Éomer King of Rohan returned not many days afterward, with him his companions the twin sons of Elrond, riding at the head of a proud éored of the fairest knights of the Mark, two thousand spears strong. 

King Elessar and Queen Arwen received him graciously.  That night the two sovereigns and their attendants feasted in the Merethrond, celebrating the alliance of their realms and their victory in war.  Also present were the Lords and Ladies of Elven Lórien and Rivendell in solemn and ageless majesty such as Éomer had never before seen.  Legolas attended by express wish of Elessar, for the King already accounted him among the Princes of Ithilien whether Legolas wished it or no, but he called no attention to himself throughout the duration of the evening, quietly observing the proceedings as was his way.

The Rohirrim seemed rather uncomfortable in the presence of such august Lords, their King no less so as he sat at the same table with them.  Legolas kept a loose eye upon Éomer, observing his concealed agitation thoughtfully, even as he felt he was in turn clandestinely observed by Celeborn.

Legolas had kept to himself a good deal after the war, but Celeborn had spoken to him often during the last weeks as they had dwelt together beneath Aragorn’s roof.  For himself, Legolas was full of questions, and he listened avidly to all Celeborn could tell him of Thranduil his father, the fall of Dol Guldur, the new division of Greenwood, the alliance of Lasgalen and Lórien.  Celeborn had no desire to hear anything of the devastation of Mordor, so the matters of Gondor were more oft than not foregone between them.  Moreover, Legolas opened his heart fully to very few, not out of disdain, but courtesy.  So, Celeborn continued to afford him his privacy.  Glorfindel had been after him with patronizing solicitude at almost every turn, but Celeborn seemed to know that if Legolas wanted his counsel he would ask for it.

After the feast, Legolas slipped away before he could again be entangled in the circles of foreign society, wishing instead to simply sit beneath the stars on such a clear evening as this, not to be wasted in crowded company one does not understand.  No one would miss him.

He returned outside to the precipice-like courtyard, but found it ablaze in golden torchlight, not the moonlit retreat he had in mind.  His own person was not as inconspicuous as he would have liked, dressed in deep blue and silver of Celeborn’s gift.  But that would matter little if once he could find a secluded spot all his own. 

Paying no mind to the taciturn guards, Legolas tread lightly to the far side of the palace façade, near enough the edge to look out over the sheer drop to the roofs of the hewn levels below.  An easy leap set him lightly atop the guard-wall, another from there to a handhold on the royal edifice itself.  In but a few short moments he had scaled the outside wall and crouched comfortably upon the roof.  

On cat feet, he crept over the roof tiles through the darkness, easing down beside one of the many gables lining the sloping sides.  There he at last found his desired perch, nestled into the corner.  None would find him here, not unless they came out onto the balcony and turned around.  Now the indigo raiment of Celeborn suited him perfectly, reclined against the roof in the starlight.

Legolas lay back and closed his eyes, enjoying the silence of the night, the caress of wind on his face.  The heat of the day had long passed, and everywhere all that lived seemed to breathe easier.  He had told Aragorn he was contend, and for the most part he was, but a Wood-elf of the North was wasted on hot stone.  If only Éomer had intended to stay some days before returning with them to his country, he would have had again the chance to take Arod for another blood-stirring ride across the Pelennor.  Gimli had disdained to accompany him during his frolickings, and perhaps for the best.  One could not rightly perform the impressive airs above the ground with a querulous dwarf along for the ride.  Legolas had been pleasantly surprised by Arod’s proficiency with such artful maneuvers, taught him by different masters with a different style, but the spirited grey stallion had already grown accustomed to his new Elvish lord and was willing and able to learn from a new hand.

Thranduil had always frowned upon the breaking of a horse’s spirit.  The proud steeds the Elvenking mounted were disciplined, surely, but in truth untamed yet, steady beneath his hand but wild at heart, vicious as any warrior in close combat.  Legolas knew his father would commend whoever had worked Arod as a colt, for the touch of a master was evident.

Just imagining his father’s voice was enough to make him pine for his home again, but he comforted himself with the thought that they would be going soon.  Legolas had heard from the heralds sent to him some months ago that his father had been wounded in the final battle, a term it seemed was understated considering the circumstances.  Thranduil himself made no mention of it in his letters, but the slow and deliberate hand in which they had been written confirmed the rumor of trauma to his wrist and shoulder, among other injuries. 

It was at times like these that Legolas sorely missed his mother.  He had never really ceased to lament her loss.  After she had died, Legolas had often found himself trying to fill her place, for it was she he resembled most in form of manhood, in both appearance and temperament.  Queen Lindóriel would not have allowed her husband to labor over letters in an injured hand; she would have gently but firmly set him aside and done it herself from dictation.  So would have Legolas, but he could not be everywhere at once.  Others would have offered, but they would have been refused.  He had long considered himself his father’s keeper, a position he was quite content to fill.  As a result, after all the long years past Legolas had his formidable father wrapped securely around his finger.  Doubtless this influence would be put to good use when he wished to introduce Gimli into the household.  Elbereth, there he would be sure to tread carefully.

Time passed unnoticed as he lay there in the darkness, lost in thought, listening to the sighing of the wind over the city.  An hour, two hours, perhaps three.  It mattered not to him.  But at last his reverie was unexpectedly disturbed by the sharp rattling of the window latch below him.  He heard the door swing open, and a darkened figure paced out onto the balcony. 

By tread and profile, Legolas recognized Éomer of Rohan.  The Rohirric king seemed worn by care, dressed for sleep but obviously restless.  He stood long in silence while Legolas debated whether or not to make his presence known.  At first he was reluctant to disturb him, but eventually he was moved by sympathy and ventured to speak.  Besides, it would be rude to watch and say nothing.

“Do they comfort you also?” he asked softly.

The unseen voice gave Éomer a violent start, and he spun round at once.  Descrying at once the familiar Elf reclined panther-like against his dormer, blending uncannily with the shadow-dappled roofing, he heaved an unsteady sigh. 

“Forgive me,” Legolas apologized, as Éomer recovered from his fright.

“I forgive you, right readily,” Éomer assured him, having steadied himself.  “All the Powers forbid that elves should ever become assassins!  I am not yet accustomed to the strange and silent courtesy of your kind.”

“No matter.  But I asked, do they comfort you also?”

“What?” Éomer asked, expecting to be confounded by some elvish profundity.  “Who?” 

“The stars," Legolas clarified patiently. 

“Oh.  Yes, I suppose they do, when they shine on a clear night.” 

Legolas smiled at this, an expression that seemed to restore the man’s confidence. 

“Legolas of the Wood,” Éomer said at last, “of Elves you are the one I know best, yet it seems still that I know you not at all.  In memory of our companionship in war, will you be so kind as to disregard the differences of place and rank that have arisen between us?  For I would speak with you if I may.”

“You shall know me better than many Men if already you do not question why I lurk about the roof of your chamber at night,” Legolas observed with a smile, willing to disregard more than Éomer knew.  “Speak and be comforted.  Will you come up, or shall I come down?”

Éomer laughed.  “Please, my friend, come down.  I should not trust myself to climb about the heights of this city by night.”

Legolas eased his way down in silence, dropping lightly onto the balcony, ready and willing to listen.  “What troubles you, King of Rohan?” he asked gently.  “I see a shadow of doubt behind your eyes.”

Éomer sighed.  “Doubt, yes,” he said.  “We have shared friendship before, Legolas, you and I.  Would you now have me confide in you freely, as a brother?  I am the only son of my father, and the war took Théodred my cousin.”

“I would,” Legolas consented softly.  “For I too am without brethren, though reared with a kinsman I dearly love.   Speak to me freely, son of Éomund, and I shall do the same.”

It seemed to Éomer that Legolas was opening to him, dismissing the aloofness that had characterized him before, becoming – well – almost human to Éomer’s eyes.  He could see that he understood.  At last he felt as though they stood upon common ground, all thought of race or rank dismissed for the moment as they faced one another as comrades in arms, tried and scarred alike.  And thus Éomer could at last unburden his heart to him.

“I doubt only myself,” he said, turning away.  “I was not named heir to the throne of my country until the deaths of my royal kinsmen but a few short months ago.  Now I wear the crown of Rohan, as is my right, but still I do not feel I am indeed king.”  He paused for a moment, searching for words, as Legolas attended in silence.  “I feel I am but striving to imitate those I cannot match, that somehow I have been misplaced in my uncle’s stead.  I can only conclude that I am young yet, unprepared for my succession, for still I feel most at ease when I put off the royal air as though it did not suit me.”  He looked up at the Elf, who regarded him solemnly.  “Do I grope in vain, or do I strike near the truth?”

“Do not think yourself unworthy for your doubt, Éomer,” Legolas told him.  “Had you the grace of final counsel with your kinsman Théoden, I am sure he would have had much the same to say of his first days upon the throne.”

“Perhaps,” Éomer admitted, his voice seeming rough to his own ears after the smooth timbre of the Elf.  “Elessar does not doubt himself, but he was far more advanced in years than I when he claimed his lordship.  And his father was of the line of kings.”

“His claim was longer in the making,” Legolas reemphasized.  “His was a fate he had dwelt long upon through many years.  Had he been thrust onto the throne even as you, I do not doubt that even Aragorn of the Dúnedain would have wavered for a moment.”  He paused, considering the last bit.  “I know little of your lineage,” he said, “but you are a grandson of Thengel, even as was Théodred.  The blood of Elvenking Thingol was carried only by his daughter, the same that runs in the Lord Elrond, and thin but true in Lord Aragorn.”

Éomer said nothing in reply, so Legolas continued in a more personal vein.  “My own Elven-lord,” he said, “was for three thousand years of Men the sole heir of his father.  Often a prince of the Eldar may safely resign himself that he shall never come to rule.  But upon the death of the Elvenking at the Last Alliance, his son was left alone in his stead.  He rules us still today and is named our greatest king.” 

Éomer listened thoughtfully as Legolas recounted the tale of his own lord, another living figure of legend.  Could it be that such trials were the heritage of every king, even of Elves?  Moreover, it seemed that Legolas himself was at last speaking more freely, not merely granting answers to questions given, but opening ever further, coaxed on by Éomer’s trust.

“Often has he spoken to me of the anxiety even he endured during his first years,” he continued, with a hint of a strange smile, “of the uncertainties that haunted him ere he at last found his footing in the paths trod by his father, and then learned to leave them for paths of his own.  All this he has taken care that I should know, lest someday I . . .”  Legolas’ voice faded somewhat abruptly then, and a shadow seemed to fall upon him as though he feared he had said too much already.

This was not lost upon Éomer, who already thought it odd that an Elven-lord would confide so candidly in one of his archers, and thus he had begun to form suspicions of his own, strengthened by previous observations that until now had gone unnoticed.  Just who was Legolas of the Woodland Realm? 

“Why?” he asked guardedly.  “Who is your Elven-lord?”

Legolas regarded him more cautiously now, and it seemed that he had closed again against him.  He was colder, more withdrawn – haughtier, if such a word could be given him, ageless and deathless, so much so that Éomer could not help feeling a mere child beside him.  “He is Thranduil, son of Oropher,” he said simply.

“And who is Thranduil, son of Oropher?” Éomer persisted, pronouncing those strange names without thought, determined to have the whole truth, for in evading him Legolas only further strengthened his suspicions.  “Who are you?”

Legolas surrendered at last beneath his scrutiny, for he was not one to hold out long against the rightful inquiry of a comrade.  “Very well, friend Éomer,” he consented with a reluctant sigh.  “And I did promise to speak to you freely, did I not?  Since you ask it of me, Thranduil is my father.  And had he fallen in the battle that ravaged our realm, I should even now have been Elvenking of the North.  So you see,” he continued, as Éomer stepped back a pace, “I understand your fears.  I have faced them many times throughout the long war, for my father has been stricken often, yet he is far too stubborn to die.”

The King of Rohan saw laughter in the Elf’s clear eyes as he said this, revealed at last.  He had never imagined Legolas as any more than an a bondsman commissioned by his lord into the service of Aragorn, hardly the Elfengel himself.  Until now Éomer had not even known his father’s name, though ‘Thranduil’ would have meant nothing to the Rohirrim, who had long ago named him Dernhere in the earliest lore of the Mark, a figure of mystery almost as innately treacherous as the Sorceress of Dwimordene.  And yet here in one extraordinary night, Éomer son of Éomund had not only beheld the Golden Lady herself, but now discovered for a glad-hearted friend the very flesh and blood of the perilous Woodland King.  The Lady seemed to have in her no evil, and though he had not yet met him, Éomer was inclined to think much better of even Dernhere if he had reared such a son as Legolas.  He vowed that during his reign the myths and legends of his time would see some considerable revision.

“You do not wish to rule?” he asked at last, wondering at Legolas’ careless tone before.  Many princes of men grew weary waiting for their fathers to pass and leave them their inheritance.  How long had Legolas lived in his father’s immortal shadow?

“No, I do not,” the other said.  “I am content as I am, and would have my father live many long ages to come.  But nevertheless, Aragorn has insisted that I accept a fiefdom when I return.”  He smiled.  “It seems we may all look forward to facing the same trials together.”

“But why would you leave your father to come fight and perhaps die with us,” Éomer asked, “with people you have never known or seen, to whom you owe nothing?  You served our King at Helm’s Deep, you followed the Lord Aragorn through Dunharrow and the dread Dwimorberg, you fought here at the Pelennor, and marched beside us even to the black Gates of Mordor.  Why?”

“Why not?” Legolas returned simply.  “First, the Ring was to be destroyed, and of all Elves Elrond chose me.  Second, I could do more good for my kinsmen by seeing Sauron defeated than by waiting to die valiantly beside them.  Third, the Dúnedain have long been faithfully allied with my father, and it seemed only right that Lord Aragorn have the aid of at least one of the Lasgalenath when he chose to assert his claim.  Moreover, my very dear friend and kinswoman Lady Arwen Undomiel had given her heart to Lord Aragorn, and I had promised to see that he came to no harm on the road.”  Éomer could plainly see that this last was given partly in jest.  “The rest,” he finished, laying a hand over his heart, “I keep to myself.”

“Very well, friend Legolas,” Éomer acquiesced amiably.  “I shall demand no more of your secrets this night.  The hours wane unmarked in your company, and I fear I keep you from your rest.”

Legolas laughed softly to himself at Éomer’s tact.  “Nonsense,” he insisted.  “It is I who am keeping you.  I only hope I have been able to afford something of the comfort you seek.”

“You have, indeed,” he said.  “I believe I shall sleep soundly this night after all.  Your comrade Gimli the Dwarf and I have settled our score regarding the Lady of the Wood.”

“Have you?  Did he force you to swear with bared head and on bended knee that Lady Galadriel is the fairest ever to grace this earth?” 

“He did not,” Éomer said, with a touch of pride.  “I stood firm in my own mind, and chose instead Queen Undomiel.  He granted me this, and we parted amiably.” 

“That is good to hear,” Legolas smiled. “For a time I feared he would hold that over you forever.  For myself, I have long forgiven your less than kindly reception of us on the plains of your land.”

“And I for your audacious threat in return,” Éomer returned.  “May I never again find myself looking down one of your shafts, son of Thranduil!”

“Indeed not,” Legolas agreed. 

Meeting his gaze, Éomer saw again that kindred light, one that seemed to say Elves and Men were not so different at heart, and promised a long and abiding friendship in the days ahead.  Certainly they would meet again.

“But come,” Legolas said at last.  “You will be in no shape for tomorrow if I persist in lingering into the early hours.  Shall I go whence I came, or would you have me use the door?”

“The door, by all means,” Éomer begged, showing him inside.  “I would not have it said of me that I shut an Elf-prince out to wander along rooftops.”  

Leaving Éomer to his sleep, Legolas drifted through the corridors to his own chamber.  What little must be prepared must be done tonight, for tomorrow began the great procession to Rohan, the first steps of the journey home.