“Come, Gimli!”  Legolas' voice was laced with good-natured ridicule and barely-suppressed laughter.  “Can you not see yourself mounted even yet?”

The pavilions were collapsing as the great entourage made ready to begin another day’s ride toward Rohan, the field teeming with busy Men and Elves, many already mounted.

The red-cloaked Dwarf snarled irritably as he endeavored to climb the light and wiggling picket rail and thus gain his seat upon Arod behind the resplendent Elven-prince.  “Not all of us can leap so lightly as you, you laughing willow wand!” he growled at last.

Now Legolas did laugh, for the sight of Gimli striving to maintain his cumbrous balance upon the third rail of a weakening excuse for a fence was amusing in itself.  “Very well,” he said. “Take my hand.”  

He extended his hand, which Gimli grasped rather callously, their eyes meeting then in an undeclared but mutual duel of wills.  The Dwarf at first held the advantage of surprise, though his boyish challenge of strength was then met equally by the Elf.  His leather gauntlets still in his belt, Gimli’s calloused hand was not spared Legolas’ near crushing grip, and eventually he had to admit a stalemate with a wry chuckle, though they did not release one another.

“Worthy opponents, you Elves,” he complimented him.

“And the same to you, Dwarf,” Legolas returned with a smile.  “But come!”

Gimli had felt it, too.  The picket began to fall away in the soft turf.  With a mighty pull, Legolas swung his companion up behind him as the little fence fell and Arod danced nervously beneath them.  Unfortunately Gimli landed upon the length of Legolas’ cloak, which slid over Arod’s sleek back.  Legolas choked as Gimli scrambled to keep his seat, the horse shying this way and that, unnerved by the panic of both.

“Hey! Whoa there!”

“Ai, Belain!”

As Legolas leaned back and thrust a hand beneath his strangling collar, Gimli flailed about and sized upon a great handful of his friend’s hair.

Legolas roared, a shade of Thranduil on the northern marches of Gondor.  Arod squealed and threw them both to the ground in an unruly tangle of red, green, and gold, a snarling cacophony of both Khuzdul and Sindarin expletives.

Legolas pulled himself to his knees at once lest Arod tramp upon them, seething with the indignity of actually having fallen from his horse in full regalia, dragging his – or rather Glorfindel’s – cloak out from under the Dwarf who still sat on it.  Gimli spat grass and grumbled upwards, hissing as he favored a bruised hip.

Arod pranced back to them, tossing his proud head and whinnying amiably as if to say, What a fine mess you two have made!  Shall we not begin again?

Legolas looked down at Gimli, and Gimli up at Legolas.  From the grass-filled beard to the cockeyed circlet, they could not help laughing rather freely at themselves.

“I must say, that is the first time that has happened,” Legolas observed, brushing himself off, and righting his crown.  “Are you hurt, my friend?"

“Not badly, I suppose,” Gimli admitted, shaking his beard clean of those little bits of chewed grass discarded by grazing horses.  “And you?”

“Well, you may explain the boot print to Lord Glorfindel,” Legolas said, twisting to have a look at his backside and what woe the Dwarf had wrought there on the rich green cloth.  “But come, I forgive you, at least.  You will go first this time.”

Finally mounted successfully, they cantered out over the bright green fields to join the others.  There in the distance, supervising the last details of preparation and repacking, sat Lord Elrond upon his grey steed surrounded by several others of his household, statuesque in the late morning light.  Some distance opposite them, Legolas descried also the fleeting form of Queen Undomiel returning to her father astride her handsome grey mare from the thin belt of trees beyond, wherein could be found a clear mountain stream. 

Brightening at the sight of her, Legolas sent Arod galloping over the green to intercept her course.  She saw him at once and gamesomely urged her horse to greater speed, both of them converging upon Elrond’s coterie with a swift pounding of hooves, laughing for a moment like children again as they drew in their panting mounts, their race a recognized draw.

“There seems an uncommonly light-hearted air adrift today,” commented Erestor, watching the near-disgraceful frolicking around them.

“The war is ended,” Elrond said with a smile.  “Let them play again.  Were I not so wearied of this world I would join them.”

“My compliments, Lady Arwen,” Legolas was saying, gallantly laying a kiss upon her slender hand.

“And the same to you, my Lord Legolas,” she laughed.  “You have ever run a worthy race.”

“Provided we don’t go and break our necks while we’re at it,” Gimli grumbled from behind, shooing Elf hair out of his face when at last he dared to loosen his grip about Legolas’ waist.  That kind of reckless abandon on horseback, bare horseback no less, seemed to him somehow impious.

“With you astride, Master Dwarf,” Glorfindel laughed, turning toward them upon his white stallion Asfaloth, “I should not wonder.  Ah, yes,” he continued with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, seeing the chagrin pass their faces, “do not think me so blind as that.”

“And what is this secret of yours?” Arwen asked, turning to Glorfindel and then back to Legolas.

“He shed them both like a wet stable blanket just a moment ago,” the golden lord continued, nodding at Arod, though there was no spite in his tone, only a lurking smile.  “My thanks to you, Master Dwarf, for one of the hardiest laughs I have enjoyed for many years!”

Asfaloth seemed almost to snicker himself, the bells upon his jeweled headstall jingling merrily.  Arod snorted in return, tossing his free mane as though scoffing at the other steed’s finery.

“Perhaps we should not mention that memorable incident just off the fords of Bruinen,” Legolas commented idly, though with venom in his voice.

Now Arwen laughed brightly, for she remembered.  It was an incident that had left both Glorfindel and her brothers dismounted, cold, and very, very wet.

The elder lord reined Asfaloth back a pace in gesture of surrender.  “Very well, Thranduilion of Long Memory,” he acquiesced.  “Here I hold myself outdone in blackmail, and shall say no more if you so will it.”

It was all in good fun, and Legolas held himself redeemed in the lady’s eyes, which was all that truly mattered to him.  And at this moment it was indeed a fond memory, he and Arwen several centuries younger, warm and dry in their furs on the riverbank, hauling a certain Elf-lord from the icy flood on a line, he crawling ashore at their feet like something belched from the Imladris sewer.  Legolas’ stay at the Homely House had not been all study.

Very soon all the pavilions had been folded and rolled by skillful hands back into their compact bundles.  Gradually the line formed again beginning the second day’s march, the Rohirrim leading them north into their own country.  Legolas and Gimli rode again with the Elves of Imladris, but today Arwen fell back from her father’s side and shooed her brothers away, saying she wanted to ride alone again with her friend of old.  This made Gimli a trifle uncomfortable, but she bid him stay.

She looked a beautiful young queen today, all in silver and that elusive indigo blue, her arms bared by her flowing sleeves to feel the sun and the summer breeze, strings of diamonds woven into her ebony hair.  

“It is a pleasure to see you smile again, Legolas,” she said then, “to see the war has not stolen the light from your eyes.”

“I could say the same of you, Arwen,” he returned appreciatively, with the easy grace that always characterized his manner in her presence.  Once very long ago their fathers had considered a marriage for them; they had become only friends, but precious friends who could speak freely one to another.  “Today I banish regret as unworthy, though please do not construe that I rejoice to leave your fair company.”

Arwen laughed lightly, as though she too had cast aside her long years.  “Of course not.  But I do hope you will return to us soon.  The White City is yet barren, and I do not doubt she will flourish to new life beneath your touch.”  She smiled.  “And I would that the heirs of Elessar be raised beneath the tutelage of both the Valley and the Wood. Not lightly does a mother name the guardians of her children, but you I already trust implicitly.”

Legolas inclined his head slightly, sliver flashing on his brow.  “May I prove worthy of such trust.”

Arwen turned to him with a glance that gently reproached him for seeming to think so little of himself.  Then she shook her head as though he were hopeless.  “Oh, Legolas.  Ever you have been almost a third brother to me, and ever have I loved you for it.  I doubt not that my father wishes even now that we had been wed long ago.”

“I told you then that you would find one meant for you alone,” he said.  “I had not imagined this, but if such be your choice, so be it.  Our loss will be Gondor’s gain.”

“A bittersweet choice it was, but I do not regret it for a moment.  But come,” she urged him, “let us not dwell upon darkness to come while the days are yet bright.  I dare say my father could not understand how it was that I chose a dark and lank Lord of Men over so fair a Prince of the Eldar.”

After some hours’ travel, they halted again for a brief midday meal.  Legolas escorted Arwen forward to join her royal husband, where the rest of the Fellowship was gathering. 

“Mae govannen, my beautiful!” Aragorn welcomed her with open arms.  “And Legolas! Why do you hang back so?  Come, we are all gathered here.”

There indeed were seated all four hobbits upon hastily spread cloths of pale silk, Pippin and Merry as diminutive knights of Gondor and Rohan, Sam and Frodo in robes fit for Halfling princes.

“Hallo, Gimli!” Pippin greeted his stout friend with barely-contained enthusiasm.  “Where have you been all this time?  It’s been dreadfully boring way up front without sight or sound of either of you.”

“It is Legolas who commands the horse,” the Dwarf excused himself.  “And he seems predominantly inclined to keep the company of his own kind.”

“Look at him,” Merry pointed out, in gesture of self-evident truth, though in jest.  “An Elf-prince is too good for humble souls like us.”

“I never said anything of the kind,” Legolas protested for himself, though it was true that he looked nothing like the inconspicuous woodland scout who had joined the Fellowship. 

Their meal consisted generally of light rations of waybread and dried fruit, the former not so sustaining as lembas, but equal to their needs.  Gandalf had also come to sit among them, and an enjoyable time was had by all until the short meal had concluded and the pipes came out.  Legolas and Arwen looked askance at one another across the way as most everyone else began contentedly puffing away.

“Frodo,” Gandalf said then, changing the subject.  “How do you fare these days?  Do the nightmares trouble you still?”

Legolas could not help but listen, hanging upon the answer even as Gandalf did.

“Sometimes,” Frodo replied evasively.  “At least they did last night.  It was horrid, but then a soft wind came to clear the air, and almost I heard a voice.  It left me in a lovely corner of the Shire, with a clear rippling stream, and bluebirds in the rushes.”  He smiled.  “Perhaps it comes of having so many Elves around.”

“Perhaps,” Gandalf agreed guardedly, indulging in another pull on his pipe.

“You know, Mr. Frodo,” Sam began thoughtfully, “I had an uncommon good dream, too, now that you mention it.  Rosie was out by her hole, trimmin’ the roses, but almost like an elf-maid she looked.”

Legolas twitched a bit, but no one else seemed to notice.

Again the long procession moved forward over the plain, a slow and weary pace that threatened to wear upon the mind if one had not another to speak to, the monotonous gait of the horse the only rhythm to mark the passing of time.  But then one of the Galadhrim on foot came out of line and approached Legolas, who rode again behind the household of Elrond.

“Hail, Legolas of Lasgalen,” he began formally in the Sindarin tongue, walking alongside him.  “My Lord Celeborn requests that you will grant him leave to ride with you.”

“I am at Lord Celeborn’s command,” Legolas replied graciously.  “I will come as he bids.”

The herald nodded and took his leave upon swift feet.  Soon after him, Legolas turned Arod aside. 

“Hold on, Gimli.”

“I wonder that you can breathe even now, lad.”

The Rohirric stallion made short work of the distance, glad to stretch his legs again, and it was almost reluctantly that he slackened his pace once more beside the Lord and Lady of Lórien. 

“You summoned me, my Lord?” Legolas asked dutifully.

“I did,” Celeborn said.  “I would that you would ride apart with me for a time.  Celos grows weary of the long march, and I would speak to you if I may.”

“Certainly.  But what is to be done with . . .?”

“Come, Lock-bearer,” Lady Galadriel beckoned gladly.  “You shall ride behind me upon Nieninquë while these Princes of the East take counsel together.”

Quite at a loss for words, Gimli was mounted behind his Lady, a greater honor than he would have dared hope for.  Legolas was happy for him.

Celeborn urged his mount away, bidding Legolas follow.  Together they left the lengthy procession behind, riding far upon the gently rolling hills.

It seemed that much had passed through the years to chill Celeborn’s heart into the fair but wintry figure he was now, but he seemed to warm in the presence of his younger and now beloved kinsman.  

“What did the night bring?” he asked at last as they rode, keeping the general direction of the others, but staying far from them.

“It brought Glorfindel,” Legolas answered quite truthfully, at which Celeborn frowned.  “He spoke to me of the call of the West, and I dare say I needed to hear some of it, but his perspective was very . . .”

“Noldorin?” Celeborn suggested ruefully.  “Speak to your father when you return to him.  He broached the subject to me when last we met in victory upon the New Year.  Perhaps he knew even then that it again touched him near.  I do not expect he will be surprised.”

“I shall,” Legolas promised, though he did not relish the thought of that conversation.

“Be good to him, Legolas,” Celeborn pleaded unexpectedly.  “I know it is needless for me to tell you that, but now I feel that he and I will soon find ourselves reft of everything despite our victories.  This was a war the Eldar could never truly win, not for themselves.”

“I know,” Legolas said softly.  “Perhaps life in the West will not be so dreadful after all,” he said, with some attempt at optimism.

“We may only hope so,” Celeborn agreed reluctantly, “for there seems little other choice.”