Disclaimer: All characters, events and places in my story that can be found in Tolkien's books are his; I am merely borrowing them. Everything else has sprung from my own imagination, or has been inspired by other writers' stories. To all these writers, I express my thanks.

This disclaimer applies to every chapter in this story.

For some time now, I’ve been meaning to start the Elf and Ranger Tales: collections of short pre-Quest and post-Quest stories about Aragorn and Legolas.

This little tale is the first in the post-Quest series.

SEEING THE STARS OF HARAD

(co-written by Legolass and Starlight) 

Of all the memories The King of Gondor had of Harad – the desert land he had visited but once since his coronation – the most pleasant was that of the varied and flavorful fare they served to honored guests. It was thus with some wonder that he noted his elf friend’s apparent lack of enthusiasm over their meal.

“Why are you not touching your food, Legolas?” Aragorn asked, throwing his companion a puzzled look. He lowered his voice so that his query would not reach the ears of their host who was, fortunately, engaged in conversation with someone else. “Is it not to your liking?”

Man and Elf were sitting cross-legged in front of a low table laden with numerous Harad delicacies. They had arrived at the desert land two days ago, and Legolas had loved the food so far, so his current detachment from the fare confused the man.

Legolas sighed almost mournfully. “I cannot think about the food,” he said and waved his hand-held paper fan back and forth in a vain attempt to ward off the heat. “I have to admit that I am quite disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” Aragorn echoed, surprised. “About what?”

“The main reason I agreed to accompany you on this journey, besides tasting the food for which the locals are renowned, was to see those strange Stars of Harad you have talked about over the years,” the elf replied unhappily, fingering his mug of scented tea. “But those clouds just seem to be conspiring against me! We have only two more nights here. If the skies do not clear enough tonight or tomorrow, I might not be granted the sight of them.”

“Clouds do not tarry long in a desert sky, my friend, and your opportunity may well come tonight,” Aragorn said reassuringly. “So, stop fretting and enjoy your food like I am doing.”

Sighing resignedly, Legolas left his musings and looked at the man. Then his brows furrowed.

“What are you doing exactly?” he asked, staring in open confusion at his friend’s plate. The king was clearly relishing the good food and was eating with unchecked vigor, but he paused occasionally to pick out a little green pepper and carefully move it to one end of the long plate, as far away from the rest of his food as he could manage. In fact, the man had made a small pile of them and seemed to be avoiding them as if they were poison.

“These, my friend,” Aragorn said and pointed at the peppers, “are not for eating.”

Legolas cocked his head to the side, puzzled. Why would the Haradrim cook peppers that were not for eating? he wondered. Not too anxious for an answer, and suddenly feeling hungry, he shrugged his shoulders and eagerly focused on his own food.

Before their arrival, Aragorn had heaped praise upon the quality of the food prepared by this particular Haradric tribe, but Legolas had soon found out that it surpassed his boldest expectations. He still could not believe humans could cook so well, despite how different the food was from his usual fare. If he had to describe the diet of this particular tribe with a single word, it would have to be ‘rice.’ Rice, fried or boiled, was an essential component of almost every meal. The rice, however, never came by itself. It was served with a variety of exotic gravies, sometimes containing meat, sometimes vegetables, but always mixed with an impressive number of spices.

Legolas grew fond of the exciting dishes very quickly, but there was one thing that the elf did not like about eating in Harad. ‘Did not like’ was in fact a mild way of saying what he had felt when he had first witnessed it, for he had been quite horrified at the time and had despised it with a passion. It was not what the Haradrim ate – it was how, for the desert folk ate with their hands.

Legolas could still remember his first instruction in the proper way of eating with hands. “You take your food like this,” a Haradrim had said, skillfully scooping up some rice with his fingers. “And then you use your thumb to push it into your mouth.”

Unable to imitate the movement, the elf had requested a spoon and fork. He was thankful that the men had managed to find him a spoon, or else he would have been forced to starve. 

His initial repulsion had, however, toned down into an acceptance of it, for he soon saw that the Haradrim seemed to have mastered the art of eating with their hands so that it seemed neither uncouth nor overly messy. Indeed, the only parts of their hands that touched the food were the tips of their fingers, and after watching them for a while, the elf reluctantly admitted that the Haradrim could appear almost graceful as they ate.

Aragorn, however, was a completely different story.

The man’s hands – those regal hands that could wield Anduril with neat, deadly strokes, and which frequently signed crisp, precious documents with artful flourishes of a quill – were at the moment plastered with sticky, oily gravy, rice and other unidentifiable edibles of all colors. Legolas could only stare at them with barely suppressed disgust. Aragorn, on the other hand, did not seem to mind the least, and the elf suspected that his friend – whom he knew was ever a Ranger at heart – was secretly enjoying it.

“You just seek every opportunity to get filthy, do you not?” he hissed at the man with narrowed eyes.

Aragorn looked at him in wide-eyed innocence.  “Opportunity to get filthy? Not at all, mellon nîn, I am merely showing my respect for the local culture.”

The elf snorted in disbelief. The man was clearly enjoying this show of ‘respect for the local culture’ far too much. At the moment, for example, the king was eating some fowl which could have been handled perfectly well with just two fingers, but the man somehow thought it was absolutely necessary to use all ten.

Legolas shook his head. “I thought that one of the benefits of having you crowned as a king was that I would never have to endure seeing you slowly degenerate into a grimy state again, but I now see that this has been a fool’s hope. Aragorn, what would your subjects say if they could see their lord now?”

“What should they say?” Aragorn rejoined flippantly. “This is the normal manner of eating here. Even the tribal leaders eat this way, and it is not undignified.” As he said this, the king tucked a wayward strand of hair behind his ear. Naturally, he had not seen it necessary to wipe his hand clean before doing that.

Legolas sucked in a breath, riveting his horrified gaze upon the now oily strand of royal hair. He had to find a way to force his friend to wash himself soon, or he was not sure he would be able to survive the rest of their stay in Harad. The elf looked away and indulged in devising cunning plans about pushing a certain former Ranger into a large body of water. Unfortunately, large bodies of water were difficult to find in the desert.

While contemplating the near impossible, his gaze fell on one of the Haradrim eating next to him. As his eyes took in the shiny, oily fingers, he was about to close his eyes when he noticed something strange. The man picked up a little green pepper from his plate and placed it in his mouth. It was the same kind of green pepper Aragorn had been painstakingly casting aside. Almost immediately, the Haradrim’s hand moved to the plate once again and picked up another one. Soon he had devoured a handful of the little green peppers with a speed which rivaled that of Eldarion devouring a bowl of his favorite candied snacks.

The elf looked at Aragorn, who was still carefully separating the peppers from the rest of his food. “I thought you said those were not for eating,” said the elf.

“Yes, I did,” the man affirmed, promptly grabbing more rice and gravy with his hands, which made Legolas feel a sudden urge to drag the man to the Sea itself and plunge him in there. I would brave the sea-longing just to wash this oily grime off him, he thought in exasperation.

Then his attention returned to the Haradrim with the peppers. “Aragorn, that man is eating the peppers,” the elf stated.

“Yes, he is,” Aragorn replied and dug his fingers into a large piece of fish.

“But you said they were not for eating,” Legolas said.

“That is right, they are not for eating,” said Aragorn.

“Well, he is eating them.”

“Yes, he is.”

“And they are not for eating?”

“No, they are not.”

“But he is eating them.”

“Yes, he is.”

Legolas finally hissed in frustration. “I fear you have spent too much time with Gandalf, Estel. You speak in riddles!”

Aragorn laughed. “I am sorry I confused you,” he said, although he did not appear sorry at all. “The Haradrim eat these green peppers, but you and I would not be able to eat them.”

“Why not?”

“They are too spicy.”

Legolas was not convinced. “This man just ate a handful and he does not appear the least bit affected. They cannot be that dreadful.”

“Oh, they can,” Aragorn answered and pushed another one towards the edge of his plate. “I tried them during my first visit to Harad and I am not about to repeat the experience.”

The elf’s eyes were shining with curiosity. “But if he can eat a whole handful, surely I could try one.”

Aragorn sighed in resignation. “As you wish, take one. I am sure you will doubt my word no longer then.”

Legolas grinned and gingerly picked up one of Aragorn's discarded peppers with a thumb and forefinger, his other fingers carefully avoiding the oily rice. A mischievous sparkle suddenly appeared in his eyes. “I will eat one if you do, too,” he said.

The man shook his head. “I told you, I am not making that mistake again.”

The elf raised his eyebrows. “Come now, Aragorn, you have faced the deadliest enemies and you are telling me that you are afraid of a little green pepper.”

“This is not fear, my friend,” the man said. “This is wisdom.”

Legolas looked at him pleadingly. “Please, do it with me. If it is as terrible as you say, I do not want to do it alone. We have been together through thick and thin, through fire and death, through – ”

“Fine, fine!” Aragorn yielded with a long sigh and picked up a little pepper from the pile he had made, coating it with some rice. “You cunning, manipulative creature,” he mumbled. “You will be the death of me.”

“Oh, surely not,” the elf replied with a satisfied grin and brought the pepper to his mouth.

“Wait!” Aragorn shouted, startling the men around them.

“What?” The elf asked in surprise.

“You cannot eat it like this. I suggest you take some rice with it.”

“The man who ate many peppers took no rice,” Legolas pointed out.

“Yes, but you are not that man.”

“Are you saying that I am weaker?”

“This is not about strength or weakness,” Aragorn explained. “These men have been eating them all their lives, but you have never tried it before.”

The elf studied the little pepper. “I am sure it cannot be that strong. In fact, I will take two,” he said, boldly adding a second pepper to the one grasped securely between his long fingers.

Aragorn shook his head helplessly. “Legolas, I beg you, take some rice with them.”

“No.”

“Legolas, please!”

“I said I do not need it,” the elf said. Frantically, Aragorn reached out to stay the elf’s hand, but it was too late. The peppers had already entered the elf’s mouth.

Aragorn froze in terror, the pepper clamped between his own fingers forgotten.

Legolas rolled the little green items around in his mouth and frowned.  “I do not feel anything,” he declared.

Aragorn breathed in relief. “The sensation comes with a little delay, and you have to bite on them,” he explained. Now that awareness had returned to the man, he – very conveniently – continued to forget his own green pepper. But his warning to the elf remained. “You really ought to take some rice with – ”

“No,” the elf repeated obdurately. He began to chew then, closing his eyes in concentration. “I still feel nothing,” he said. “Perhaps I should take two more.”

“No!” Aragorn screamed. “I told you, it takes a few moments – ”

Suddenly Legolas went rigid and his eyes shot open. Blood drained from his face, then rushed back within a heartbeat. He tried to suck in a deep breath, but his throat would not obey. Choking on something he could not yet put a name to, the elf felt on the verge of losing consciousness, and his hands pounded the table desperately, making all the utensils jump and rattle, and shocking the other men at the table. The elf’s eyes seemed to roll into the back of his head, and quick, bright flashes of light exploded in every corner of his mind and vision.

“Aaaaah!” he gasped in a ragged, painful breath as his fingers found and gripped Aragorn’s hand with the strength of a vice. “Staa-aa-aars!” he croaked brokenly. “I… see… staaaars! Haaaaah!”

Aragorn sat up in fright, at a loss for words as Legolas’ other hand thrashed about. Yet, despite the alarm he felt, Aragorn could not help the smug look he threw the elf. “Well, dear friend, you desired to see the famous Stars of Harad, did you not?” he quipped, patting the elf’s clenched hand. “It appears that your wish has been granted.”

Legolas’ only wish at that moment was in fact to scream colorful curses at Aragorn, but a throat on fire does not good speech make, and all the elf managed to do was go into a violent coughing fit. His throat was in flames. It was so dry and so hot that the very air he drew in hurt. He could not breathe!

“I… am… dying,” he managed to choke out as tears poured from his eyes and ran down his face in warm rivulets.

“No, you are not,” Aragorn replied as calmly as he could. “You will feel better in a short while.”

“Will not… survive… a short while…” Legolas said and before Aragorn could stop him, he had grabbed a glass of water and poured the liquid down his throat.

“No!” cried the man. “That won’t help! You must eat rice!”

And indeed, though the water seemed to extinguish the fire in the elf’s throat while he was still drinking it, the agony grew worse as soon as he had stopped. Desperately, he gulped down another glass, and yet another, before Aragorn could prevent it, but the effort did not help. Tears continued to stream from Legolas’ very blue, very tortured, eyes.

The king was truly worried now. “Legolas! You must eat rice!” he pleaded.

And so the elf ate. And ate. He had never eaten so much rice in such a short time before… and, Valar help him, he pushed it into his mouth with his hands. Both of them.

Aragorn stared at him horrified, then quickly started to help. He grabbed rice from all the nearby plates and pushed it towards Legolas. And soon two sets of oily hands were busy stuffing the elf with rice.

Around the two companions, the Haradrim could only watch with gaping mouths at first, but they soon collapsed with laughter. Offers of more rice and water came hard and fast, and sympathetic hands patted the elf on the back as he went through his death-by-green-pepper throes.

Was it the “short while” Aragorn had spoken of when Legolas finally stopped seeing stars? It felt as if three watches had gone by, even days. After an agonizing duration of time, the elf stopped breathing fire and regained control of his senses. He looked up at his friend, his fair face wet from all the tears that had poured forth in his torment.

Aragorn was not quite certain what to say. “You are red,” he observed at length, torn between sympathy and mirth. Then mirth won. “You look quite charming in red.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed in anger as he wiped his cheeks. “No thanks to you,” he said bitterly. “Why did you not warn me of the dire consequences?”

The man looked at him in genuine surprise. “I believe I did,” he protested.

Legolas sighed. “I suppose you did,” he said and took another sip from his glass. “But you should have done anything to stop me.” He coughed again.

Aragorn studied the elf worriedly. “Are you better now?”

“I suppose I am.”

“You suppose?”

Legolas could hear the anxiety in his friend’s voice, and his lips curled slowly into a subtly sly smile. “No… I have almost recovered,” he said. “But there is something you could do to make me feel even more comforted.”

“What is it?” the man asked immediately.

“I am not sure I could ask this of you,” the elf said hesitantly. “It requires a great sacrifice on your part.”

“Legolas, you know I would do anything within my power,” the man said, not certain of the direction the elf’s words were taking.

“Anything?” Legolas said. “Well, it really pains me to ask so much of you, but if you would do anything… I suppose you could wash your hands. And that strand of hair you greased earlier.” His eyes roamed quickly over Aragorn’s body. “In fact, the more I think about it, perhaps you could take a bath.”

Aragorn laughed. “And this would make you feel better?”

“Yes, it would,” the elf replied sincerely, looking forlornly at his own messy hands.

The man nodded solemnly. “In that case, my friend, it is something I would gladly undertake for you – after we dine,” he said. “I was only halfway through my meal.”

So saying, Aragorn buried his hands in the food once more and resumed eating. Very soon it was impossible to imagine that this was the same man who had just spoken as if he knew the meaning of ‘getting clean.’

Still, he has promised a thorough wash, the elf thought. I can wait.

Feeling quite sated from all the rice he had wolfed down, Legolas sat back and looked idly at Aragorn’s food. Suddenly the elf’s sharp eyes noticed something on his friend’s plate. Something that he was quite sure was not supposed to be there.

It was a little green pepper set aside from the rest. The little green pepper.

“Aragorn,” the elf said slowly, pointing to the item. “Did you not agree to eat this while I was consuming mine?”

Aragorn cast a look at the pepper and blinked. “Oh. I suppose I must have forgotten.”

Legolas’ voice was soft, barely concealing his suspicion. “Forgotten?” 

“Yes, you could call it that,” the man replied with a shrug of his broad shoulders. He scooped up another handful of rice, cleverly evading the daggers Legolas was shooting at him through his glare. “Come, my friend, let us finish our meal,” he coaxed. “The sooner we do, the sooner I will undertake the washing you think I need.”

The elf needed no second reminder of Aragorn’s promise. He smiled in satisfaction. Perhaps his near-death experience had been worth it after all.

  ----------------------------:)|(:---------------------------

The following day, Aragorn did not meet his elven friend until the evening meal. Busy with trade discussions all morning and afternoon, he had left Legolas to explore Harad on his own. It looked as if the time had done the elf some good, for the prince appeared cheerful and completely over the painful experience of the night before.

“So how have you been whiling away the hours?” the king asked as they sat down together.

“Oh, I have been marveling at the local crafts – Harad has much to offer,” the elf replied light-heartedly. “I have even spent a little time with the household staff. It has been unexpectedly educational.”

“Good!” said the man, beaming. “Well, the skies seem clearer tonight. You might even get to see the stars tonight – the real ones – in the sky.” Aragorn chuckled, unable to stop himself from alluding to the elf’s somewhat explosive encounter with peppers the previous night.

Legolas seemed oblivious as he nodded happily. “I count on it,” he replied.

Glad that the elf certainly looked contented, the king smiled and turned his attention to their hosts.

As Aragorn engaged himself in conversation, Legolas browsed the array of exotic-looking food on the table before him. The dishes looked and smelled enticing, but his eyes soon lingered – with great expectation – on the bowl of gravy standing next to Aragorn’s serving of bread. The thick steaming dish would go well with the freshly baked loaves, the elf thought.

Most pleasing to him was the wonderfully rich dark color of the aromatic gravy, he decided – just perfect for hiding the hundreds of minute green pieces mixed into it, finely chopped for greatest effect. It had taken little effort to convince the Harad cook just how fond the King of Gondor was of the little green things, and how he would appreciate a generous helping of them in his gravy.

For a moment, a twinge of guilt assailed the elf, but it left him before he could take the next breath. He would apologize to Aragorn afterward, he determined, and to make amends, he would refrain from needling the Ranger-King of Gondor about washing or bathing for the next few weeks. To further relieve his conscience, the elf discreetly moved a large dish of buttered rice and several glasses of water closer to his friend’s plate.

Feeling sufficiently exonerated, he laced his fingers demurely, smiled and waited patiently for the meal to begin. 

After all, he already knew exactly who would be seeing the first explosion of the Stars of Harad tonight.

FIN

Dear Readers: It'd be great if you could take 2 minutes to send us a response. All reviews appreciated - thank you.

Note from StarLight:   The story you just read has quite an interesting (and painful!) history. It all started when I got the incredible chance to visit Legolass on my way back home from New Zealand. She was gone for a few days during my stay, and I was left in the caring hands of some of her husband’s colleagues. The men were really hospitable and intent on taking me around and showing me the spiciest food possible. One evening we were having dinner, when I noticed that one of the men was picking little green peppers out of his food and pushing them to the edge of his plate. He explained that some of his friends were able to eat handfuls of those peppers, but he was unable to take a single one. He told me to just eat my food, which was supposed to be really spicy. But it wasn’t, and I told him that. A smug grin appeared on his face. “Not spicy enough for you?” He asked. “Well, try one of these.” And he pointed towards the green peppers at the edge of his plate. I told him that I would eat one as long as he ate one too, and he agreed. Stubborn idiot that I am, I ate the pepper. With no rice. I have tried some chilly peppers before, but they were nothing like those little green ones. There was only one thing that helped me survive the experience, and it was imagining Aragorn and Legolas trying those same peppers. After that little incident I couldn’t stop thinking about Elves and Rangers eating little green peppers, and when Legolass came back, I told her that we should write a story about it. She suggested that they would be able to try such peppers in Harad, and this is how “Seeing the Stars of Harad” came to be. Hope you enjoyed it and think about the poor Elf and Ranger next time you see the stars. :–)

Note from Legolass:  Mae govannen again, my friends! Just as Legolas’ very spicy adventure brought some benefit, Starlight’s own spice-laden experience inspired the writing of this naughty (and I hope entertaining) little story.  :–)   She provided the crux of the story; I merely added ideas and embellished the story with details.  I wish to thank dear, dear Starlight for this delightful experience of co-writing a story – for even the chance to write again. It’s been a joy. Much love to you, Twinkly.

I’m also grateful to Starlight that she allowed me to post this story under my account, as it gives me a much needed opportunity to send my faithful readers this message: although there are ideas in my head, I am at present unable to write longer tales because of heavy commitments at work. I hope I’ll be able to find time eventually. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can manage some short stories such as this one. I sorely miss our interactions through your reviews, my friends, and I hope that many of you will ‘drop in’ to say hello so we can touch base again.  Starlight and/or I will reply to any responses to the story that you leave. Thanks for reading!

SPICES OF HARAD

by Legolass and Starlight

(This story is the sequel to Seeing the Stars of Harad, the chapter immediately preceding this, which was also co-written with Starlight. It’s necessary for you to read that story first in order to understand the context of the events here.)

------------------------------:)(:------------------------------- 

It was not often that Legolas of the Woodland realm, son of the elven king Thranduil and unfailingly brave member of the renowned Nine Walkers, questioned the wisdom of his actions.

But tonight, as his eyes roved the starlit skies of Harad, he did.

The night seemed restful enough. It was the eve of their departure from the desert kingdom and Legolas was enjoying a cool desert breeze, the subtle scent of spices wafting in the air. Aragorn was in the tent of the Haradric Chief, Abi Jaab, no doubt sharing a last smoke with their host. It would either be the Longbottom leaf Aragorn had brought along, or one of those Haradric smokes with the fruity scents, neither of which appealed to Legolas in the least. But it was not the smoke from the pipes that troubled the elf at the moment.

The elf recalled with some regret his deed two nights prior: that night, he had – in a fit of insanity and ill-justified revenge, he now concluded – added no small amount of torturously hot chopped-up pepper into his friend’s innocent-looking bowl of gravy.  Legolas had immediately felt contrite over his trick afterwards, mainly because Aragorn’s torment had been frighteningly displayed in choking coughs and a never-before-seen shade of red on his face. Shaken by what he saw, Legolas had immediately begged for his friend’s forgiveness, but the man had – to the elf’s dismay – seemed to remain displeased, and the elf had meekly accepted the King’s avoidance of him for two subsequent days.   

The elf sighed at the unpleasant recollection, feeling a twinge of disappointment at the distance, however small, between him and Aragorn. But the man could not remain angry with him forever, he concluded. The recent evening meal had been very satisfying – with no green peppers in sight – and the smoking session with Abi Jaab would surely put the King of Gondor in a good mood, he thought. Later tonight, he would approach his friend again to make amends. Now that they would be returning home, it would not do to continue being distanced from each other.

But the need to approach the king arose sooner than he had planned, and Legolas found himself disregarding the man’s resolute silence to appeal for his help in a most unexpected situation that was nothing short of horrifying for the elf.

As Legolas stood staring up at the lamps in the sky, he was barely aware of the locals milling around him. But his attention was soon drawn to the sound of soft footsteps on the sand and the gentle rustle of silk that drew closer to his side. The footsteps stopped, and a sweet voice just behind him asked pleasantly:

“Can I please, my prince?”

Legolas spun around, surprised to see a young Haradric girl smiling up at him. He recognised her as one of the serving girls who had attended to him and Aragorn at each meal. Dark hair framed her pretty face and doe eyes, and the sheer raiment she had on did little to hide the soft curves of her form.

“Can I please?” she repeated. Her speech in Westron was heavily accented but melodious, and Legolas guessed that she had been taught to speak a little of the tongue for the benefit of the guests from Gondor.

“Can you please... what?” the elf asked kindly.

The girl’s eyes softened. “Please you, my lord,” she answered with no hesitation. “How, in any way, please tell me.”

Legolas was not certain he had heard correctly. “I... I beg your pardon?” he stammered.

The girl’s brows furrowed slightly. “You beg...?” she asked, but she quickly hid her perplexity and smiled again. “No beg. I can please you, my lord. All ways. Any ways.”

The elf swallowed and took a step back. His voice, when it came out, was a croak. “Um... what?”

She reached out a slim, delicately tapered hand to place it on Legolas’ chest, while her other hand brushed the length of his arm. “Do for you everything.”

Legolas drew back as if he had been scorched. He shook his head in mute astonishment.

The girl was persistent. “Bath. You like. Hot bath?”

Despite the mention of the hot bath, the elf felt a sudden chill. His eyes widened and his mouth went dry. Still, he managed to retain enough of his senses to say hoarsely: “No. Th - thank you. No.”

The girl was not fazed. She batted her eyes a few times and smiled even more earnestly. “Come!” she said invitingly, tugging at the elf’s arm. “I give you hot bath. Good oil. I put, I wash. Abi Jaab gift. Good, nice gift.”

Legolas felt faint. He wriggled free of the girl’s grasp as politely as he could and shook his head again. “No - no, please. Do not trouble yourself,” he murmured.

The girl’s nose scrunched up attractively and she latched on to the elf’s arm again. “No trouble!” she insisted, flashing while teeth. “I please. Hot bath! Abi Jaab said – I do, I please anything.”

And the elf’s panic reached new heights when she added: “This way, your sleeping place! Best perfume oil, I put, I rub – everywhere!”

All thoughts of politeness flew away with the desert breeze. Legolas pulled his arm free and fled in terror, walking at a desperate pace in the direction of the Chieftain’s tent. He could hear the girl calling out to him in alarm. “My lord! My lord! I can please!”

The more loudly she called, the faster the elf went, till he was almost running, his long golden hair cascading wildly around his shoulders. Upon reaching Abi Jaab’s grand and colourful tent, he lifted the flap and rushed in before the Haradric guards could announce his presence.

“Aragorn!” he called to his friend, his eyes big blue orbs in his ashen face.

Abi Jaab and the King of Gondor were seated on comfortable cushions. As Legolas had guessed, they were smoking the long pipes favoured by the desert people, the citric smell of ashiish permeating the tent. But the elf did not even notice the smoke that would normally have bothered him.   

“Aragorn, help!” he hissed.

Both rulers sat bolt upright and looked at him in surprise.

“What is the matter, Prince?” Abi Jaab queried. “Is there a problem?” 

Legolas seemed to only just become aware of the Chieftain’s presence and acknowledged him with a sheepish nod. “Please, excuse my – er – my intrusion,” the elf muttered. “I need to speak with Arago – with King Elessar.”

“You asked for help,” the Chieftain said. “You require assistance? How can we help?”

“Yes, Legolas, what is wrong?” Aragorn addressed him for the first time in two days, a spark of concern in his grey eyes.

Legolas swallowed, suddenly at a loss to explain his predicament. “The girl...” he began, pointing vaguely in the direction from which he had come. “She can please... er... she –”

“Prince!” an eager voice hailed from outside before the girl burst into the tent, her attractive face troubled, almost afraid. She stopped abruptly at the entrance and bowed to the men inside, a hand to her forehead in the style of the Haradric women. “My lords,” she said meekly.

Abi Jaab raised his hands, palms upturned in query. “What is the matter?” he asked, looking from Legolas to the girl. Then, frowning, he spoke rapidly to her in their tongue, receiving swift, agitated responses in return.

Legolas could only surmise that the Chief was questioning the girl to learn what had taken place, and her expression told the elf that she was rather distressed. Aragorn could only watch uncomprehendingly.

Abi Jaab did not seem pleased. “Did she upset you?” the Chief asked Legolas suddenly. “She was instructed to see to your comforts and your needs tonight. If she does not please you, I can arrange for another – ”

“No!” the elf cried immediately, his fair face even more distraught. Glancing at the frightened face of the young girl, he felt sorry for her and quickly added: “No, Chief, she did not upset me! She – she... that is, I – I do not – er –”

Understanding at last the situation before him, Aragorn stood quickly and chimed in. “My elven friend here is trying to explain that he did not expect such hospitality from your people, Abi Jaab, and is thus uncertain what to do,” he said smoothly. “But he is very grateful for the service your beautiful helpers offer.”

So saying, Aragorn turned to Legolas. “Are you not, Legolas?” The warning look the man flashed clearly said: Do not refuse this service. We do not want to offend them.

Taken aback at what Aragorn was all but insisting, the elf’s initial instinct was to – once gain – flee. But more than a decade and a half in the court of Gondor had taught him that what was reasonable in one realm was not always so in another. Swallowing nervously, he replied. “Yes,” he squeaked, horrifying himself.

Legolas could hear the small sighs of relief that came from both his friend and the girl who had been assigned to serve him. The thought flashed through his mind that it was all very well to have saved them both unpleasantness, but what was he supposed to do now? He had no wish to be ministered to in a hot bath – and by a stranger! And what might she expect after that? He shot Aragorn a pleading look, but the man’s expression revealed nothing of what he was feeling. The elf felt dejected.

Surprisingly, it was Abi Jaab who provided Legolas some relief. He laughed loudly as he stood up and walked over to Legolas to clap him on the back. “Don’t worry, my friend,” he said reassuringly. “Zahra is very good. She will merely prepare your bath, make sure you have everything you need and give you whatever help you require. She will do no more and no less than what you ask.”

Legolas looked over to where Zahra stood; she was smiling enthusiastically in concurrence with her Chieftain’s assurances. A spot of color returned to the elf’s cheeks, but in truth, he felt little more at ease now than when he had first received her offer of service.

“Come, Legolas, I’m sure you’re fortunate to receive such attention,” Aragorn said, steering his friend towards the tent entrance. Legolas knew that the king’s words were for the benefit of their host, but the man’s softer tone was the first sign that he might be feeling a little sympathetic about his friend’s discomfiture after all.

“I get ready!” Zahra announced happily and exited the tent before them.

Reluctantly, as if on feet of lead chained to iron weights, Legolas followed, relieved only by the knowledge that Aragorn was close behind him. As soon as they were outside and when Zahra was far away enough from them, the elf gripped the man’s arm and led him quickly to a darkened spot where fewer people could hear them talking. To ensure further privacy, he whispered in Sindarin.

“Aragorn! Why did you make me accept this – this... service?” the elf hissed. “I do not want it!”

The king could not help his amused grin now. “It is only a bath, Legolas,” he said placatingly. “Enjoy it.”

“I can bathe very well on my own!” the elf protested.

“As could I,” Aragorn replied. “But it is a service they provide to their honoured guests before they leave, and I would not embarrass our hosts.”

Legolas’ fine eyebrows knitted. “Is someone tending to you too then?”

Aragorn was unruffled. “I would not be surprised,” he said coolly.  “But then, they have full knowledge that I am a married man, and the arrangements might be a little different.”

Legolas did not look appeased in the slightest. “You – or Men – or the people here – may not be troubled by the attention of strange females,” he grumbled. “But we do not do this in my woods!”

Aragorn glanced at the girl as she made her way towards Legolas’ tent. “Zahra will make delightful company though, will she not?”

The elven eyes widened. “You know there is no need for it! You know I do not want her waiting on me,” Legolas stated firmly. He threw up his hands in exasperation. “How do I even make conversation with her?”

The king laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Did Gimli not once observe – let me see...,” he rubbed his chin in an exaggerated gesture of reflection, “if I recall correctly what he told me – did he not say that you could charm the tusks off an oliphaunt?”

Legolas glared at his friend with eyes as hard as blue ice, and pointed stiffly at the rapidly diminishing figure of Zahra. “That, Aragorn, is not an oliphaunt!”  

The man laughed even harder. “No, Legolas, she certainly is not! And I dare say it would be easier for you to talk to one!” The chuckles continued. “This is precious! One would almost think you’d prefer to suffer the heat of green peppers.”

The elf did indeed begin contemplating that choice when a sudden thought entered his mind, and his eyes narrowed. “Did you... did you by any chance – or design – arrange for this, Aragorn?” he asked carefully.

“Nay, Legolas!” the king replied immediately, still laughing. “I did not. Why would you think that?”

The elf studied his friend’s face and saw no lie there. Sighing, his own features took on a look of genuine remorse. “Because of... the green peppers, and what I did to you,” he said dolefully. “I suppose this is my punishment – this awkward... entirely unwanted... circumstance.”

At Legolas’ misery, Aragorn grasped the elven shoulders and said reassuringly: “It will not be that terrible, Legolas. What Abi Jaab said is true. Just tell Zahra to prepare your bath and wait outside till you finish. That way, my friend, she would have carried out her task and you would be none the worse off.”

Somewhat mollified by the man’s reassurance and his use of the words my friend after two days of silence, the elf breathed more easily, and managed a wan smile. “Perhaps so, though I suspect it will not be as easy as you say,” he said, regaining his composure. “But I would thank you not to let this state of affairs be such a source of amusement for you.”

The elf appeared so wretched that Aragorn nodded and fought the temptation to laugh, his cheeks aching with the effort.

“Well, all this has brought about one good thing at least,” Legolas said resignedly.  

Aragorn was curious. “What might that be?”

The elf’s reply was soft and meek. “You are speaking with me again,” he said. He looked doubtfully at the man. “I am truly sorry for what I did with the peppers, Estel. Do I have your forgiveness?”    

Aragorn, whose silence over the two days had in truth been more out of disbelief rather than anger at Legolas’ misdeed, smiled and drew his friend close.  

“A bond such as ours has seen little equal, Legolas,” he said with sincerity. “It can surely survive much more tempest and greater tests. We do not cease to be friends because of some puny green peppers.”

Legolas felt a great weight lifted off him. And so the elf was able to endure the rest of the night’s activities with a lighter heart.  Dutifully – if hesitantly – he accepted Zahra’s bath and assistance, though he found the effort of keeping her from fawning over him both awkward and torturous. He had to graciously but firmly stay or temper her numerous and zealous offers to remove his shoes and his clothes, and to wash him, and to comb his hair, and to soften his skin, and then to loosen his muscles and dress him again. There were no amorous motives in all she did, but his unease and discomfort were great nonetheless.  

Legolas was exhausted beyond belief at the conclusion of the bath and Zahra’s ministrations. But at least he had spoken with Aragorn, and what was most important, he thought, was that the matter of the green peppers was concluded. That night, he slept with a smile on his face.

Little did either of the friends anticipate that when the morning came, that fair elven countenance, which had been so full of confidence upon retiring the night before, would once again be marred by doubt.

Standing in the rising heat of the Harad sun, the elf watched as Aragorn and his company gathered outside a large tent that had been the living quarters of the King of Gondor in Harad for two weeks. They were about to depart, and some of the men were loading their belongings on to a wagon while others prepared the horses for the long journey home.

Legolas stood by his own horse, stroking its nose absently. He was a picture of disinterested composure – till he overheard a dialog between the King and his valet from the Gondorian escort and espied a curious-looking pouch changing hands between them.

Aragorn peeked into the pouch he had been handed, sniffed at its contents and asked his valet: “More of the spices?” 

The eager-faced man nodded. “Yes, Sire, as you requested! The first batch has been sent with the riders that have gone ahead.” 

The elf stiffened.

Spices? Sent ahead... for what purpose? he wondered.

Legolas thought that he had seen and heard the last of any spicy threats coming his way. With his eyes glued to the pouch and the taste of a painful memory upon his tongue, he listened in trepidation to the rest of the men’s conversation.

“A three-day ride in this scorching desert before we come to more pleasant surroundings,” Aragorn remarked as he closed the pouch. “I shall welcome a good meal and some fine wine at the end of the road.”

“I have no doubt that you will find them awaiting you, Sire,” said the valet. “The earlier group will see to it. They will ride much faster and arrive a day before us. The Queen will be expecting you.”

“And all that I sent?” asked the king.

The valet nodded. “As you instructed, my lord.”

“Good, very good,” said the king, returning the pouch and looking around. Of a sudden, the man turned and caught Legolas’ intense perusal of him. He immediately threw the elf a question and an invitation: “You will dine with us when we reach home, Legolas?” 

The elf almost froze in the desert sun. “Dine?”

There was slight surprise in the king’s voice.  “Yes. Would you like to dine with us? That should not be a strange notion.”  

Legolas gulped, trying not to let his hesitation be too obvious. “I had thought... that I might return immediately to Ithilien... part ways at the Crossroads,” he said as convincingly as he could.  His hands were fiddling pointlessly with the laces on his shirt, but his eyes darted to the pouch in the valet’s hand. It was just for the briefest of moments, but Aragorn had seen it.

The man erupted in laughter and he shook his head. “Come now, Legolas,” he said. “Surely you don’t think that I would use those little green demons in our food, do you?”

The elf’s eyes widened in horror at the mere thought. Aragorn laughed again as he walked over to the elf and clapped a hand on his shoulder, releasing a small cloud of dust-like sand into the air.

“There will be no green peppers in any dish that awaits us,” he said. “Those spices are anise and cumin – what you enjoyed so much in our lamb. Some sea salt as well.”

“But... what you sent ahead?” the elf asked timidly.

“For Arwen,” the man answered readily. “Sweet gifts from Harad.”

Doubt flickered still in the elven eyes, and again, Aragorn perceived it.

“I have seen what the peppers can do to novices, and one near-death experience is enough for each of us,” the man said, smiling. “I would not subject either of us to it again, my friend.” 

The elf exhaled the breath that he had been holding and he lowered his eyes, his long lashes closing over the bright blue orbs. “You are far kinder to me than I was to you, Aragorn,” he whispered.        

The king cleared his throat. “No need for such words, Legolas. I am not faultless.”

“I did not say you were, Aragorn,” the elf rejoined, smiling now. “You were just... kinder... in this matter.”

Aragorn looked a little embarrassed. “Well, no more green peppers,” he promised. “Only the mildest of Haradric spices. I’m sure they will be well used.”

All traces of worry finally erased from his face, Legolas beamed and leapt lightly on to his horse. “Let us be off then. I am impatient for the comforts of home.”

With a matching broad smile, the king mounted his own horse and cast a look around at their escort. Satisfied that all was in order, he gave the signal to proceed. After a brief stop to exchange words of farewell at the tent of Abi Jaab, the King’s company set off on their return journey to Gondor on a joyful note. 

“A happily concluded visit, would you not say, Estel?” asked Legolas brightly, and proceeded to recount some of the interesting experiences they had encountered during their stay. 

Aragorn listened with fond indulgence to the light-hearted speech of his elven companion on their ride. Yes, the trade negotiations had been very fruitful; yes, what strange plants; yes, what music! and yes, the new culture was fascinating! And the food! And the stars! Aragorn could not help wincing at the reminder of his excruciating ordeal with the pepper-ridden gravy caused by the very speaker who was now alluding to it with amusement, and he shot the elf a glare that he half-meant. But Legolas went on to narrate other experiences, and his silvery laughter was so clear and genuine that it went straight to the heart of the man who held him dear. Aragorn realised how he had missed that laugh, somewhat regretting the two days during which he had ignored his friend.

So radiant was the elf now as his golden hair glinted in the brilliance of a Harad morning and so cheerful was his sunlit countenance that – for a fleeting moment – Aragorn entertained a measure of regret over two particularly spicy packages he had sent ahead to Gondor with the first group of riders. The king had not lied to Legolas earlier: the gifts were indeed meant for Arwen. What the man had elected not to mention was that the spices would first be delivered to the elf, and that the elf would be obliged to partake of them.

But the twinge of guilt went as quickly as it had come. No, much as I love you, Legolas, you deserve this, the king decided. In fact, many other men in your place would thank me for it.

After all, why should a man – or an elf – complain about two spicy treats like Zahra and her twin Zobeeda, who, at Aragorn’s request and with Abi Jaab’s blessings, had willingly agreed to serve the Queen of Gondor for a year, but only after waiting on the elf prince hand and foot for at least the first two weeks? Legolas had cleverly convinced the cooks in Harad that the King of Gondor enjoyed green peppers; it had been just as easy for Aragorn to convince Abi Jaab of Legolas’ unexpected pleasure in having Zahra tend to him. The Chieftain’s explicit instruction to Zahra and Zobeeda was to not be put off by the prince’s apparent refusal of their services; the elf was – according to the King of Gondor – “merely too modest to ask for them.”

Ah, yes, the man thought in secret delight. A most satisfactory arrangement indeed.

The king drew in a deep breath, the delicious taste of retribution chasing away unpleasant memories of a bowl of dark gravy.

In the shadow of the head cover that gave his face some protection from the desert sun, Aragorn smiled smugly, while the elf chattered on, blissfully ignorant of the torment that awaited him.

Legolas, my friend, the king said silently. You are about to live the longest, spiciest two weeks of your life.

 FIN

(Note: The comment that Legolas could charm the tusks off an oliphaunt was made by Gimli in my story In Shadow Realm and – let's assume – recounted to Aragorn afterwards.)

Mae govannen and Aloha! (Yes, I’m in Hawaii for a couple of months)

It’s been ages since I posted, so I don't know if you'd still be interested in reading. 

This sequel – the follow-up from Seeing the Stars of Harad that Starlight so delightfully initiated before – has been in my mind for some time. I hope this little offering will allow me some of the contact with online readers and friends that I miss so terribly.

Starlight is very busy herself, but I’m grateful that she managed to find time to contribute to this little story as well. We hope you enjoyed it, and we hope to hear from you.

Till next we meet – may the light of the stars shine on you and may the rest of your year be spicy! May you also have the patience that I lack waiting for screen version of The Hobbit in December 2012! It’s exciting to be following the making of (what I hope will be) another wonderful tribute to Tolkien!  

Legolass (who will still be reading and responding to reviews in 2022 and beyond...)

(And though Starlight is too immersed in her work and studies, I’m sure she says a big, warm hello as well)