A/N: No, I haven't abandoned Heir of Meduseld! This was a plot bunny that simply wouldn't let me be 'til I'd worked it out. Chapter 25 is in the works, and hopefully it'll be up to standard shortly.

I have always wondered about Legolas and Boromir (not in the slashy sense). Throughout Fellowship of the Ring Boromir never seems to regard Legolas as anything but a tagalong, and seems to fear and disdain all things Elvish; so why did Legolas sing such a lovely dirge for him after his death on Amon Hen? This, such as it is, is my take on it. I hope you enjoy it.

--Le Rouret

The man of Gondor watches me. I can feel his presence. I am not discommoded however; ere he arrived at Imladris he had never seen one of the Eldar before. I am strange to him; I know this. But he is not so strange to me, though he come of a far-off land, many leagues from my beloved Dale. He is a man, mortal, noble perhaps; I would own him as my friend were he to allow it.

I place the mouthpiece of the pipe to my lips. I taste tar, smoke. I ease a glistening ball from the bowl; its iridescent swirls roll and undulate. It separates; I breathe out upon it and it rises slowly into the damp air. But I have put too much extra liquid on it; it sinks, and I am constrained to lay the pipe aside. I place my hands beneath it, stroking the air upward; it rises, floats, drifts toward the larch leaves rustling over my head.

He steps forward; I do not turn. I know he is there, and if he thinks he approach me in stealth I do not wish to disabuse him of that notion – I am strange enough to him, methinks. So I play with the bubble, let it dance with my hands and my breath, until it is pierced by a branch. I can hear the little pop as it disintegrates; tiny droplets of soap sprinkle down. I smile.

His foot treads upon a stick. He is alerting me to his presence. Kind of him, but unnecessary. I turn to him, and smile.

He looks puzzled; his dark brows form a V over his eyes, and he is frowning.

“Well met, man of Gondor,” I say.

“Well met to you, Elf of Mirkwood,” he replies cautiously, but says naught else. I smile again at him, then pick up the pipe, and put it to my lips. There is yet enough soap on the bowl, and I coax another bubble out the end. I blow slowly, watching the soap spin and glitter upon the sphere of air; when it separates I am pleased to see it is yet larger than my last effort.

“Ah,” I say. I have not used overmuch soap on it so it floats of its own volition, glistening in the afternoon light. The man of Gondor and I watch it as it drifts upward, catching upon a broad oak leaf ere it shatters. I turn to the man and smile. “That was a good one.”

He studies me; he is still puzzled, this one. He glances at the pipe, and up at the leaf where my late creation died. “I do not mean to be rude, O Elf of Mirkwood, but what are you doing?”

“I am making soap bubbles,” I reply. Do they not make soap bubbles, the children of Gondor? The children of Dale adore soap bubbles; indeed the Dwarves of Erebor make little pipes and bowls with which to create such things. They are popular there, and housewives like them, because it occupies the young ones so that they might get on with their laundry. Well, should I go to Gondor and meet children, perchance I might bring the pastime with me.

Still the man of Gondor studies me. I can see he is a canny warrior, this one; his eyes are hard and appraising, trusting no one but himself; he is proud, and strong, and stubborn. I should like to be friends with him; he reminds me of my friend Meivel.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

I dip the pipe into the plate of soap and water until the viscous stuff clings to the bowl; I tap the edge, and ere I reply put the stem to my lips and blow out slowly. Another bubble, larger this time, swells and spins; it splits from the bowl and it is heavy, so I must needs breathe upon it to get it to rise. At last I ease it to the branches, where once again it bursts, and rains upon me bits of soap. I laugh.

“Because I want to,” I say.

As I blow another bubble he watches me, his face shuttered. I think he would smile if he dared, but he is of the type I can tell that if one attempts to coax a smile all one gets for one’s efforts is a scowl. So I will let him smile when he likes. He will eventually I am sure, once we are the better acquainted.

“You are suffering ennui perhaps?” he asks slowly.

I find this very amusing, and I laugh, and lay the pipe down. I rub my hands together; they are greasy and slippery from the soap. “Nay, I do not easily succumb to boredom,” I say, smiling at him. “’Twas the two little Halflings, the young ones; I caught them wandering about complaining of the dearth of entertainment, and strove to assuage their tedium.”

“Oh?” He looks round, peering into the bushes as though looking for a rabbit. “And where are the two little ones?”

“They tired of soap bubbles and went to the buttery,” I say, and tip the dish of soapy water into a nearby boxwood. “Food, not bubbles, attracts hungry Halflings.”

He stares at me. “And you have stood here and made soap bubbles in their absence?” he asks. It is not the question preying upon his mind, but he is too gentle to ask what he truly wants to know.

“I like soap bubbles,” I say, answering the unspoken question and not the spoken one. “Besides which I am harrowed in my mind, and I have learnt over the years that such humble pastimes calm me, and make me to be better focused upon my tasks.”

“Yes,” he says slowly; “though I would not have thought – that is to say, when I am in that state I tend to use my whetstone.”

“I have also been known to so do,” I admit; “however my knife is sharp enough, and as I do not smoke and do not possess mine own pipe, I took advantage of little Peregrin’s offer of his spare pipe – though I suspect it is not his own but his cousin’s – to indulge myself in this admittedly childlike pastime.”

He falls silent, and watches me as I gather my things. I will have to wash the pipe carefully, lest its owner taste upon it soap and not pipeweed – not that I could tell the difference, but then I find the smell of smoke engenders in me not pleasant memories but warlike ones.

I think I am making him uncomfortable; he does not seem to know what to say to me. He is not alone in this, for I also am unsure what to say to him. He and I are tested soldiers; our fathers hold desperate sway over trammeled lands, and we have come to Imladris seeking Elrond’s wisdom. Yet the silence extends despite our similarities, or mayhap because of them. Shall we not be friends after all? I stand still and look at him, my hands full of dripping pipe and bowl and plate. He regards me with confusion and suspicion mingled; his eyes are troubled and he shields his thoughts from me. My gaze appears to discommode him, for he gives me a curt nod and a “good afternoon,” turns upon his heel, and strides from the clearing.

I stand for a while listening to the birds sing. Imladris is lovely, but it is not home. Perhaps I shall leave next week, and return to the battle there to fight alongside my father and kin.