An Elf, A King and Blueberry Tarts

Prologue

The Elves of Mirkwood were renowned for their love of revelry and feasting and this evening was to be one such occasion for the border patrol was returning from the north after almost a year away from home. Thranduil had ordered a banquet prepared to welcome them back, following a custom that had begun centuries ago when the new King had led the remnants of his army home to Greenwood after the battle that saw the defeat of Sauron. Despite their grief at the loss of many of their kin, the Silvan Elves were so pleased to be back in their forest that they could not resist preparing a feast. It had been a bittersweet celebration with songs of joy for the brighter future ahead intermingling throughout the night with laments that brought some comfort to those who grieved. To Thranduil’s mind the simple act of savouring one of the freshly baked apple and cinnamon pies had been a moment of pure bliss, especially since they were made to Tariel’s secret recipe. She was an excellent cook, and the King considered her pastries in particular, to be culinary gems.  

Even when he had been but an elfling, Thranduil had been intrigued by her skill and whenever she was preparing her specialties for a banquet, he would find himself unable to avoid visiting her in the kitchens, to where he was now headed. Legolas was also fascinated by the art of baking, and since the elfling had injured his ankle, Tariel had invited him to help her, as she often did, knowing it would lift his sprits to do so.  

“I see my pies are not ready yet,” Thranduil said as he entered the kitchen, walked over to the fire and casually dipped a spoon into the pot containing the stewing apples and drawing out a steaming portion to taste. 

“Nor will it be, if you eat the filling before Legolas has the pie shells ready,” scolded Tariel as she playfully pushed her King away from the cooking fire. Legolas’ eyes widened with surprise at her boldness and he was even more amazed when rather than admonish her for such behaviour, Thranduil merely laughed merrily and placed an arm affectionately around the elder she-elf’s waist. “Is my elfling as skilled as a pie maker as I was at his age?” he asked.  

“More so, I would say, and he also has the self control not eat the pies as he works!” she added, winking at Thranduil and causing him to smile as they both remembered another elfling who had often ‘helped’ with the baking. 

The sound of   pounding on the table attracted their attention and Tariel turned around to see small fists mercilessly pelting into a large ball of dough. Every thump caused a white mist of flour to rise into the air, coating both the elfling and the floor beneath the stool on which he sat in a fine powder when it settled. 

“Legolas, what are you doing? I asked you to knead the dough gently, not pummel it as if it was one of the Dark Lord’s minions!” exclaimed Tariel as she left the pot of apples she was stewing and walked over to where her young charge was seated and rescued the pie pastry from its attacker.  

“I am sorry, I did not mean to hit it so hard, it is just that…well…I am very angry,” the young one admitted trying desperately to hold back his tears. Tariel sat beside him and drew him close.  

“And what has angered you so?” she asked gently, as she wiped the flour from his cheeks. Legolas did not answer but simply pointed to his bandaged ankle. “Does it hurt much?” she asked sympathetically as she began kneading the dough herself. There were many pies to be baked before the evening’s festivities, and both Legolas and Thranduil watched in fascination as her nimble fingers skilfully performed their task. 

“No, that is what I tried to tell Adar. It does not hurt at all, and I can even walk on it!” he declared, glaring at Thranduil as he stood slowly and gingerly walked across the room to demonstrate his claim. The cook and the King exchanged a smile of exasperation as he limped back to his seat, obviously favouring his injured ankle and grimacing with the pain he denied feeling. “I should have been allowed to go with my friends to greet the patrol as I always do!”  

“As we have already discussed Legolas, you can barely walk. I cannot allow you to venture away from the safety of the Hall until your ankle heals, not even with a walking stick,” Thranduil added in a tone of voice that warned Legolas not to protest further. 

“There is no need to feel so upset Legolas, even though I must agree with your Adar. The forest is dangerous and you need to be swift on your feet should a band of orcs or one those nasty spiders suddenly attack. Besides, you can always greet the southern patrol when they return in a few weeks,” said Tariel cheerfully. “Now, since you have been placed in my care for the afternoon, perhaps you would tell me how it is that you happened to fall and sprain your ankle? You are normally so sure footed, I was surprised when I saw your friends helping you to the healer’s chambers.”  

“I did not fall, I was tripped!” exclaimed the elfling hotly. “That wicked old apple tree deliberately stuck its roots out as I ran by and made me fall!” 

“Now why would he do that?” she asked disbelief in her voice, as she left his side to go and check on the pie filling. Deciding it needed more stirring; she silently offered Thranduil the ladle.  

“Because I accidentally shot him, I expect,” Legolas finally answered, sounding slightly embarrassed. 

Tariel had sent Legolas and his friends to collect some apples and blueberries for the pastries she was baking, and in their usual fashion, the elflings had taken advantage of the opportunity to practice their archery. Rather than climb the trees and collect the fruit, they made a competition of shooting the apples from their branches. Legolas was by far the most skilful and always won, and on this particular occasion he had aimed for an apple that was a little beyond even his capabilities to reach and the arrow had strayed and hit the trunk of the most aged apple tree. Legolas had run over to apologise to the elder tree, but in his anxiety had somehow managed to trip over an exposed root and sprain his ankle. 

“That is certainly cause to be annoyed, but I doubt he deliberately tripped you. Has he not been your friend for many years?” she enquired as she sprinkled a generous portion of cinnamon into the pot, then reached for a glittering glass bottle, and poured a little of her ‘secret’ ingredient into the pot. Thranduil tried to surreptitiously determine the nature of the additive, but the bottle was unmarked so that no one, except the elf lord Glorfindel, who kept her supply replenished, would know that it contained miruvor, the cordial of Imladris.  

“Yes. I may have only imagined that I was tripped,” Legolas grudgingly agreed. “Is it time to roll the dough for the blueberry tarts?” he asked suddenly, realising the sooner the baking was finished, the sooner he would be able to devour one of the delicious blueberry tarts Tariel always made especially for him. 

“Yes, and you may press as hard as you like when you do, if you think it will help relieve your anger,” she said, laughing merrily as Legolas quickly floured the pastry board and began forming the pie shells. 

When all the pies and tarts had been placed in the oven, there was little for Thranduil and Legolas to do but wait for the pastries to be ready. Tariel, however, was not prepared to have them lurking about as she had many other dishes to prepared. 

“Legolas looks rather tired Thranduil, perhaps you should carry him up to his bed so that he can rest that ankle,” she suggested as she raised her hand to stop them from protesting. “I know you are expecting to be the first to taste my wares, but you will both just have to wait until the feast tonight,” she declared, ushering the disappointed King out of the kitchen once he had lifted his son into his arms.

“Tariel was being very mean, was she not Adar?” asked Legolas as he settled back against his pillows. Not that he would admit it, but his ankle felt much better, raised as it was by a small pillow. 

“Well, the pastries are meant for the feast tonight, and we would not want to spoil our appetites. Perhaps it would take our minds from those delicious treats if I were to read you a story?” he suggested reaching for the plain, leather-bound book that contained several of the elfling’s favourite tales. Soon they were lost in a land of wizards and elves and as he came to the end of the story, the tantalising aroma of freshly baked apple and cinnamon pies wafted in through the open windows, bringing a delighted smile of anticipation to the King’s handsome features as he read the final words.

“…And so the elfling sang softly to the stars, thanking them for granting his wish.” 

“Do you think the stars would grant me a wish, Adar?” asked Legolas eagerly as the story ended. 

“It is possible, what would you wish for?” asked Thranduil, thinking that if it were in his power, he would see his son’s wish granted.

“I think Tariel has placed the first batch of pies on the shelves near the window to cool,” said Legolas, obviously able to smell them as well. “I wish we had one right now!” Thranduil smiled. 

“Then so we shall! You rest here a little longer and I will return shortly,” he said as he kissed Legolas’ brow before leaving the room and heading back to the kitchen. 

Thranduil considered delicious pies Tariel baked to be culinary gems as well as works of art, for each one was beautifully decorated with pastry leaves and flowers, and each was a great temptation at this moment. There were ten pies on the cooling shelf, as well as several blueberry tarts and Tariel was nowhere to be seen. Thranduil could hear her melodious voice echoing from the cellar and, rather than wait for her to return, he quickly wrapped a pie and a tart in a clean cloth and hurriedly returned to Legolas, feeling suddenly as if he were once again as carefree as an elfling. 

“Adar! How did you convince Tariel to give you these?” asked a very impressed Legolas as Thranduil carefully broke each of the pastries into two portions and handed one of each to his son.

“I have yet to tell her that I took them,” Thranduil admitted, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as a mixture of amusement and surprise danced across his son’s face.

“That was not a very polite thing to do Adar,” Legolas said trying to sound stern as he filled his mouth with a delicious morsel.

“I will apologise later, when I compliment her baking,” promised Thranduil. “The pie is really very good, is it not?” 

“Mmm…yes. Apple and cinnamon is very nice, but I have decided that I like blueberry tarts much better!” declared Legolas.

                                                    *********  

“That was the last meeting for the day, your Majesty,” said Faramir as he quickened his step to keep pace with Elessar who strode purposefully from the audience room towards the privacy of his study. The sound of hard leather soles being pressed forcefully against the highly polished stone floor echoed loudly throughout the hallway, signalling to those who knew their King well that he was not in the best of moods. An all too common occurrence in recent times, so most of his friends agreed, as he settled into the more mundane aspects of being the King of Gondor and Arnor.  

“And not a moment too soon for my liking!” he declared with a black look at the appointment scroll Faramir was carrying.  

“I am afraid that you may not always do as you wish. You still have several petitions to read and sign before the banquet this evening,” Faramir dared to say, reading from the scroll as he walked.  His Steward often bore the brunt of Elessar’s moodiness, and as the King’s friend, he was usually given licence to speak plainly. Not today, however.

“Have you nothing better to do than plague me with petitions and meetings and fancy meals? And how dare you speak to me with such disrespect?” asked Elessar angrily.

“Sire, your duties lie at the palace this day, as you well know. It may not be to your liking, but there will be other days suitable for hunting,” said Faramir patiently, and patently ignoring the outburst of temper from his King. Elessar was in a foul mood because he had been forced to once again refuse an offer to join Legolas and Gimli in a day’s hunting in favour of his courtly responsibilities. 

“And it appears to me that you enjoy seeing to it that I do not avoid them. Surely I deserve a brief respite?” he asked, his anger still close to the surface and his frustration evident when, as they reached the heavy wooden doors that lead to the chamber he regarded as his sanctuary, he flung them open and pushed past his guards as he marched into the room. Faramir smiled an apology to the guards for the King’s discourteous behaviour before he gently closed the doors behind them. 

“It is my task to assist my King in the performance of his duties, but it is definitely not always a pleasure,” replied Faramir in a long-suffering tone of voice that caused Elessar to raise an eyebrow. “However, whilst hunting with your friends is not on the agenda, perhaps a glass of wine will offer you the respite you seek?” he suggested as he moved over to the cabinet in the corner and poured them both a glass of wine. 

Elessar sat in the armchair that was behind his desk and sighed heavily as he cast an uninterested glance over the layers of correspondence, petitions, maps and such like that covered the top of what was the centrepiece of the room; the enormous and intricately carved stone desk that had been a coronation gift from Gimli.  

The stone legs of the table were thick and strong, and carved to resemble two halves of a huge tree trunk, centred at each end, with wide branches at the top forming the brackets on which the desktop rested. This in itself was a work of art, for embedded in the highly polished, smooth black stone were seven bright stars surrounding a crown, all made with mithril and shining unceasingly.

“It will have to suffice, and have no fear, my dear Faramir, I will be in a better humour this evening. Arwen will make certain of it, I suspect,” Elessar replied almost graciously, smiling at his friend as they raised their glasses in a silent toast to the beautiful but formidable Queen. “What is this?” asked Elessar as his eye lighted on an unopened letter bearing the distinctive elvish script and leaf shaped emblem that denoted it was from Legolas.

“It must have arrived by messenger from Ithilien while we were in council,” said Faramir with a slight shrug. “Perhaps it is another invitation to hunt?” 

Elessar set his wine down and almost tore the parchment in half in his haste to read the note. It had been only a few weeks since the invitation he was forced to refuse this day had arrived, but he was always eager for news from his friend. Legolas had such a way with words that, even if the news was unwelcome, it would be delivered in a palatable, if not outrageously humorous manner. A letter from his beloved friend was one of the few things, aside from the Elf’s presence or a smile from the lovely Arwen that could instantly lighten Elessar’s dark moods. Faramir looked away to allow his King some privacy until he heard the sound of the parchment being folded and placed in a pocket. He turned back to see that an enigmatic smile had replaced the rather sour look that had marred his King’s features all day. 

“Good news, I hope Sire?” he asked politely, judging correctly that it was and silently thanking Legolas for his excellent timing. 

“What? Ai, yes,” replied Elessar quickly refocussing his thoughts but withholding the news. “I think I am ready for those petitions you mentioned,” he said, almost eagerly. Faramir selected a pile of papers and placed them on the desk in front of his King. 

“If you no longer require me, Sire, I will see to the final arrangements for this evening,” he said bowing respectfully as he took his leave.

“Should I need your excellent advice or assistance, I will be sure to send for you,” replied Elessar pleasantly as he picked up the first petition and began to read. Seeing no reason not to approve the establishment of a new healing house in the outreaches of the farming lands, he signed and sealed the document, then took the letter from his pocket and read it once more.  

Mellon nin, 

I am astounded that you could not use your royal influence to attend the hunt with Gimli and I, although as I am the son of a King I clearly understand the constraints of your position. (Faramir is very conscientious is he not? My Adar’s Steward is of like temperament!). 

Since a simple invitation was not sufficient to secure your freedom for the day, I hereby issue a challenge for the night.                             

                                 BLUEBERRY TARTS!! 

You know to what I refer, and I know you will not refuse!

Look for me by the light of the full moon, 

Legolas 

Elessar carefully refolded the note again, and laughed out loud as he did indeed recall the meaning of the challenge, and the certainty with which it had been issued. Legolas knew him too well, knew that he could not refuse. The task he was charged with was to steal blueberry tarts from the kitchen without being seen or caught. The challenge was the same one that a young Estel had issued to a young Legolas the first time the Elf had stayed at Imladris. He had done so to in an attempt to help Legolas overcome his despair as his mother travelled to the Havens. It had relieved the sadness for a short while, and even though Estel could simply have asked for the tarts and been given them, somehow they had seemed sweeter when they were taken from under the Cook’s very nose.  

Legolas had not been caught, and they had taken turns at making the same challenge to each other whenever Legolas had come to Imladris. On their last night together before they had gone their separate ways it was Legolas who had been challenged to steal the tarts. The following day Legolas had returned to help in the defence of Mirkwood and Aragorn went to learn the life of a Ranger. It was the last time the challenge had been issued for their paths had not crossed again until the day Aragorn brought Gollum to Mirkwood. 

It was now Elessar’s turn to accept what, as the one time Ranger was well aware, was an extremely childish and ridiculous challenge for one of his station. However, he felt compelled to do so for there was also that which appealed very much to the free spirit that seemed to be imprisoned inside the King. He was sure Legolas knew this as well, and Elessar understood that it was simply an invitation to make mischief as they had once often done, to return for a few hours to the carefree days of their youth. Before he realised it, Elessar was already planning how to accomplish this latest and most delightfully amusing mission. Of course, once he had possession of the tarts, he knew that Legolas would demand his share, and if nothing else were gained by the evening’s nonsense, he would at least be able to spend some time in the company of a friend he missed very much.

With his mood decidedly more cheerful, he quickly finished dealing with the petitions, and feeling a little stiff from sitting so long, poured himself some more wine and wandered out onto the balcony to stretch his legs and watch the setting sun turn the towers of the White City to shades of pink and gold. There were no clouds in the sky, and in the fading light the pale orb of the full moon could just be seen on the horizon. 

“Well timed, indeed, mellon nin,” he thought, still wondering just how he would accomplish the task Legolas had set, and at the same time maintain his dignity. A knock on the door, and a few words of summons drew his thoughts back to his plans for the evening and he quickly made his way to his sleeping chambers where he joined Arwen as they made themselves ready for the banquet.

“I received a letter from Legolas today,” he commented as he helped Arwen with the clasp of her necklace.

“I suspected as much, for your mood is certainly less foul than it was earlier,” she said gently as she turned in his arms to face him. “What did he have to say?”

“Nothing of import, just a touch of his usual humour,” he replied evasively. He did not wish to deceive Arwen, but part of the challenge was the secrecy involved.

“’Tis a pity he did not accept your invitation to the banquet,” she said taking his arm as they walked towards the banquet hall.

“He and Gimli went hunting, but I daresay they may decide to attend, especially if Legolas releases whatever it is they catch,” said Elessar, knowing that Legolas would definitely appear later in the evening. “As I recall, the last time we hunted together, he spent several hours talking to the doe Gimli had his eye on for his evening meal, before, much to the Dwarf’s annoyance he let her return to the woods.” Whilst he enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, the Elf would allow only one kill for food, preferring to leave the creatures of the wood alive.

“I would expect nothing less from our sweet, gentle Legolas, but I can imagine how upset Gimli might have been, he has an appetite much like a Hobbit,” laughed Arwen. “Let us hope their hunger does bring them to us, for it has been far too long since we had the pleasure of their company.”

“I think it is fair to say that my Lady longs more for the pleasure of dancing with the fair Thranduilion than for polite conversation with friend Gimli,” teased Elessar as they entered the banquet hall after being formally announced.

“Perhaps that is so, but you can not deny that your good humour is restored whenever Legolas visits,” she agreed with a smile, kissing his cheek lightly as he helped her take her seat.

 “Faramir!” he called beckoning his Steward to his side. “Would you and your lovely wife kindly keep Arwen company for a few minutes, there is something I need to attend to?” he asked, gallantly taking Eowyn’s hand and kissing it before turning to bow slightly to Arwen as he took his leave. The look she gave him made him feel decidedly uncomfortable, and he wondered if she knew of his plans although there was no good reason to think she might. However, Arwen simply smiled and then turned to welcome Éowyn.

                                                             *******

Aragorn found it more difficult than he expected to simply leave the banquet hall, for everyone he passed wished to offer greetings, or speak to him of matters that concerned them, and it was more than fifteen minutes before he actually found himself in the hallway that lead to the kitchens. He found a small alcove in which to hide as a steady stream of servants bearing platters of delicious looking appetisers and freshly baked bread rolls began the journey to the banquet hall.

 Deciding that he would easily be seen and recognised in his finery, Aragorn thought for a moment before the solution came to him. He quickly ran up the back staircase and through the now deserted passage that led to his chambers. Reaching into his wardrobe, he grabbed hold of the elven cloak that the Galadhrim had gifted him in Lothlórien, and wrapped it around his shoulders. Once in the dark of night, he would be almost invisible, and could quickly accomplish his goal without detection.

Rather than approach the kitchen from the inside, and in keeping with the implied intent of the challenge, he chose to climb down the vine that wound its way from the garden below to the railings of his balcony and made directly for the outside entry. He crouched low, and was pleased to see that the objects he was seeking were, as he had suspected, cooling on the shelf near the open windows. Wrapping the elven cloak closer around his body, he ran swiftly and silently to the window and relieved the shelf of four of the blueberry tarts that everyone had come to know were a particular favourite of the King. No banquet menu was complete without them, and Aragorn found he could not resist taking an extra one of the delicious pastries to taste immediately. The filling was still bubbling hot, and he burned the roof of his mouth, but enjoyed every morsel of the dessert.

He quickly returned to his study, being careful to avoid being seen and secreted the blueberry tarts in one of the desk drawers before returning his cloak to his chambers. As he turned to leave, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror behind Arwen’s dressing table, and laughed heartily at the face flushed with triumph and the disbelieving eyes that stared back at him.

“What strange power did the mischievous Wood Elf have over him that could cause the King of Gondor and Arnor behave in such a childish fashion?” he wondered as he walked quickly back to the banquet hall to take his seat beside Arwen. The deep bond of friendship and brotherly love that they shared that apparently also extended to a love of mischief and an equally wicked sense of humour, he answered himself. They were kindred spirits, of that he had no doubt. 

The evening wore on and after a sumptuous meal, including blueberry tarts and freshly whipped cream for dessert, Aragorn eagerly joined in the dancing that Arwen loved so well. So engrossed was he in the beauty of the one in his arms as they followed the intricate, and at times energetic dance steps, that he did not hear the gasp of surprise as Legolas and Gimli arrived unannounced. Thus he was quite startled when he felt the light touch of a well-known hand on his shoulder and a soft voice whisper,

“May I dance with the lovely Evenstar, Aragorn?” Legolas was one of the few who still addressed him by that name, for that was who he was to the Elf.

“Legolas! I am pleased to see you have changed your mind!” exclaimed Arwen as she willingly changed partners. Legolas acknowledged the brief wink from his friend, and the slight incline of his head that told him the challenge had been accepted.

“And I am pleased to be here, Arwen. Shall we show the men and women of Gondor how to dance?” he asked as he swirled her gaily around the dance floor.

“They certainly make a lovely couple,” commented Gimli as Aragorn joined him at the table. “It would not be asking too much to expect that there was still some of the excellent fare remaining?” he asked.

“If one did not know better, one would think you were a Hobbit with an appetite such as yours,” teased Aragorn as he beckoned to one of the servants to see to Gimli’s plate.

“I am definitely not a Hobbit, just a hungry Dwarf who made the unfortunate mistake of hunting with the Elf. Legolas seeks to make friends of the creatures of the woods, rather than a hearty stew!” he declared loudly to the amusement of those around him.

“There were more than enough roots and berries to make a satisfying meal,” said Legolas as he and Arwen swirled by before disappearing into the crowd on the dance floor. 

“Humph, nosy Elf!” snorted Gimli at the interruption before continuing his diatribe. “He not only befriends the animals, but shares their meals!” exclaimed Gimli in mock disgust. Aragorn smiled sympathetically at the Dwarf’s blustering, and watched the dancers in silence while Gimli ate his fill. The musicians decided to take a well deserved rest so Legolas and Arwen returned to the table.

“I was not aware that there was anything that could dissuade Aragorn from a course of action once his mind was set,” Legolas was saying, obviously commenting on something Arwen and he were discussing in regard to Aragorn. 

“Not in matters of import, I agree, but he does have a weakness for blueberry tarts,” said Arwen innocently as she took her seat beside her husband. Legolas and Aragorn exchanged a surprised glance. “I believe both you and my dear husband often availed yourselves of the freshly baked pastries at Imladris in your younger days,” she added, the mischievous gleam in her eyes telling them their secret was known at least to one other.

“You would be wise not to give too much credit to the stories you have heard, my dear Arwen, especially if the source happened to be those wicked brothers of yours,” replied Legolas earning himself a playful slap on the arm from his dance partner.

“Their reputation in Lothlórien was no worse than yours,” she said lightly. “However, it is a shame you arrived so late, my dear Legolas, for there are none of the blueberry tarts left.” 

“Are you certain?” he asked her with a wicked grin in Aragorn’s direction, eliciting a less than friendly glare from the King that Legolas ignored completely as he spoke again to Arwen. “It is such a lovely night, and the moon is full and bright, if you will excuse me, I will take a walk in the gardens. Perhaps you will allow Aragorn to join me?”

“Of course, I am sure you two have much news to share,” she said. “I would be pleased to spend some time in Gimli’s company.”

                                                 ********* 

The two friends walked slowly out into the coolness of the night air, saying nothing until they were well away from others who were also seeking the beauty of the moonlit night.

“So where are they?” asked Legolas without preamble.

“Somewhere safe, but before I take you there, I would hear your reason for the challenge?” Argon asked.

“None other than to provide you with a brief respite from the burdens of kingship for a short while,” replied Legolas honestly, gripping Aragorn’s’ shoulder affectionately with one hand as he looked piercingly into his friend’s eyes. “Did you not enjoy the adventure?”

“You know I did, although it is long since I have behaved like a child,” declared Aragorn, unable to hide the amused smile or the delight in his eyes.

“By elvish reckoning you are barely more than one now,” teased Legolas. “In which case I would consider your behaviour this night to be nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Did you know that Arwen knew of our escapades in Imladris? She was rarely ever there at the same time I was,” asked Aragorn, suddenly reminded of his wife’s words.

“Nay, but as I said, it is likely that she learned the information from her brothers,” said Legolas with a shrug. “It is of no matter, then or now. What matters now are the delicious blueberry tarts baked especially for the King, which I am certain she suspects we may have in our possession.” 

“Then we must leave the moonlight for the sanctuary of my study and destroy the evidence before she decides to question us further,” said Aragorn taking his co-conspirator by the arm as he led the way through the back passages from the kitchen. They swiftly reached the room and Aragorn strode straight over to his desk opened the drawer containing the tarts. The deliciously well-known aroma wafted in the air, whetting their appetites and Legolas sat at the desk in the chair opposite and eagerly accepted his share of the spoils. 

“I must remember to offer my congratulations to the cook, these are the most delicious pastries she has baked,” he said as he delicately nibbled into the sweet fruity centre. 

“I do not think that wise, for that would surely give us away,” warned Aragorn. Legolas studied his friend for a moment and sighed, the responsible King was never far from the surface.

“Ai, and that could prove to be an interesting, if not amusing situation,” mused Legolas, sounding to Aragorn as if he might actually confess just to see what would happen.

“You may relish your reputation as a mischievous Elf, but I have my dignity to maintain,” said Aragorn, ignoring the silvery laughter that followed that statement. “Stealing pastries from the kitchen is not the act of a responsible, respected King, after all,” he added with a grin as he licked the last of the filling from his fingers.

“You think not?” asked Legolas enigmatically, as he walked over to the cabinet where Aragorn kept his wine and poured them both a glass. “Would you regard Thranduil as a responsible and well respected King?” 

“Most assuredly,” declared Aragorn, wondering what had caused the mischievous gleam that suddenly shone in the eyes of the King of Eryn Lasgalen’s son.

“Even the time when Adar satisfied his craving for warm apple and cinnamon pie in a similar manner?” asked Legolas with an affectionate smile for a fond memory, and the raucous laughter and tears of mirth that washed the cares from his friend’s face at the image his words conjured.