sit upon a crumbling wall in a ruined courtyard in a battered city. The moon and darkness convene to take color away; even the ivies and weeds are black. The wind shifts and the bubble blows away from me, drifting down the low dark alley until it is out of sight.

I hate this wind. It blows from the south, and smells of sea water. It has even blown gulls up the river, though they hug the docks at Minas Tirith and do not trouble me here. I try not to breathe too deeply, but I cannot help myself – I inhale, fill my lungs with the delectable scent. For not only do I smell the Sea, but mingled with this is the smell of Ithilien – cold stone, clean dirt, fragrant wild herbs, rich pine. Said I that I hated this wind? Nay; it blows warm about me yet, comforts and titillates, arouses and placates at once. I dip the bowl into the plate of soap and water, and slowly, carefully blow another bubble, a big one. But I have used overmuch soap and it is heavy, with smaller bubbles and drops clinging to it. It sags sadly, and I pop it with my finger.

The wind sighs round me, whistling in the rocks and crevices and moaning round the broken tower besides which I sit. It is a tall and slender tower, and does not seem to me to be too badly damaged. Did it house bells once, or watchmen? I would like to have a tower with bells in it – I will request it of Gimli when he returns. He has promised to design my city, and I wish to have bells, a full ring of eight if we can manage it. I am sure he will understand.

I persuade a large bubble to exit the bowl. This is a good one; perfectly spherical, floating and undulating by my face. I smile, refill the pipe, and let loose a string of tiny bubbles, uniform and kinetic, and with my breath and my hands I rush them round in a circle ‘til they surround their larger companion. The big bubble spins, ponderous, dignified; the little ones dance their gavotte round it, and I send them all to floating down the empty streets of Osgiliath. No, Gimli; it will not make it to Calenhad; it will probably not survive another minute. But it is a good cluster of bubbles just the same, and I wish you were here to enjoy it with me.

Then I hear the sound of a boot on a paver, and a man’s voice exclaiming. Who is that? I thought I was alone! I pause and listen; then I hear someone say:

“Why; where did that come from?”

Boromir – it is Boromir’s voice!

Nay – it is not Boromir’s voice; that is impossible. Boromir is dead – has been dead for many months now. I close my eyes. How his memory pains me! I never got the chance to reconcile with him; the orcs slew him ere we could speak again in private. I never had the chance to even bid him farewell save in song, and that consoled no one.

The owner of both boots and voice rounds the corner, and I open my eyes. Well it is Boromir’s voice by proxy – his brother Faramir stands amazed, gazing up at me where I sit upon the wall. How like his brother he is! He has the same dark hair, the same gray eyes, the same cleft in his chin; it is almost as though Boromir in spirit walks near me. I sat beside him at dinner two nights ago in the Great Hall in the Tower of Ecthelion; we spoke of trees and cataracts and mountains and bows and badgers. But he is unlike Boromir enough that our exchange was easy and unstrained; he does not seem to be as fettered with esteem as was my old brother-in-arms. And betimes I caught upon his face a look of wonder and apprehension mingled; that is enough like my earlier conversations with Boromir that I was unwilling to follow him to the ballroom; I begged off instead, and slipped out the Tower, out the city, into the fields below.

I am the only Elf in the city, barring Undómiel and her maids. And I do not sicken so for mine own kind that I should cosset myself in a lady’s chamber. Maids are all very well, but sometimes I would rather be alone than to be quite so polite and restrained. I am a warrior, after all.

The man of Gondor looks up at me. I must look very strange to him; the white of the Sindar royalty in all likelihood makes me to resemble a ghost, and of course my hair in the moonlight is silver not gold. I do not know what to say, so I blow another bubble.

“Well met, your highness,” he says at last. Curses upon the Queen, who cast about my heritage all round the city! Now I am your highness-ed ‘til I am red in the face.

“Well met, my lord,” I reply. He looks at me in surprise. Well you have been named Prince of Ithilien have you not? And if you are going to your highness me I shall my lord you right back. It is only fair after all. I blow a little stream of bubbles to chase the big one down; they dance and bob round the man’s head, and then wend their way down the passage ‘til they too disappear. The Steward watches them go, then looks back up at me. Does he disapprove of this pastime as did his brother? It is hard to say; his face is closed, as was Boromir’s.

He bites his lip as he watches me dip the pipe again. I could speak I suppose, but I weary of continually battering myself against the gates of another man’s heart; either befriend me or have done with it! O, how I miss Gimli …

“Do you know, your highness; when I suffer the pangs of ennui, or wish to distract myself from memories which are painful, I retire me to the library, where I might sink my soul into the words and wisdom of those who have gone before me.”

I open my mouth to reply, but am so confounded by his wry politesse I laugh instead. The pipe sits dripping in my fingers; soap dribbles down into my cuff. Still the young man stands, polite, eyebrows raised; it is hard to tell from here, but I would swear he is trying not to smile.

“I am not much of a scholar, my lord,” I say, my lips twitching. “The past five centuries have been rather hectic you know; I have had not much time for study.” I let out another large bubble, wobbly and gleaming; he watches it jiggle and waver, and when I breathe on it to get it moving his face splits into a charming smile.

“You are very good at that, your highness” he says.

I am so surprised I nearly inhale soap, instead of blowing it out. “And are you too an expert in the formation of soap bubbles, my lord?” I ask with a laugh. I put the pipe down in the plate and lean back on my slippery hands, dangling my legs over the side of the wall as I smile down on him. He smiles too and shuffles his boots, looking down at his feet.

“Well it has been many years I confess,” he admits; “but when a child I was middling fair at it.” He pauses then says: “I had a dog – an old hunting hound – he would chase them round the nursery garden; and when he caught them and they burst in his mouth he would look so injured at me, that I had somehow ruined his plaything.”

We both laugh then; I laugh at the image and he at the memory drawn. There is silence a moment, but to my surprise it is not cold; in fact I grow weary of looking down at him. “Climb up here beside me, my lord,” I invite him. “That way you will not crick your neck looking up at me like that.”

“As your highness wishes,” he smiles, and swift and light he ascends the wall to sit at my side. We sit together looking out over the still cold ruins; from here we can descry the river, black and gleaming beneath the moon’s pallid rays. I do not speak; I am unsure what to say to him, he who has lost his brother and father both so close, and been wounded without and within. I wonder what sort of husband he will make the Shieldmaiden, that cold girl with fire in her veins – if he is any like his brother he shall be strong enough to contain that fire; but he must needs have tenderness beside, to melt the ice surrounding her. I hope that she chose well – I should like my nearest neighbors to be drenched in marital felicity; it makes such a difference during court functions. I recall the king of Dale – what was his name, Berod Something the Somethingth – wed a little slip of a thing with a serpent’s tongue and tooth; she hounded his manhood away, and he spit and stung back at her ‘til none could bear to listen to them quarrel.

“Has anyone thanked you, your highness?” the man of Gondor says suddenly into our silence. I am taken aback; I had been thinking of connubial conundrums and not gratitude and know not the stream of his thoughts, that has brought him to this phrase. I turn to him and cock my head.

“I do not understand you, my lord,” I say.

So like Boromir is he, that I half expect him to reply, Nor I you, but he smiles instead, and focusing his gaze upon the distant city of Minas Tirith he says: “I mean, your highness, for being in this War; for fighting the Evil One; for risking your life and health so that mortal men might live at peace.”

“Oh!” I say; I am so surprised I am not sure how to react. “Well, my lord,” I say slowly, “no one has thanked me; but I do not expect thanks. I should have fought anyway, whether here, or in my Lord Father’s kingdom; that I was on a different front of the battle is immaterial to me. Sauron is destroyed; that is the primary thing.”

“But your highness, you as an Elf did not truly have to fight,” he says; his eyes are clear and frank, and his face is friendly. How odd it is, that he should have Boromir’s eyes, yet with warmth within and not the cold! It is eerie how much, and how little, they resemble one another. “You are of the Eldar; Valinor is open to you and not to us. I know your father by reputation, your highness; he is a valiant and strong and powerful king, and could have easily harried his people to the West, where Sauron’s arm could not reach. Then you would all have been safe, to leave Middle Earth to Sauron, and we to fight as best we may.”

Such a thought is anathema to me, and I am shocked that he even considered it. “Leave Middle Earth and men to fight alone!” I cry; I am not sure whether to be offended or not. “Why that should have been detestable and craven; my Lord Father should not have succumbed to such cowardice! When the King of Dale cries for help he goes; it has always been thus for him, and shall be for Thranduilion his son!”

“So I see,” says the man of Gondor; his voice is placating; “so I have always supposed, your highness! I said you could have gone; not that I ever expected you to have done so; or even countenanced such a churlish thing. Indeed I would have been far more surprised had you foresworn Middle Earth for Valinor ere the battle was won.”

I am abashed; I ought not to have suspected him of the selfsame verbal perfidy I suffered at the hands of his brother. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” say I with humble contrition. “I did not expect such thoughts to be voiced by – “ I pause, unsure what to say of him, but the man smiles, though the smile is bitter, and his eyes cloud over.

“By a son of Denethor – say it, your highness; you were thinking it,” he says.

Now I am doubly unsure. We had been so at ease ere my outburst – but he is correct; I had anticipated censure of him, for that was what I ever got of Boromir. Mad! Silly! Puling! Womanish! O but he had other words for me too – brave, strong, quick – ‘twas his anger, and his unease, made him speak so. I ought not think of him in bitterness, and certes it is ought not think of his brother so. I am careful when I reply.

“I was your brother’s friend, my lord.”

He sees through the phrase. “But he was not yours?” he asks quietly. Still he gazes up at Minas Tirith; his eyes are sad.

It is imprudent to lie, and unkind beside. “We did not always see things the same,” I say carefully. “And he did not always approve of me. But yes, I counted myself his friend, and grieved him when he died.”

He sits in silence, and I wonder what sort of friendship there was betwixt these two brothers – so alike, and yet so disparate. Did the elder lord it over the younger; did Faramir suffer Boromir’s haughty disapproval? Yet Faramir loved Boromir, and I am certain Boromir loved his brother – himself more perhaps, but certainly when he spoke of Faramir were his words tender. O Boromir! Would you have spoken thus of me in mine absence? Did you disdain me finally, or were there yet portions of your heart given me? Why did you close yourself to me? Why could we not be friends?

We sit thus, wrapped in our own sad thoughts; however it occurs to me that we are quite foolish to so do. Pining and fading as we are; would not Boromir regard us with exasperation if he were here! “I like mortals,” I say, and when the man of Gondor turns to me perplexed I say: “You seemed to ask, my lord, why I should choose to stay in Middle Earth. I like mortals. I know I am but a Dark Elf, for Sindar though I be I am Silvan too; so upon my royal parents and me there has never been the compulsion to hide our people and our strength from those mortal men who surround us. I like men; I like their wives and children; I love the chattering maids and laughing youths. I like to go into their villages and watch them work and gossip and play, and I flatter myself perchance, but I think they like me too. Though long have they lain beneath the earth I have counted many of them my friends, and I would be false indeed to turn away from them in times of darkness. So that, my lord, is why we stayed, and went not to the West – I like mortals, and I like living amongst them.”

“Do you!” He seems pleased by this, and in his gray eyes I see a light of hope growing stronger. “Then – your highness,” he stammers a little, for he is young yet – “Will you not call me by my given name? I should like to have you address me as Faramir and not my lord.” He clears his throat and looks away; it is difficult to tell in this light but I think he is nervous. “After all we are to be neighbors,” he adds with cool deference; “I should rather we were friends than merely allies.”

My heart leaps. He wishes to be my friend! There is aught in me that draws him and repels him not! And I had no need to batter at any door, to his heart or soul or mind! What tender capitulation; what brave bargain is this! I am gaping; he turns to me no doubt wondering why I have not replied, and thinking perhaps I am offended again, but he must espy the delight in mine eyes for he smiles hesitantly.

“But I should dearly love to be your friend, Faramir!” I exclaim, taking him by the shoulder. “Why you are so like your brother in face I cannot help but love you; and more than he you possess fine and open heart, and are a better conversationalist beside! Yes, Faramir, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, Lord of Osgiliath, I shall be your friend, and you shall call me Legolas – no more of this your highness, save we are in court anyway.”

Again the bright smile lights his face, and he takes my hand in his own. “I am glad,” he says with a laugh; “I have long desired to make acquaintance with an Elf such as you, for though you might immortal be you are earthy and merry and of amicable visage, and these past months have I longed to be of your company, envying the Dwarf and your perian companions.”

“Have you truly?” I ask, pleased. “And have I you, for there are few in these environs who love the woods as do I; yet those times we have spoken have I gleaned from our conversation a love and connection to the trees and hills and waterfalls. I have no brother to offer you, Faramir,” I add; “I know you are grieving and would do all I can to make you happy. Would you like to borrow my Lord Father? For he will love you I am sure, if you are a friend of mine.”

“I should gladly do so,” he says with a laugh. “But you need not loan to me a brother of yours to replace mine own – your presence shall do the same, Legolas.”

Thus smiling we sit in comfortable silence together, and watch the moon as he rises over our heads and gazes crookedly down upon us. I am not lonely now, though I still miss Gimli. How good and pleasant it is to know this man of Gondor is my friend! And friends we shall be, time out of mind; though his life is fleeting and tenuous and lovely, to my heart shall I commit his memory for ever. And O Elbereth, let no bitter word or phrase mar the amity betwixt us; thus might I atone myself for his brother Boromir, and in time the regret shall fade and my love for both brothers be unsullied. And Faramir shall be brother to me, and Éowyn my sister; I shall dandle their children upon my knee …

And, betimes, teach them the art of soap bubbles too.

Nierninwa appears above Mindolluin and I begin to sing. And Faramir does not turn his head from me, but sits in smiling silence listening, and my heart in fullness seems almost to burst with joy, as upon mine upraised fingers lies the soap still glistening.

fin