“Have you ever been in love, Legolas?” asked Aragorn.

          The ranger was stretched out on the mossy ground, gazing up at the star-filled night sky, his hands nestled beneath his neck and cradling his head.  He did not dare to look at the Elf, but instead stared up at the vast firmament above.  They had finished eating their simple meal some time ago but were not yet ready for sleep, and in this quiet time in between both had come to the habit of sharing bits and pieces of their lives with one another.  It was a time that Aragorn cherished, for he actually knew so very little about the immortal Elf’s past and he was always eager to learn even the most trifling snippet about the prince’s years prior to their meeting.  And too, after listening to some small tale that Legolas related, he always felt humbled and awed by the Elf’s vast knowledge and experience of life.

          The fire crackled and popped between the two friends and sent wavering shadows dancing across the Elf’s beautiful face.  Legolas painstakingly finished tinkering about with his weaponry and finally set the quiver of arrows aside.  He looked down upon the reclining ranger and his expression was impassive, yet his blue eyes held a deep sadness within them that seemed to speak of untold pain and remembered sorrow.

          Legolas, too, gazed up at the sky, drinking in the power and the energy the starlight seemed to infuse within him with an almost avid hunger and yearning.  He slowly lowered his gaze back down to Aragorn and murmured a soft reply.

          “Yes.  Very long ago.”

          Aragorn rolled over onto his side and propped his elbow up under his head, resting his chin in the cradle of his palm.  His silver eyes traveled over the Elf’s pensive face, waiting, for he knew that Legolas would not be hurried in his telling of this tale and all would be spoken of in good time.

          Legolas placed his graceful hands upon his knees, his crossed legs tucked away beneath him and he drew in a deep breath, savoring the woodland scents and the crisp night air.  After what seemed to Aragorn a very long while, his head turned and he looked into the eyes of the young ranger eagerly staring back up at him.  A moment later, his golden head lowered causing his long, silken hair to fall forward and shield his face from Aragorn’s view.  And when it seemed the young human would burst with curiosity, the Elf finally spoke.

          “She died.”

          Not satisfied with this terse reply, Aragorn pursued the tale he knew was locked away within Legolas’ heart.  A tale he very much wished to hear.

          “How?” he questioned.

          A sudden hardness came over the Elf’s usually gentle bearing and his eyes filled with an intense hatred, and then just as quickly, the emotion was gone and the serene features of the Mirkwood Prince were once again visible and the calm blue eyes were quietly observing him.

          “She was killed by orcs,” he simply stated.

          Vivid, horrid images of his slain father and Lord Elrond’s beloved and tormented wife, Celebrian, flashed through the ranger’s mind and his heart ached for the pain he knew Legolas must be feeling.   He continued to watch his friend as he softly asked.

          “What happened?”

          Legolas turned to face the human and Aragorn saw several conflicting emotions playing over the Elf’s features.  He was at once fearsome to look upon and yet so terribly, terribly vulnerable and desolate.  Obviously, even after all these years, he was still hurting from this memory and suffering through the remembrance of it.

          “I was barely two hundred years old at the time; so, young, so naïve.”  The Elf chuckled softly to himself, his blond head shaking from side to side.  “I thought I was invincible.

          “I had just completed my military training and had been assigned to my first border patrol.  We were serving as an escort for some of the northern Wood Elves as they made their way to Lake Town to trade.  She was traveling with her family and I happened to be riding beside her cart.  Her beauty was by far, greater than anything I had yet seen or experienced in my very limited relationships with the fairer sex.  And feeling very bold, I struck up a conversation with her, regaling her with my exploits – only one that I had actually participated in, as I recall.”

          He chuckled again and smiled at the ranger.  “She had such a wonderful, musical laugh.  It made me say all manner of idiotic things, just to hear her laugh again.  She was like the very air I breathe and I did not even know her name.”

          He paused in his tale, reaching over to his side and taking out a small leather pouch from his inner tunic, he withdrew a small piece of wafer thin material with silvered threads woven into the fabric.  He showed it to Aragorn and then carefully tucked it back into the pouch.  “It is a piece of her veil.  It is all that I have left of her.”

          He had grown somber once more and for the longest time a heavy silence hung in the air about them.  Aragorn was sure that the Elf would not continue, the heartache of recalling this tale too great, but eventually Legolas glanced back up and the barest trace of a smile flitted over his lips and he spoke again.

          “I was able to discover her name and where she lived.  One of the other warriors in our patrol had distant relatives that were related to this Elf maiden and I dogged him mercilessly for every detail he could provide me about her.  He finally told me her name was Thiniath and that she lived near the northern border of the Woodland Realm.

          “It was this very same warrior who also informed my father of my interest in this maiden and, of course, Adar was furious.  She was no royal, not even of Sindarin ancestry, and he would have no son of his becoming entangled with a common Elf maiden.  But I defied him in the only way I knew how.  I volunteered for any and all patrols touring the northern reaches in the vain hope that I might again catch even a glimpse of her.”

          When Legolas did not seem disposed to speak further, the ranger sat up and leaned forward, his eyes searching the Elf’s face, waiting once again for the tale to unfold, but Legolas did not continue.

          “Well, did you ever see her?” Aragorn finally asked, unable to contain his inquisitiveness any longer.

          Legolas smiled faintly and nodded his blond head.  “Yes, once.  We had stopped to water our horses and she stepped out of the woods as if out of a dream.  She had come to fill several water skins.  At the sight of her, my heart stopped and I could not breathe.  It was as if the entire world had frozen and in that one moment only she and I existed.  Of course, the others of my patrol were near, and knowing that my father would surely hear of this chance encounter, I dared not even speak to her.

          “But as luck would have it, the captain of our guard ordered me to escort her back through the forests to her home.  He had received reports of increased orc activity along the Ered Mithrin and did not think it safe for her to wander about alone.  The patrol would meet up with me on their return sweep of the woodlands.  As you can imagine, I was more than happy to comply with this command.”

          Legolas paused and his smile widened.  His eyes brightened and a laughing, carefree note came into his voice as he continued.  “When she kissed me, I thought I had left this realm and reached the Undying Lands.”

          Aragorn’s thoughts turned to his own, unrequited love for Arwen and the stolen kisses he had shared with her on those very few and precious instances when they found a moment to be alone with no one the wiser.  He recognized the same exuberant feeling reflected within the Elf’s eyes as Legolas thought back on that moment in his past, forever captured within his mind and heart.  And then the Elf’s face darkened and the smile was gone, replaced by a deeper, darker emotion.

          “Naturally, my father was informed of this tryst and from that time forward, I was no longer assigned to any border patrols or hunting parties if they were headed north of my father’s halls.”

          He stopped in his narrative and a choking hesitancy came into his lilting voice.  “A month later she was dead.  An orc raiding party overran her home and slaughtered all the Elves they could find.  The news reached me while I was out on the practice fields.  A warrior of my former patrol gave me that slip of veil and told me of her death.  He could have stabbed my heart and I would have felt no worse than I did at that moment.”

          Legolas’ expression turned cold and hard and he seemed to be staring at some distant point among the trees.  Aragorn sat silently before the fire, unsure what, if anything, he should say to the Elf.  At last, Legolas spoke again.

          “From that moment on, I swore I would kill every orc I could find.  When I was not on duty or likewise engaged with the army, I spent my days on the archery field, endlessly shooting arrow after arrow until I could split a shaft in two with a second arrow in less than three seconds.  My nights were spent in my father’s Great Hall, practicing with my long knife and when I had learned all that I could with my right hand, I brought a second knife with me to the Hall.   My nightly ritual extended to working on becoming as equally proficient with my left hand as my right, and then with both together until I was a ruthless and lethal killer.

          “I managed to work my way up through the ranks, my proficiency and deadly accuracy with a bow, and the number of orcs I slaughtered with my knives, earning me a patrol of my own.  I drove them mercilessly and volunteered them for any and all manner of killing sorties imaginable.  I became obsessed with the killing of orcs and I had no other thought save that.  I became reckless and began to take greater and greater risks and dangers, leading my warriors against heavier odds and certain death.  My father tried to counsel me, but I refused to listen, for I very much wanted to die.”

          Legolas broke off his tale and his head lowered.  His breathing was fast and rapid and there was a slight tremor within his hands.  Aragorn watched him with a mixture of awe and sadness, agonizing with him as he relived this terrible tale of obsession, hatred and death.  He had always wondered how Legolas had acquired his extraordinary weapons skills and he had never known him to miss a shot with a bow and arrow, but at what cost had this proficiency come?

          The Elf’s head came up slowly and Aragorn could see tears glistening within the corners of his blue eyes; tears of pain and anguish.  Legolas inhaled deeply and after a few calming breaths, he continued.

          “In my blind fury and madness I took insane chances with my warriors’ lives.  They loyally and unquestioningly followed me and I used their devotion to my own ends, letting it feed upon my mania.  I grew to think I was insuperable and finally I vainly lead my patrol into a battle with an orc army ten times our number.   And in my stupidity, pride, and arrogance I lead them all to their deaths; brutally butchered by the hordes of orc and goblin legions.  I, too, was grievously wounded and left for dead….or so I believed, but I did not die.”

          He choked on a ragged breath and Aragorn suddenly realized that he had been holding his own breath, so intently had he been listening.  He gulped in a great lungful of air and swallowed hard, finding that his throat had somehow gone dry.

          “For two days I lived, lying upon my back, unable to move, staring up at the sky and begging Mandos to take my life, but he would not.  He wanted me to live with what I had done.  To know that I had caused the senseless deaths of those immortals who trusted me with their lives.  He wanted me to remember.”

          Legolas glanced over at the ranger and a rueful smile came to his lips.  He ran his palms over the knees of his leggings as if unconsciously wiping away the blood of his past and took another deep breath before continuing.

          “Another scouting patrol found me and brought me back to Lasgalen.  I was incapacitated for months, and during my convalescence I had plenty of time to think upon what I had done.  I still hold a deep-seeded hatred and obsession for the killing of orcs, but never again will I allow that to endanger the lives of those who place their trust in me.”

          He stared into the silver eyes of the young ranger and slowly extended his forearm to the human.  Aragorn silently reached over and clasped the Elf’s arm in return.  As their eyes met and locked, the Elf spoke.  “It is why I follow you, Aragorn.  You have given back to me a compassion for others that I lost so long ago.”

          Aragorn stared at the immortal being before him and felt his chest tighten with powerful emotions of his own that were barely being kept in check. He squeezed the Elf’s forearm and then let his hand slide down to his side.  “You do me such great honor, Legolas.  I only hope that I can live up to your judgment of me.”

          “You already have,” Legolas smiled.  “For I would not be here otherwise.”

And that’s the end of this tale….

Aragorn finished clearing away the remains of their evening meal and then stirred the embers of the dying fire to life once more by adding another small log to the pile.  The wavering yellow flames licked about the newly added firewood and grew stronger and brighter.  Aragorn stoked the coals one last time and then settled back against a large, sturdy tree and pulled out his clay pipe and began to diligently pack Shire weed into the small round bowl.

          Legolas frowned at his companion as he observed Aragorn extract the smoking pipe and weed from his bags, but did not comment.  He did not relish the ranger’s smelly habit but neither did he begrudge him this one small pleasure.  As Aragorn lit the pipe and began puffing away at the stem’s mouthpiece, Legolas busied himself with his nightly inspection of his weapons.  It mattered not where they camped, whether in the safety of a Shire meadow or amid Mirkwood’s dark and dangerous forests, the Elf never shunned this task.

          His dark head emerging from a cloud of blue smoke, Aragorn needlessly poked at the fire with a long, narrow stick, causing small sparks to fly up from the fire and the flames to rise to new heights.  Satisfied that the fire would not burn out any time soon, he leaned back against the tree and drew in another deep puff off his pipe.

          “Well, Legolas,” he smiled between the clouds.  “What tale do you have for me this night?”

          The Elf vigorously rubbed a daub of suet into the leather of his quiver with a soft deer hide cloth, infusing the leather of the carrier with the creamy substance which gave the tooled surface a smooth suppleness and dark, rich sheen.  He glanced up at the ranger seated across the fire pit from him and smiled.

          “I believe it is your turn for telling a tale, Aragorn.”

          Aragorn started and his eyes opened wider.  “Me?  What tale could I possibly tell to rival any you might impart?”

          Legolas paused in his work and grinned up at his friend, his eyes sparkling with excitement and anticipation.

          “Tell me a tale of sailing ships and the sea,” he quickly replied, his face aglow with an inner light and his expression like that of a child awaiting an especially longed for and favorite sweet.

          Aragorn hesitated a moment, thinking, and then slowly nodded his head.  “Very well,” he agreed.  “But it has been almost forty years since this event took place and that is quite a long time for me to remember details.”

          “Forty years!” Legolas snorted, giving the quiver another vigorous rub with the cloth.  “That is but a sneeze to me.”

          Aragorn laughed, grinning.  “Yes, well, since I am not Elfkind, I shall try my best to recall everything that occurred.”

          Legolas continued to work with his weapons, having moved on to the sharpening and polishing of his long knives, but his eyes watched the ranger with eager delight as Aragorn settled himself against the tree and prepared to tell his tale.  He rested his head back and took another puff of his pipe and then began.

          “The year was 2980 and I was called Thorongil then – the ‘eagle of the star’ – because some men said I was swift and keen-sighted, and I wore the star of the Rangers of the North upon my cloak.  I had just completed my service to King Thengel of Rohan and had journeyed to Minas Tirith to offer my sword to the Steward of Gondor, Ecthelion II.

          “Mind you this was at a time in my life when I traveled to a great many places and sought out the knowledge and teachings of far distant realms.  I wished to learn all that I could about the people dwelling in Middle Earth and whenever necessary, to lend my sword in the fight against Sauron.  It was a time I spent alone for the most part, but a time that I truly felt compelled to seek all the experience that I could gain.”

          He paused and puffed on his pipe a time or two; the contents of the tiny pipe bowl glowing a deep cherry red each time he inhaled upon the pipe stem.  By now Legolas had completed his work upon the knives and returning them to their sheaths, sat facing the ranger with his knees drawn up to his chest, arms crossed over them and his chin resting upon his arms.  His eager blue eyes watched the young human across the flames and he patiently awaited the rest of tale.

          “Secluded in Mirkwood and beleaguered by the evil of Mordor creeping ever closer to your home, you might not have heard about the Corsairs of Umbar.  These pirates were, and still remain, a constant plague upon southern Gondor and Ithilien.  As long as these brigands plied the seas and the Anduin River unopposed, no one was safe and the folk of the cities and towns along the coastlines fled in terror when the black sails of the Corsairs rose upon the horizon.  These pirates raided the ports and harbors along the Anduin and plundered and sacked every region from Minas Tirith to the sea.  Those men they did not press into slavery, they brutally killed; women were raped and tortured and then sold as concubines to chieftains in Far Harad.  And when they were through ravaging a city, they burned it to the ground leaving nothing but the black smoke of raging fires billowing up into the skies, like their black sails buffeting in the wind.

          “When I came to Gondor, these maritime bandits were a daily threat to the shipping and trade of every region south of Rohan and everywhere there was fear.  And finally, after I had served Ecthelion for some years and had proved my worth to him as one of his Captains, I approached the Steward with an outrageous plan to raid the Corsair fleet while it lay at anchor in their home port in Umbar.  At first his ministers and war counselors thought me mad and would not listen to my foolhardy scheme, but Ecthelion was a courageous man unafraid of the extraordinary and he was willing to take a chance on me.  He agreed to let me assemble a small fleet and undertake this daring plan.  I asked for twenty of his swiftest vessels and hardy crews to man them.”

          Here Aragorn halted in his tale and shook his head as he recalled the sheer folly of this insane plan.  He gave the Elf a rueful smile.   “He gave me five.”

          “Five!” Legolas shouted, his head rising up from his knees.

          Aragorn laughed, blue smoke swirling about his head.  “Aye.  He told me the Gondorian fleet was too weakened and decimated and was needed to protect Minas Tirith.  He could only spare five small coastal runners for this daunting feat.  Would I accept his offer?  I told him I would, but I needed his finest seamen to man these ships and to this he agreed.

          “We traveled southward to the great harbor of Pelargir to take command of the ships and there gathered together what stores we would need for our journey south.  Under a new moon, we set sail by cover of darkness from the quays at Pelargir and traveled southward down the Anduin to the sea.  By day we hugged the banks of the river and moored our ships amid the marshes and reeds of the tributaries and coves, covering the ships with silken tarps to hide them from view should any other vessels sail past.  It took us most of a week to reach the sea and once we reached the delta of the Anduin, we hid the ships in a small cove off the Isle of Tolfalas.”

          “Tell me of the ships, Aragorn,” Legolas pleaded.  “Every detail.”

          The ranger chuckled.  “Ours or theirs?”

          “Both!” laughed the Elf.

          “Very well,” Aragorn nodded.  His hands began to move in the air in front of him as he measured and drew out imaginary ships for the Elf to examine.  “Our coastal runners were about a hundred feet long; very sleek and very fast, but not heavily armed.  Each held a crew of fifteen, stout sailors and oarsmen, and each held a small contingent of archers and swordsmen.  Our sails were dark red and looked like blood when the sun set upon them, but all our banners and pennants were removed and anything that could identify us as Gondorian was hidden from view.  We carried only what we needed to survive, a very large cargo of pitch, and thousands of feet of fine fishing line and seines.

          “Now the ships of the Corsairs were much, much larger and their sails were the deepest black for they always came during the night to plunder and pillage.  Their ships were all outfitted with heavy protruding bows made of iron plating and they were usually crowned with a huge spike that was used to ram unsuspecting vessels amid ship.  Once the stricken ship started to founder, the pirates would heave to alongside and board the sinking hulk, killing the crew and stealing the cargo.  The ruined ships were then burned and left adrift.”

          Legolas’ expression registered his revulsion yet his eyes held a curious mixture of excitement and fascination as he leaned ever forward listening to Aragorn’s story.

          “Against such power, how could you ever hope to defeat such a fleet?” asked the Elf.

          Aragorn laughed.  “Ah, but that’s the heart of this tale is it not?  And if you will stop interrupting me, I shall tell it.”

          Legolas laughed as well at the ranger’s good humored chiding and settled back once more to listen.

          “We remained moored off the Isle of Tolfalas for several days readying our ships for the battle to come and then with the rising of the full moon, we set sail into the Bay of Belfalas on a southwesterly course, avoiding the coastlines of South Gondor and Umbar and sailing straight out into the open seas.

          “This route was extremely dangerous, but we did not wish to meet any traffic sailing from the Havens of Umbar and with a good westerly wind and the southern current it only took us two weeks to reach the waters near Umbar.  We held our ships out to sea until we were certain that there were no other pirate vessels near.  We were nearly out of rations and knew that this raid must now go forward or we would die of starvation upon the high seas.”

          “Tell me of the seas, Aragorn.  What was it like to sail upon the sea?”

          Aragorn’s eyes focused upon the Elf’s expressive face and he felt his heart sink as he recognized the first traces of the sea longing within Legolas’ eyes.  The Elf seldom spoke of it, but he knew the longing was strong within him.  It saddened him to think that one day Legolas might finally give in to that longing and leave Middle Earth –  leave him – and he was not sure that he wanted to think about that dismal possibility.  But he forced a smile to his lips and glanced back toward the expectant Elf.

          “The sea is a deep, dark blue-green and when the sky comes to meet it, you realize just how insignificant you are; a mere speck upon the great ocean of existence.  The waves rock you gently to and fro in a comforting rhythm like the pulsing of the blood within your veins and as the winds whip your face and hair you are overcome with a feeling of such freedom that you imagine yourself flying.”  He paused a moment, watching Legolas’ entranced smile widen.

          “There is no feeling in the world like it, my friend,” he murmured, his eyes momentarily rising to scan the heavens above.  After a time, he glanced back down at Legolas’ serene face.  “But I digress from my tale.

          “We waited for darkness to fall and then under oar we silently made our way to shore.  As we neared the enemy harbor, I sent the ships fanning outward in an arcing formation around the bay, stretching the seines out between our ships and then as we made our way in to the coast, slowly drawing the nets closer and closer to the enemy fleet.  When we were about two hundred yards out, divers left our ships and swam out with the nets, dragging them behind as they swam toward the Corsair fleet.  When they reached the anchored vessels, the divers secured the lines of the nets to the moored ships, stringing them all together like some gigantic floating necklace fit for Ulmo himself.

          “Several of the divers then noiselessly slipped ashore and scaled the harbor watchtowers where they found the Corsairs manning these towers drunk and lax in their duty, falsely secure in their imagined safe home port.  My men killed them swiftly and silently and then returned to our ships and we quietly sailed inward – the first assault had begun.  Flaming pitch was ignited and catapulted onto the decks of the moored fleet, followed by flaming arrows aimed at their black sails.  Within minutes the fleet was aflame and the night skies were turned to day.

          “The sailors aboard the Corsair ships as yet untouched by the fires tried to raise anchor and flee, but the constraining nets prevented the ships from leaving and soon the entire fleet was ensnared and transformed into a tangled, burning mass.  The Corsairs were forced to escape to shore or leap into the sea where my archers picked them off one by one.

          “I lead a group of seasoned warriors onto the flagship in search of the Captain of the Corsairs and his men and we fought them sword for sword across the foundering decks and then out onto the burning quays.  The Captain and I finally met head to head and although he was a formidable opponent, his corpulent life of piracy had made him soft; by allowing others to fight while he lay back and reaped the spoils, his stamina waned and he was no match for me.  His endurance soon faded and as he tired, I grew all the stronger.  When he finally let down his guard, I slew him easily, and having done so, looked to my troops.  Not wishing to wait for enemy reinforcements to arrive, I commanded my small band to retreat back to our ships.  We set sail at once and left behind us the flaming port of Umbar.”

          Legolas stared at his friend with awe and a small gasp escaped his lips.  “And you did this with only five small ships?”

          Aragorn nodded his head, slowly tamping out his pipe.  “Aye.”

          “With a victory such as this, upon your return the people of Gondor must have hailed you their greatest hero; they must have bestowed numerous honors upon you,” the elated Elf commented, but seeing the pained look upon Aragorn’s face his own enthusiasm seeped away.

          “Actually, I did not return to Minas Tirith,” the ranger answered.  “After we returned to Pelargir, I faded into the crowds and quietly left the city heading back north.”

          “But why?” asked Legolas.

          “I do not seek honor, Legolas,” he answered quietly.  “I had done what I set out to do.  It was time for me to move on.”

          The Elf somehow sensed that Aragorn was reluctant to accept the fact that he was indeed a hero and was loathe to discuss this particular segment of the tale, so he refrained from pursuing the conversation any further.   Instead, he slowly gazed up at the night skies and smiled as his eyes set upon Eärendil, and thoughts of great sailing ships filled his mind.

And that’s the end of this tale…..

AN: This tale was inspired by the film scene in Moria where the first growl of the Balrog is heard and the camera cuts to a close-up of Legolas.  He looks very afraid.  He knows what is coming out of that doorway…

~~~~*~~~~

          “Have you ever been scared, Legolas?”

          The Elf glanced up from cleaning the gleaming blade of his long knife.  His eyebrow rose in a perfect arch and a slight smirking twist came to his lips, a clear indication that he was not going to waste any breath answering such a stupid, human question.

          Seeing Legolas’ expression, Aragorn hurried on.  “Oh, I don’t mean ‘scared’ like someone popping out from behind a tree and giving you a start, I mean….” He paused, his gaze lowering to examine his hands as if he had suddenly found his fingers and the wooden twig he held to be of great interest.  “I mean really scared; scared down to the marrow of your bones….to your very soul.”

          Legolas stopped his rhythmic polishing and studied the ranger intently.  It was now obvious to him that Aragorn had something weighing heavily upon his mind and was pursuing this line of questioning in an attempt to wrestle with it.  He ceased the cleaning of his weapon and returned the knife to its sheath; then set aside the hide cloth and turned his full attention to the ranger.

          “Is there something you fear, Aragorn?” he quietly inquired.

          The ranger’s head popped up much too quickly.  “Hmmm?  Oh, no, I just…. well, yes….”

          Legolas cocked his blond head to one side, long, golden hair falling over his shoulder in a rippling wave as he did so.  “What is it that frightens you, mellon nin?”

          Aragorn angrily tossed the stick he was holding through the air and it sailed over the camp fire and out into the darkness of the night.  He refused to look at the Elf and nervously twisted his hands together as they rested upon his raised knees.  Legolas waited, knowing that Aragorn was battling the anger and frustration within him that this unknown fear was causing.  When he was ready, he would speak of it; and finally he did.

          “Gandalf believes the Ring may have surfaced.”

          An icy chill scurried down the prince’s spine and Legolas gasped.  His usual calm bearing altered and his body stiffened as if it had a will of its own.  He found himself sitting up much straighter upon the grass and he stared at Aragorn with growing apprehension.

          Aragorn turned toward the Elf, his silvered eyes filled with worry and a grim foreboding and then he quickly glanced away.  “If the Ring is found, the war with Sauron will escalate,” he shuddered slightly.  “And my part in it.”

          The last words were spoken so softly that only the Elf’s keen ears could pick them out.  Legolas’ expression grew somber and his head lowered as racing thoughts sped through his mind and he pondered the dire implications of this news – and how they might affect Aragorn’s future.

          He turned toward the stricken ranger seated nearby.  “And you fear your destiny?” he murmured.

          Aragorn’s anguished eyes locked with his.  “Destiny!” he spit the word out with such harshness that Legolas ached within as he realized just how much his friend’s inner pain and torment ravaged him.  “I do not seek out this destiny,” he whispered; then turning his gaze away, he clasped his hands over his head and buried his forehead in the hollow formed between his pressed knees.  “I fear the weakness in me.”

          This last was uttered barely above a whisper, yet the Elf heard well enough, and his eyes shut momentarily as a surge of empathy gripped his heart and he felt Aragorn’s pain and anguish as surely as if they were his own.  His saddened eyes looked toward Aragorn and he reached out his slender hand and placed it firmly upon the man’s upper arm.  Aragorn started as if he had forgotten the Elf was seated beside him, and then he stared at Legolas, the wretched turmoil of his soul showing plainly upon his face.

          “There is but one thing to do, Aragorn,” Legolas replied.  “You must face your fear.”

          As he said these words, the prince’s expression drifted away and it seemed to Aragorn that the Elf was lost in some long forgotten memory.  He watched Legolas without speaking, somehow knowing that the Elf was about to relate some especially significant event that had occurred within his past; something that would, in the telling of this tale, help to ease his own doubt and torment.  Something that Legolas particularly wished him to know; so he waited.

          Legolas slowly turned his serene face to look directly at Aragorn and a slight smile formed at the corners of his lips.  His deep, blue eyes searched the ranger’s face as if seeking out the accursed fear harrowing the mind behind those silver eyes, and targeting it for destruction, would gladly remove it if only he could; and then he looked away.

          “You asked if I had ever been scared,” he began quietly, and his golden head bobbed slightly.  “Yes, mellon nin, I have,” he laughed contritely, his eyes shining with a new brightness that alarmed the ranger more than this admission of fear.

          Aragorn studied his Elven friend’s enigmatic face, his own fears temporarily set aside.  A hundred questions rose within his mind, begging to be spoken aloud, but he forced himself to remain silent and eventually Legolas began his tale.

          “It was at least five hundred years ago or some time there about.  It was a dark time and The Watchful Peace had ended.  The orcs were just starting to build their secret strongholds in the Misty Mountains and Sauron had returned to Dol Guldur.  We had our hands full in Mirkwood, but not so much as Mithrandir and the White Council and it was an uneasy and dangerous time for all.

          “Mithrandir had some notion about seeking out the last remaining Dwarves in Moria.  For what purpose, I know not, for as an Elf warrior in the service of my people, and not yet privy to the secret conferences of my father’s council, that information was not conveyed to me.  The wizard made a request of my father that I accompany him on this mission and serve as his guard escort.   To my utter astonishment, my father agreed.   I could not understand why my father would allow this, for I was very much needed at home and on patrol.  And, too, my father had no love for Durin’s Folk, so why would he agree to send his son to Moria?   But, as a soldier I did not question my king’s decision, and so we set out.

          “The journey through Mirkwood and down the Old Forest Road was rather uneventful and despite the gathering orc bands and raiders lurking about the mountains and forests, we crossed the Anduin unhindered and headed south along the Misty Mountains.  We often heard the foul grunts and snorts of roaming orc bands passing very close to our camp, but we were sheltered by Mithrandir’s magic, allowing us to pass through the foothills unharmed and we were never discovered.  I would have gladly strayed from our course to hunt out and kill those yrch we spied, but Mithrandir insisted that our presence go unnoticed and I deferred to his wishes.

          “We likewise skirted the enchanted forests of Lorien, the realm of my distant kinsman, and made straight for the eastern gate of Moria.  From there we would travel down into the mountain to the ancient Dwarf city of Khazad-dûm.”

          Legolas turned a grim smile toward the listening ranger.  “As you know, I have no love of the deep, dark places beneath the earth where no light shines, or tight, close places where the air is stale and dank and you can feel the weight of the stones above you, smothering you….”

          His words trailed off and Aragorn could see the anxiety in the Elf’s expression as he recalled those dark passages beneath the mountain.  Legolas took in a deep breath of the cool night air and tossed his head back to stare up at the clear starlit skies above.  This small gesture seemed to renew him and he continued with this story.

          “Mithrandir’s staff lit our way across the carved stone bridges and massive stairways that led to the city.  The silence within the mountain was absolute and the wizard seemed to grow uneasy the farther we traveled into the deep.  I could feel a growing fear creeping into my thoughts as well and wished that we would meet these Dwarves quickly and be gone from this place.  But we saw no Dwarves and as we neared the towering pillars of Khazad-dûm, my inner panic was almost a living, breathing thing, eating away at my gut.

          “As I stood looking upward at the gargantuan structures of this underground city, I felt the wizard’s hand upon my forearm and I looked down to his face.  ‘Stay close,’ he told me and I was only too eager to comply.  I had no wish to wander alone into the nether regions of this dark, vast, and empty place.  We had traveled no more than several hundred feet along the corridor when a low, rumbling sound arose from the stone floors beneath our feet; a vibration I could feel penetrating my bones and echoing within my skull.

          “Mithrandir turned to me and shouted, ‘Run!’ and then he turned back the way we had entered, fleeing from the sounds.  But I stood frozen to the spot and could not move.  My heart was pounding so rapidly I thought it would burst from my chest and still I could not make my legs move.  The rumbling, thundering sound grew louder and closer and an eerie orange glow appeared at the end of the long, dark hallway.  Somewhere in the dark I thought I heard Mithrandir’s voice telling me to flee, but I could not.  A fear so overpowering, so all-consuming that I could think of nothing but that fear held me within its grip and I was helpless to combat it.

          “I vaguely remember Mithrandir’s strong hand gripping my arm and forcibly pulling me away from the center of the corridor.  I stumbled after him on stiff, leaden legs and he shoved me behind a large pillar only moments before the hall erupted in a blaze of fire.  The bellowing roar of some unknown beast hammered at my ears and I could feel a heat rising within the darkness of the air around us.  Mithrandir’s voice whispered in my ear, ‘Do not make a sound!’  And my wild eyes sought his as he placed a comforting hand upon my chest and nodded slightly, telling me with his gaze that he was there and would not leave me.

          “I felt the wizard’s hand leave my chest and he moved around me to the other side of the pillar.  As I watched him, he gestured for me to follow and somehow I pried my back away from the stone to move behind him.  What I saw I shall never forget and I never wish to see it again.  Standing before us, its black head almost touching the vast ceiling of stone was a creature bathed in flame and shadow.  Its eyes were blood red and it seemed to have wings, yet I could not distinguish its body because it kept shifting and wavering even as I watched it lumber through the pillared hall.  It paused momentarily and threw its head back to bellow anew and flames spewed from its mouth in a fiery cloud.

          “I shrank back against the stone pillar, gripping the wizard’s arm and Mithrandir turned to look upon me.  He leaned toward me and whispered, ‘It is a balrog of Morgoth.  Look upon this manifestation of your fear, Legolas, and it will be yours to control.’  But I could not force myself to look upon it again.  The evil of this creature filled me with such terror that I lost all reason.  I cannot remember what occurred next, only that I surely would have perished had I not felt Mithrandir clutching my arm once again.  He was pulling me away from the pillar and down a darkened passage to safety.”

          Legolas stopped and turned to face Aragorn and his expression was unreadable, yet his eyes were filled with a deep regret.  “I did not face my fear in that dark place, Aragorn,” he said simply.  “It is still with me.”  He allowed the barest trace of a grim smile to cross his lips.  “Face your fear, Aragorn.  Do not carry it with you, as I do.”

          Aragorn stared at the Elf and found he could think of no words to adequately express the emotions he was feeling at that moment.   Instead he simply nodded his head and placed his arm across Legolas’ slim shoulders, giving the Elf a brief, one-armed hug of understanding, friendship and compassion.  Together they gazed into the fire, saying nothing, yet speaking volumes.

…..And that’s the end of this tale

A/N:  This tale is in a lighter vein, but I hope you still enjoy it.  It’s also got to be AU because the time frame does not fit with Legolas’ real age; but since nobody really knows how old/young he actually is, I thought this might be an amusing “young” Legolas tale.

          Aragorn drew the sodden hood of his cloak over his equally drenched head in an attempt to keep the heavy downpour from off his face but the gesture did little to thwart the rain.  His dark hair was soaked and plastered to his face and rivulets of water trekked down his nose and dripped off his bearded chin.  His clothes were saturated and the cold, wet rain seeped into his skin and down to his bones.  He drew his cloak more tightly about his shoulders and wobbled precariously as the tugging movement shifted his backside and he slid along the slick tree limb upon which he was unsteadily perched.  Convinced the slender branch upon which he sat would never support his weight he glared over at his companion with an angry scowl.

          “I can’t believe you talked me into climbing this tree,” he sputtered at the Woodland Elf leisurely seated across from him upon a similar limb.  Legolas, unlike the ranger, did not seem to be in the least discomfited by his arboreal seat, nor did he appear to be wet or even the slightest bit damp.

          “You said you wished to get out of the rain,” the Elf replied, his face serene and impassive.

          Aragorn grunted some mumbled response that Legolas could not quite make out even with his superb hearing and he suspected it was some sort of Dwarvish curse that was meant to be both offensive and foul.  He grinned into his shoulder but refrained from comment.

          “And just why aren’t you wet?” groused the human.

          Legolas turned innocently and gazed at his friend.  “I walked beneath the trees and their leaves sheltered me,” he explained.  “But I do not find the rain objectionable as do you.”

          “Well, at least you didn’t try to tell me you walked between the raindrops,” Aragorn grumbled.

          Legolas threw his head back and laughed heartily as he drew his soft booted foot up along the branch and rested his elbow upon his knee.  His left leg dangled carelessly out in mid air and his slender body turned slightly to better face the ranger.

          “Well, that, too, but I did not think you would believe me.”

          Aragorn grunted another rude comment and tried once again to shift his weight upon the uncomfortable tree limb.  As he did so, his body’s tenuous position upon the bough went off center and he lurched sideways and then back again as he frantically grabbed for a steadying branch over his head.  He anxiously stared down some twenty feet or so to the forest floor and a dizzying wave of vertigo overcame him as he tried to regain his balance.  But as his breathing finally returned to normal, he was able to right himself anew and nervously settled back against the tree’s sturdy trunk.

          At the ranger’s first slip, Legolas had tensed, ready to leap to his friend’s aid, but he quickly relaxed as he saw that Aragorn had regained his seat upon the opposite branch and was in no real danger of falling.  He chuckled to himself as he thought just how far the human had actually come in mastering the fine art of perching like a bird upon a limb.  When he was certain that Aragorn was indeed safe and secure once more, he spoke softly, his pleasing voice filtering through the backdrop of the thrumming rain.

          “Once the rain has ended, we can regain the ground and you can start a fire.”  He grinned as if some small part of him was enjoying his friend’s misery.  “And dry out.”

          Aragorn tossed the Elf a scathing look, but did not speak the words that had leapt to his lips.  Instead, after arduously counting to twenty and taking several deep lung-filling inhalations, he peered out from under his sopping hood and stared at Legolas with a halfhearted smile.

          “Well if I am forced to roost here with a branch up my rear, the least you can do is tell me some humorous tale to pass the time.”

          Legolas’ musical laughter rang through the forest and even the rain seemed to lessen for just a tiny moment as the harmonious sound rippled through the tree tops.

          “Very well,” the Elf grinned.  “Let me think.”  He paused for a few moments, deep in thought, and then turned to Aragorn with a smile.  “Shall I tell you of my famous escape?”

          Aragorn could think of a great many harrowing escapes that Legolas had miraculously and successfully managed to carry out even though the circumstances leading up to his initial capture had been dire indeed, yet he would not have considered any of those instances funny or humorous.

          “All right then,” he answered.  “Tell me of this escape.”

          Legolas settled back against the tree trunk and even though Aragorn could not see how it could be conceivably possible to do so, looked even more comfortable than he had been before; as if instead of sitting upon a tree limb a score of feet up in the air, he was lounging in one of his plush chairs and in the comfort of his own room.  Aragorn shook his head dismally, knowing that he would never be at home in a tree, nor would he ever accomplish the confident ease and familiarity with the forest that his Elven friend demonstrated.  Legolas’ soft voice interrupted his moody thoughts and he turned his attention instead to the tale to come.

          “I was very young,” he glanced briefly at Aragorn and grinned.  “I would imagine similar to a lad of around five years old if measured by your human standards, and had not yet started my formal studies or weapons training.  I had the complete run of the palace and all the time imaginable to explore the world about me with no worries, no responsibilities, and no duties to perform.  I was an extremely curious Elfling and was constantly getting myself into all manner of scrapes and trouble and was considered quite a handful for my nursemaids and parents.”

          Aragorn rolled his silver eyes in mock amazement.  “I can’t imagine why they would think that.”

          Legolas ignored his friend’s sarcastic gibe and continued.  “I was completely fascinated by the story of the ‘Great Dwarf Escape’ and would beg for the telling of this story whenever I could get an Elder Elf to indulge me.   This, of course, was the tale of Thorin, Balin and the rest of their company and their spectacular flight from Lasgalen.  Eluding my father’s guards, these Dwarves managed to escape from their locked and guarded dungeon cells and then hid themselves within the wine barrels that the kitchen staff regularly tossed into the river to float down to Lake Town.  No one to this day knows how they managed to do this.”

          Aragorn snorted into his soggy cloak.  Gandalf had previously related this same story to him during one of their many wandering journeys and he knew that it was in fact the wily Halfling, Bilbo Baggins who had released the Dwarfs and aided in their escape.  Apparently the wizard had chosen not to share this particular bit of information with King Thranduil.  Well, he mused, some things were just meant to remain a mystery.

          Legolas did not seem to have noticed Aragorn’s brief inattention and was continuing on with his tale.

          “I often came down to the dungeons and peered into each of the cells in turn, wondering how it was that these Dwarves could have gotten free.  And then I would make my way down to the water gate and stare down through the trap door into the rushing river below and imagine each of the thirteen barrels bobbing up and down as they floated all the way down to the Town in the Lake.

          “Well one day, after perpetrating some sort of deviltry that was straight away reported to my father, I found myself in dire need of a place to hide to elude the wrath of my angered parent and the punishment that was sure to follow.  Naturally, I thought of the dungeons and the wooden wine barrels.

          “Once I had gotten it into my head to escape down the river, I hastened to put this plan into action.  I made my way down into the deep passages of the palace without anyone the wiser and rushed over to the rows and rows of empty barrels waiting to be hefted into the river.  The kitchen staff was otherwise occupied with the midday meal and not suspecting any mischief or trouble, had left the water gate open.  The adjacent wooden platform was also devoid of any Elves who might spy me and hand me over to my irate father.

          “I hastily dove into the barrel closest to the trap door and managed to wrestle the lid over my head and it fell loosely into place atop the barrel rim.  Once inside the barrel, however, I began to have second thoughts about the merits of this plan as the air within the wooden barrel was close and stuffy and smelled sickly sweet from the lingering dregs of wine still covering the bottom of the cask.  And, too, the space I occupied was quite cramped and uncomfortable.

          “But before I could get back out of the barrel, voices came echoing through the corridors and I knew that the staff was returning to complete their tasks here in the cellar.  A loud, thudding boom struck the top of my cask and I realized that the lid had been hammered shut, trapping me within the barrel.  The next moment I was rolling over and over and then felt myself falling through the air only to crash into the river a second later.  Water immediately began to seep in through the wooden staves and small knot holes and I was sure that I would drown before I had even left the outskirts of my home.

          “I shouted as loud as I could, but the banging clatter of the wooden barrels as they rolled along the floor and the splashing noise of the river as the barrels hit the water drowned out my feeble, muffled cries and I found myself racing down the river on the swift current.  The other barrels crashed and banged into mine and I was tumbled up and over several times until I was ill with the rocking and swaying motion.  Finally, sick, tired, wet and very hungry, I finally fell into an exhausted sleep.”

          Legolas glanced over at Aragorn and shook his head slightly, as if to say, ‘how could I ever have been so foolish?’  Aragorn smiled slightly, remembering some of the idiotic stunts and trouble he had managed to find himself in as a small boy, and the utter embarrassment he had suffered by having the Sons of Elrond come to his rescue.

          “When I awoke it was quite dark inside the barrel and I found that the rocking motion of the river current had ceased.  I placed my eye to a tiny hole and peered out into the darkness of night.  I could see nothing but blackness and a terrifying panic overcame me as I could not find the top opening of the barrel.  I began to pound my fists against the wood and kick at the sides until I was cut and bleeding, but I could not find the opening.  Eventually, after all the battering of my small fists and feet, the barrel shifted in the shallow water and rolled sideways.  The lid emerged and finally flew outward as I kicked it one last time.

          “I crawled out of the barrel and into the mud and reeds at the river’s edge and breathed in the clear, cool night air.  Apparently while I had been asleep my barrel had drifted away from the others and had become mired within the marshy water at the foot of the riverbank.  I clambered to the top of the slippery banks and stared about me with a growing fear and panic and hot tears started streaming down my cheeks as I realized that I was utterly alone and lost – lost and by now, terribly hungry.

          “My hand reached down to my belt and I felt the tiny dagger attached to the leather binding my tunic.  It was not a real weapon, of course, and mostly for show, but it did have a sharp point and I felt better for the having of it.  I pulled it out and held it out in front of me as I peered into the deep darkness of the forest.  The frightening sounds of woodland creatures I could not yet identify assaulted my ears and my tears came all the stronger until, to my great relief, I spied a soft, yellow light within the darkness of the trees.

          “I started to move forward toward the welcoming light when a menacing growl came out of the bushes to my right and two glowing yellow eyes watched me from within the leaves.  I let out a  terrified shriek and ran for the light, never once looking back to see if the yellow-eyed beast was following me or nay and I did not stop until I came stumbling into the firelight.  My raucous, thrashing flight through the trees had alerted the hunting party of Wood Elves and when I burst into the circle of light, I found myself staring up at a dozen arrow shafts pointed directly at my chest.

          “Needless to say my unexpected appearance in their midst caused quite an uproar.  The Wood Elves immediately surmised that I was King Thranduil’s missing son for a hue and cry had been sent throughout the realm telling one and all of my disappearance.  They kindly fed me and gave me a soft blanket to rest upon as they gathered up their gear and began to raise camp, preparing to return me to my father.  I was so tired and hungry that I did not even object to the idea of being returned home even though I knew that when I was at last presented to my father, my punishment would be severe.”

          Aragorn laughed mightily and almost lost his seat upon the limb again but grabbed hold of the tree trunk in time to steady himself.   “I can just imagine the trouble you were in once the king finally got his hands on you!”

          Legolas grimaced at the memory and nodded his golden head.  “Let us just say that I spent the next several days standing up rather more than usual.”

          Aragorn swiped at his tearing eyes as his laughter rang through the trees and eventually Legolas joined in, trying to speak between snorts of laughter and gulps for breath.  “My father was not at all impressed with my escape plan, but from that day forward, the water gate was kept closed and a more stringent guard was posted within the dungeon passages.  The soldiers were given strict orders to report my appearance in the dungeons and were to have me bodily removed from the cellar should I ever venture down that way again.”

          Legolas cackled louder and had to grab onto a branch to steady himself as he wobbled upon his limb.  “It took me exactly three days to find another way down into the cellar, but I never got it into my head to take another barrel ride down the river.”

          As their laughter turned to breathy wheezes, Legolas glanced upward through the tree branches and smiled.  “The rain has stopped,” he grinned at Aragorn.  “Time to build that fire and get you dry.”

… And that’s the end of this tale.

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