It is an astonishing thing that I find myself here; it is all the more astonishing I should find that companionship I craved not with my fellow Elves but with Gimli. I am grieved over Mithrandir’s death, more than my companions know save perhaps Aragorn; yet Gimli lets me weep, or rage, or sing, or laugh, and gainsays me naught. I did not know in myself such a hunger for talk! And we talk, or walk in silence, or climb hills, or listen to my kinsmen speak or sing; sometimes we will sit upon a high place with our arms wrapped round our knees and look out to the tree-girt horizon; he will smoke and blow rings round my head, and I rest my chin upon my knees and hum under my breath. He is so comfortable; I can say what I like to him without fear of censure, and he is so at ease with me it quite dumbfounds me. How could I have ever thought he and I would not be friends? At this moment I am astounded that we were not friends from the moment we met. It is like wakening one morn to find a brother in one’s bed one has never known; there is no constraint or fear for he is closest kin though the two never met before.

O shall his father rage, and mine own be confounded! Almost do I crave that moment to come for sheer mirth; we could use the laughter now.

Peregrin has loaned me his little pipe again, and I have begged a bowl of soap chips from Maelaëri up at the city. She looked at me oddly when I requested them but gave them without comment; we might all be Wood-Elves here but I am more like unto Gimli than the Galadrim. Gimli watches me as I stir the soap and water with my fingers; the flakes soften and dissolve, and I depress them against the bottom of the bowl.

“Why do you blow soap bubbles anyway?” he asks, sending a lovely big smoke ring to hover over my head. I exhale upon it, and it quivers and expands; I rotate one finger into the middle as though to stir it, and it spins. Gimli laughs.

“For the same reason I blow smoke rings. Very well; I have answered mine own question have I not?” he says good-naturedly. He sucks upon the pipe and it pops, and he sends another ring to dancing; it drifts away from me though before I can play with it.

I begin to make soap bubbles, and Gimli and I see if we can get his smoke rings to embrace the bubbles or no. It is challenging; the closest we get is to send the bubbles through the rings, and only once do we manage to set a ring fully round one particularly large bubble. We are laughing now, and the sun is shining; there are rooks wheeling about the mallorn beneath which we sit, and they cry of snails and lizards and nestlings to come. At last we tire of this, and set down our pipes; I lie upon the grass and look up at the sky, and Gimli folds his hands across his breast and soon begins to snore.

The sun westers. I decide to rinse the pipe and bowl ere I return them to their owner. I rise silently, giving my Dwarf-friend an indulgent smile; collecting my toys I descend the hill to the stream below which chuckles round a steep bank. Many roots thrust into this stream, for the trees are thirsty here, and it is cool and shady. I remove my shoes and hose and paddle amongst the rocks, letting the water rush over my bare feet and legs. Almost do I feel refreshed; were it not for the shadow which haunts us I should be quite happy.

There is the sound of steps behind me. Not Elvish to be sure for they would be silent; nor Halfling, for the tread is far too heavy; and anyway the Halflings cannot walk and cease to talk here, and there are no voices. One man’s footsteps, growing closer, crashing through the underbrush – it cannot be Aragorn for he is not of habit so careless. It must be Boromir.

My heart is heavy on his account. I know not why he regards Galadriel so strange – what could she have offered him, in exchange for his quest? She offered me naught; I could hear her voice within my head: Son of Thranduil, faithful and true! she said; what could she have said to the man of Gondor? But he is sad I can tell; he as the others weeps for Mithrandir. I knew not how deep ran Boromir’s regard for the Istar ‘til I beheld him weep upon the rocks when we quit Moria at last. I saw then the passions within him ran deep; he hid his affection well, and I wonder what other affections afflict him, that he veils so assiduously. Has he any affection for Aragorn, for the Halflings, for Gimli or me? And if so need I wait ‘til my death to descry it? That is a sad thought! I should dearly like for him to be my friend, for I like him quite well, though he is a dour companion. And to date I know not what would make him happy! I must be quite stupid regarding him, for I have mine other friends reckoned well enough. Sam, for instance; I have but to teach him a few words in my tongue and he glows like a lamp. But Boromir is a puzzle to me.

I do not wish to startle him; he is uncomfortable enough here I deem, so while I wash Peregrin’s pipe I begin to sing that he might descry my presence. The footsteps falter, but then quicken; I am pleased to note he hurries to me. I look up the bank to him; he stands gazing down at me. He is almost awkward like a young boy, and so unsure of himself. I check my song and smile at him.

“Well met, Boromir,” I say cheerfully. I hold up the dripping pipe. “You have just missed it I fear; I am out of soap.”

His brow knits, but then a small smile twitches the corner of his lips, like a hook in a fish’s mouth. Ah, I believe I might have you, I think. He is not so cheerless as he would have me believe. Indeed I have caught him at this several times; he is patient at least with the younger Halflings, and not averse to the odd twist of phrase to make us chuckle. “Have you?” he asks, his shoulders losing some of their tenseness. “Ah that is unfortunate; perchance we might find else with which to occupy ourselves.”

“My knife is yet sufficiently sharp,” I say with a smile. “Gimli and I have been at play up the hill; he slumbers there yet I believe. Come roust him with me, and we shall go to Caras Galadon and watch the maidens dance upon the lawn.”

Whatever he wanted of me that was evidently not it. He stiffens, and his eyes so friendly before shutter again. Does he fear to see Galadriel there? Not wishing to forego his company more I add as though on afterthought: “Or let us instead return to the others at the pavilion; I am hungry and if we do not go soon then the Halflings shall eat all the food ere we arrive; they would not spare us a crumb if they had the chance!”

“That … would be most agreeable,” he says, though he is on his guard yet. Stubborn man! Why must he be so difficult? Any of the others should have leapt at the suggestion we watch a dance; is he so fearful of Galadriel’s influence he would avoid the city at all cost? I collect my things and climb up the bank. He smells too of pipeweed, and I cannot help but smile.

“Ah,” I say; “with whom have you foregathered; the Halflings, or Aragorn?” At his startled look I explain: “I smell pipe smoke upon you; and as neither of us indulges ourselves in that vice certes it is the scent is externally laid.”

“I sat for a time with Meriadoc,” he says, and now the smile is genuine. “He told me of his father and mother, and his land the Shire; he and Peregrin also did regale me quite with tales of their own depredations, and while they talked they did smoke.”

“It is puzzling is it not?” I ask as he follows me up the hill. “They cannot speak but the pipe is in their hands! For myself if I would hold aught as I converse it shall be a glass of good strong wine.”

“I concur with you in this,” smiles Boromir, and we ascend in the closest state to comfortable silence we have yet attained.

We rouse Gimli, who growls that he wanted to continue his nap; however the promise of wine and meat and quiet conversation overcomes him and he goes with us to the pavilion. Only Peregrin and Meriadoc are there; when Boromir inquires as to the whereabouts of Aragorn, Frodo, and Sam Peregrin waves his pipe negligently and says: “O gadding about I suppose! Now do come sit with us you fellows; Merry and I have been holding back as best we can but these rolls and pastries and pies are still hot, and our mouths are watering.”

“Give me the wine-jug then,” I say with a laugh; “and let us fall to ere you waste away to nothing!”

We eat and drink and laugh, and Boromir I am pleased to note unbends; he smiles and laughs with us, and argues good-naturedly with Meriadoc over the distribution of the last meat pastry. I make sure his goblet is ever full, for wine loosens both tongue and propriety and he has far too strong a hold on both; it is unnatural in one so young as he. Men ought not take themselves so serious; it is not good for them. At last when the conversation wanes he turns to me; his eyes are warm and half-closed, and he reclines upon the couch with goblet in hand. “Legolas,” he says indolently; “tell me, for I am very curious; how is it you began curtail your disquiet blowing soap bubbles? In all tales I heard as a boy of your ilk it was said only that the Elves were tall and wise and fierce and fair; I did not connect such mundanities with you.”

Ah! So I upset his calculations; I was not as he expected; I did not fit his mold. No wonder he regarded me so charily; he must have thought I made fun with him. “To be honest I am not certain,” I admit. “I do remember blowing soap bubbles with my Lady Mother when I was very young; she had a garden then with a fountain in the middle, and we would send them up into the shooting water, to watch them shatter into pieces when the font struck them. I counted it good fun then, and as I have yet to grow up I suppose the delight of them remains.”

“Haven’t grown up!” cries Peregrin. “Why I thought you were old, Legolas!”

“I grow older but not up,” I laugh. “That is what my Lady Mother tells me anyway! Why the first thing I do when I come home from deeds errant is to secrete myself in the oak tree in her garden and blow soap bubbles down upon her; it is in that way she knows her son has returned safely.”

Gimli and the Halflings laugh, but Boromir looks disapproving. “You do not report the outcome of your duty to your father first?” he asks with a frown.

My heart twists within me; I cannot help but feel that coldness when I recall my last foray into south Mirkwood: the ground littered with bodies, the stench of death and the caw of crows. One hundred forty-seven kin slain, and we beat back the orcs but barely; the blood ran upon the earth like rivers, and I thrust the goblin-captain’s head upon a spike with my own hands. But I lay a bland visage upon me and say with steady voice, “My Lord Father comprehends full well that oftimes the events occurring in the fulfillment of my duties are fraught with sorrow; it is for that reason he allows me first to calm my soul ere I report more death to him.”

He starts; he did not expect that I see. What did you think, son of Gondor; that an Elven prince has naught to do save sing and dance upon the green? I am a captain too; I lose men as do you, though I am not certain if it hurts you as it hurts me. After all mortal men are doomed to Mandos in any case; twenty, thirty years earlier, what can it matter? But my poor soldiers were meant to dwell happily for decades, centuries, millennia. To arrest their state is an affront to everything that makes us what we are.

I remember Dale then, as it was before the Dragon came, and am struck anew by grief. All those merry people, those women and children, the blithe men, and my friends! No; though they had upon them the doom of men and not of Elves it was obscene to watch them fall so young. Mortal, immortal; what matters it? Even Mithrandir fell. Again the cold sorrow; O Mithrandir, why did you die? What shall we do without you? How can we go on without your wisdom? How terrible it is to think I shall go for day after day after day missing your voice and your beard and your laugh and your growl! You were worth far more than I; why could I not have died in your place? And would I not give up mine own immortal life, bid farewell to kin and tree and star, to protect one of my companions here? I would; and gladly; I have lived long enough I suppose. To be sure the happiness is oftimes outweighed by the sorrow, but there are loves and fêtes and silent solitary moments watching sunrises that pierce one’s soul. It has been worth it after all.

I must have been silent longer than I thought. When Gimli touches my hand and I come to myself I see that the Halflings regard me with sympathy, and Boromir looks very uncomfortable. “I – beg your pardon, friends,” I say, and I am surprised to hear my voice is unsteady. “I did not mean to dash cold water upon our nice party.” I rise and dust off my hands. “I am going to Caras Galadon,” I say; my voice is stronger. “I have need of anonymous gaiety. I shall bid you good-night.” And I depart the pavilion ere another can speak.

I walk quickly, wishing to put as much distance betwixt my person and theirs. I want to be alone; I want to curl into a ball and forget the Necromancer, Dol Guldur, the spiders and orcs, my childhood companions who fell beneath the trees of my homeland. I want to forget Lady Celebrian, Mithrandir, all the other ones who have been hurt or slain by the dark lord’s minions. I hear footsteps behind me. I can tell it is Boromir by the weight and length of his stride. This surprises me; I did not think I merited his interest or sympathy.

I turn. He trots up to me, his handsome face neutral; but in his eyes I see a little of the horrors I have felt. He too has lived all his life beneath Sauron’s shadow; he too has known naught but war and privation. Moreso than the Halflings and even Gimli we two understand this together.

“Legolas,” he says, and lays a hand on my arm. In his face is diffidence, embarrassment, pride warring together. I take pity on him; after all, what care I if my faults are laid open?

“There is no offense,” I say, and force a smile. “No doubt your father and mine are of differing temperament.”

He says naught a moment; he is thinking. I let him think. It takes longer than I expected. What is it, son of Gondor? I see the doubt in your face; I see your reluctance to own me as friend. I am strange to you I know; my kind were naught but legend ere you set foot in Imladris. Even after all this time you are wary of me, and no blame to you; that I have known mortal men my whole life and am used to their ways does not mean all men are comfortable to me.

I wait. Will the shell break; will he lower that shield? Alone of the Fellowship he has held aloof; he speaks with wry humor and is ineffably politic, yet there is always that barrier betwixt us. Something, something dark pursues him; is he consumed by pride, or fear, or doubt? I have known all those; do not let them overtake you, Boromir! A burden shared is halved. Will you not disclose your mind to me, that your load may be the lighter, and we be friends at last?

But his eyes shutter; he smiles and removes his hand. “Very good, very good,” he says affably. “I meant no affront; no doubt the Elves run their kingdoms differently than do we.” And he turns on his heel and disappears into the brush.

Now my heart is heavier than before. Why will you not be friends with me, Boromir? I long to have this sweet fellowship with you; I long to speak at ease and rest in comfort in your presence; I long to know the consolation of amity when we stand together. But you are not willing.