O, I am cold! It is not so bad for me as it is for the poor Halflings, so I let them crowd round my legs toward the fire. I have to pull Meriadoc back though; he is about to set his cloak on fire, which would be inconvenient.

We are to go through Moria. I am discontent. I do not wish to go to that place; despite Gimli’s enthusiasm it has an evil reputation. I do not mind living underground – was I not born in a cavern? – but to travel so far, and in the dark – ! Surely there is a better way; surely we could risk the Gap of Rohan?

Boromir stands beside me, chafing his hands in their heavy gauntlets. It has been a strange few weeks. Knowing he looks askance at me makes me diffident about speaking to him; yet betimes I surprise in his eyes a look of reluctant approbation, as though he wishes to approve yet is confined by his beliefs. What is his father like; his brother? I have heard Mithrandir speak of them highly, yet for a man to have produced a son of this caliber, this pride, this stubborn nobility – surely the brother is like unto this one. I might like Boromir some day, if he would but unbend toward me! The Dwarf is more outwardly disapproving of my high spirits and antics; yet I do not feel from him the censure that emanates from the man of Gondor. I am a warrior, this I know; why should I always act as though life is but a burden? To be certain it can be difficult betimes, but spring follows winter and the stars are always there. I do not see why he must needs be so solemn, nor impose his standard upon me.

He is shivering, yet allows the Halflings as well to stand closest to the blaze. I smile at this, and he glances at me; behind his dark beard I see his lips twitch.

“We will miss the snow anon,” he says in a low voice, and turns his gaze upon Gimli. The Dwarf confers with Aragorn and Mithrandir; his eyes are glowing, and he is very happy. I cannot help but sigh, and Boromir says: “What is it? I know you do not wish to go into Moria; nor do I! A pity it is no one listened to our arguments.”

“So long as we manage to cross the range safely, I do not see if it matters,” I say carefully; I have no desire to foster dissention against Mithrandir. “Besides it makes Gimli happy.”

Boromir grunts. “Not two nights ago you conceded to let little Master Gamgee stir herbs in the broth, saying it ‘made him happy.’ And you gave up the breast of the goose to the Ringbearer, simply because he had let his gaze linger upon it, when we camped in that ravine. Last week I watched with my eyes you cover the Halflings with your own blanket for they shivered in their sleep. Now you wish to make the Dwarf happy by going through Moria! I hazard a guess that you came along simply to make Mithrandir happy; is that so? Or was it Aragorn you wished to please?”

I am not certain what he means; I cannot tell if he is angry or no. I study him carefully. He still shivers, and his lips are blue; he looks tired and worried. I wonder when the last time was someone did something simply to make him happy. Also I have never heard him speak of a mother, or a sweetheart; is he so fierce a man that the gentle passions have lost their hold upon him? If that is so he is to be pitied more than anyone in our company! When I sing he averts his face; when the Halflings tell jokes and riddles he sits apart; he is no merry companion this, though he is stout enough, and I trust him with my back. How I wish we could be friends! I should like to see through that shell of his; I should like to see him laugh without bitterness, without rancor, without scorn. He feels my eyes upon him and looks back at me; there is a trace of contrition there.

“My pardon, Legolas,” he says roughly. “I did not mean to sound so disparaging.”

“I do not understand you,” I say simply.

Boromir does not answer for a moment, but then he says quietly: “Nor I you.”

I ponder this; perhaps it is my desire for others’ comforts that so puzzles him. For myself I know not why the mortals round me should be so grasping for their own consolation; I have considered this before, and think perhaps it has aught to do with their short lives, and their fear that they shall not have their just due of comforts in this world. Certes it is I have time aplenty on my hands; I can see past the brief discomfort to the many feasts beyond; perhaps this is why Boromir does not understand me. He is young, so young; he has but seen a brief handful of springs and is so serious. Perhaps if he live long enough I might teach him the joy in the journey and not the sorrow only. Perhaps if we survive Moria we might finally be friends! How can I explain this to him though? It should seem, as Mithrandir did say, self-aggrandizing to so flaunt my age. Yet I want above all for him to understand me, so that he might grow to like me. I think I could like him, if he would simply give me the chance.

“Boromir,” I say, “what could I do that would make you happy?”

He is flabbergasted by this; I can see the astonishment writ clear upon his fair face. He stares at me as though I have sprouted three extra noses and a pair of horns. Does he not see I am returning to our previous conversation? “It is not so tricky a question,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. “I know food and warmth and song bring happiness to the Halflings; I know my eyes and ears and presence bring happiness to Aragorn and Mithrandir; I know to travel beneath the mountains to the ancient keep of the Dwarves will bring Gimli much happiness. But I do not know what makes you happy; I have not seen you happy since I met you. And how can I do something to make you happy when I do not know what it could be? That is why I say I do not understand you; I would make you happy if I could.”

“Why?” he asks in amazement.

I shrug. “Why not? I like to.”

He thinks for a moment, rubbing his stiff hands slowly together. “For the same reason you make soap bubbles then,” he mutters, almost to himself. I raise my eyebrows, and he turns, and gives me the ghost of a smile. “For your own good pleasure,” he says; “to quell your disquiet and take up time – soap bubbles, and making your companions happy. Well, they are harmless hobbies I suppose, and as there is little enough loveliness in our world I cannot gainsay you this.” Before I can reply he moves away to check the pony and baggage. I know he left me because he fears to give himself away; he fears to draw too close to me. Why should he fear friendship with me? I am about to pursue him, to continue our conversation in hopes he will open further; but Sam asks me a question then about my shoes, and the matter drops.