The air is heavy; all round us the mist swirls, pearlescent, iridescent like my soap bubbles would be, were I allowed to play with them. I cannot blow bubbles now however, much as I would like to. It would lift my tension and give me a modicum of respite. But even I see such an action is unfitting our current task. Poor Frodo! I should not like to be in his position; how glad I am the Ring did not pass to one such as I! I would not touch it; I do not want to see it; it gives me a terrible chill even to glimpse the chain about his neck that bears the awful thing. How I wish it were already destroyed! The only time I wish to fix my gaze upon it is when it is dropped into the boiling rock of the fiery mountain. I will watch it dissolve, watch its evil soften and liquefy, and in my heart I will feel a fierce joy to know Sauron is finally vanquished.

So much will fade when the Ring is destroyed. O yes; I say when not if; I dare not contemplate an alternative ending to our dark faery-tale. I shall fade; the Elves shall fade; we shall diminish and vanish. What shall I do then? I shall return to my Lord Father’s keep; I shall aid him in cleaning up the rest of Morgoth’s twisted bastards; we shall continue our trade and our friendship with the mortals by the Lake … and in a hundred years’ time what then? Obscurity, perhaps … mortals are so forgetful. Will I be weary of Middle Earth by then? I do not know; there are so many beautiful things yet I should like to see. Why I have never even seen the Sea yet. Perhaps Gimli and I will go to the Shire to visit our little friends; perhaps I will reacquaint myself with Círdan whom I met in Imladris. I have heard the Sea is huge and dark and sonorous and cold. I cannot imagine I will like it overmuch; but still I should like to see it.

Boromir and I are sharpening our weapons. My arrow heads are nicked, and the steel points bent; my whetstone makes a rhythmic grating sound, grrt grrt grrt like a grasshopper, as I work them smooth. Boromir’s whetstone by contrast sings a shrill scraping song …. shrrrrrkkkk it says, shrrrrrkkkk … it sounds like a crow.

He is haunted and alone. I can feel it; I can feel the heaviness of his soul, the knot of despair and anger. I would inquire of him his ailment but he would not own it to me. Ever since we left Lothlórien he has sunk further into his handmade hell. If only he would speak! But though he wears his habitual mask of urbanity there is great agitation beneath it. O Boromir, Boromir; will you not trust me enough to unburden your heart? I ache for you; I long to be your friend, but you will not let me in!

We are alone in the clearing for now. All the others are stretching their legs, gathering firewood, seeing to the boats. If there were any time to open this man’s mind it should be now, but I cannot speak; the longer we are silent the heavier the silence becomes. It is like the air – damp, thick, impenetrable, maddening. And why should I attempt to unwind his cocoon when I have been rebuffed before? Now will be no different; he will shut me out as always.

I lay aside my stone and arrows and gather my limbs up close to my body. I am rarely one to feel the discomforts of the atmosphere but I am cold. I think it is the fog. How it clings to one, penetrates one’s clothing and skin! I rest my chin upon my knees and stare into the swirling milky air. Then I hear Boromir stir beside me, and lay his own weapon aside. May I speak? I think perhaps it is time for me to speak. I do not turn to him, but fixing my eyes upon the filmy trees before me I say:

“My heart is heavy; I wish it were the morrow, for then our choices would be made and we would know where we are going.”

“I know where I am going,” he says curtly. Still I do not face him; I have noticed he does not like it much when I meet his eyes. Why is that, I wonder? I have never noted that my gaze made others in the Fellowship uncomfortable; why should Boromir be so chary of me?

“You go to your father,” I say. I miss my Lord Father; I miss his brash laugh and quick temper, his brilliant smile and embrace that threatens to crush my ribs. And I miss my Lady Mother, her sly twinkling eyes and laughing mouth, her hand upon my hair stroking the sorrow from my heart.

“I go alone,” he says. He is bitter. I know the arguments; I know the compulsion laid on Frodo by the Council; I know the desires of both Boromir’s and Aragorn’s hearts, to go to Gondor and engage the battle there. And whence go I? I do not know. I would go with Frodo; I would like to help him. He might have need of me, and from the way Boromir regards me I do not think he would countenance one lone Elf’s aid in Minas Tirith to be a thing greatly desired.

“You do not know yet that you go alone,” I say, attempting to placate him. “After all Frodo and the others have decided nothing yet.”

Silence again. I am growing used to this. Boromir used to speak more, I know it; he has grown so taciturn of late. I cannot see the Anduin but I can hear it, rustling, rushing, gurgling, chuckling. Oromë speaks to me. Beware, beware, he says, but I know not of what he warns me.

The man of Gondor clears his throat. He does this, I have noticed, when he is about to ask a boon of someone, or give a compliment. Such things do not issue forth of him artlessly. I wonder again what sort of man his father is, to have raised a son in this proud fashion. And what of his mother; he has never mentioned a mother! Did she die that one, surrounded by proud cold men, far from her own land? I feel pity for her, though I do not even know her name, or whether she yet lives.

“I should be glad to have you go to Minas Tirith with me,” he says; his voice is neutral, cautious. “You are fearless and quick and strong with a bow. You could stand upon the ramparts of the Tower and pick off the fell beasts as they come; such valiance would be a help to my city.”

I am uncomfortable; I did not wish to be asked to go with him, for rather should I accompany Frodo where he goes. It places a burden upon my shoulders that does not belong there. To be certain I should not mind going to Gondor did Aragorn request it of me; I would like to see him claim the kingship as is his due, and I would work hard to ensure the establishment of his throne. But I speculate Boromir’s proud father would not countenance such a thing as a usurper; King might Aragorn become but his authority may not sit well with this Denethor from what I have heard tell.

Yes, I could well enough slay more of the creatures upon which the Wraiths fly; the bow of Lórien is stout and strong and as an archer I concede I am passing fair. But where and for whom shall this strength be best used? For that is what I am, a vessel to be used up, poured out ‘til I am dried up; I am but on loan from Thranduil Oropherion in this terrible war. Well, should Minas Tirith fall that would go ill indeed; but if Frodo fail and the Ring be captured – Ah! No, it is clear enough where mine own steps lie. I go with Frodo, if he will have me.

Boromir is waiting; I must needs answer. “Your confidence is flattering,” I say carefully. “But I await Frodo’s decision. I go with him.”

“Even if he goes to Mordor, to deliver the Ring into the Enemy’s hands?” Boromir cries; he sounds angry. I turn to him at last. He glares at me, his fair face contorted with frustration. “I did not brand you a fool Legolas, but now I see you are as blind as the rest! I give to you the opportunity to stay the hand of evil, and yet you will throw our one chance away on a fool’s errand!” He leaps to his feet, his teeth bared. “Go back to your woodland realm then, and dance upon the lawns ‘til darkness overtakes you,” he growls; his face is dark with anger. “You may as well sit upon the ramparts of my city and blow soap-bubbles – that is as much as I should have expected, of someone as puling and womanish as you!”

I have felt cold steel cleave my flesh; I have felt the poisoned dart pierce my skin. This is worse, for it is wounds from one I have wanted to befriend, one beside whom I have fought and labored. How can he think thus of me, that when I am at home I do naught but gavotte upon the grass? Is Minas Tirith the only bastion against the Enemy? Did I learn marksmanship at the clout alone? Do orcs dwell solely in the caves of Ephel Dúath? This blind man has fought since birth the depredations of Sauron’s evil; does he think his forty years to be compared to the centuries I have contested the darkness? I am on my feet in a heartbeat, standing before him; I can feel the muscle in my cheek twitch as it does when I am very angry, and as I am half a hand his height he must look up to me. He likes this not I can tell; his eyes are alarmed, for his goading has stirred my wrath, seldom seen but an awful thing. I draw the rage around me; it bubbles out of me like smoke and swirls the fog round us; it is oppressive, throbbing like a huge heart-beat, flickering with sparks of flame. The blood of Cardolan burgeons through my veins – Mother’s magic fueled by Father’s fire, and just enough of my grandsire’s temper to sting my cursed tongue to speak.

“Abase me not, impudent child!” I say; my voice is harsh, and Boromir leans back from me, alarmed. “Think you I have not coveted some magical token for mine own Lord Father to battle Dol Guldur’s stinking minions? Alone and ringless does my sire hold back evil from his kingdom, for his power and lineage is of Doriath and he has stood firm ere the Necromancer came to his kingdom. Had he one of the Three he could stand upon the ramparts of your city, to throw it down and build thereupon an Elven realm to rival Gondolin! Go to Minas Tirith alone then, and ask no more help of the Elves, for we have fought Morgoth’s slave since before the first stone was laid in your city!”

He answers not but turns, his eyes hot with resentment and fear; he gathers his things and leaves me alone. The tight angry grip round my heart slowly eases, and I let disperse the darkness into the milky fog; the anger leaves me too, and my heart sinks. O why did I do that! Could I not hold my tongue but one minute ‘til the wrath faded? I am more like unto my father than my mother; Boromir grieved me yes, but there was no cause for me to strike out at him so.

He will avoid me now and not speak, for I have frightened and abashed him, and he will be embarrassed by this, for he is proud and does not wish to show such weakness. Well though he provoked me first I shall be first to apologize; thus perhaps his heart will soften toward me, and our harsh words be forgiven. It would not do to travel on, whether to Mordor or Minas Tirith, with such dissention between us.

O that we were friends! Then I should have loved enough to hold my tongue! I have failed him; I let my wrath move me and not my pity. Would I not be as anxious, were my father so pressed? But I am glad my Lord Father did never possess one of the Three … such a burden would be far too great; rather I shall have him as he is; stubborn, fierce, strong. Surely Boromir feels the same way! For who would sacrifice one’s father for power? Power ought have but one purpose, which is protection; power for its own sake is merely tyranny.

It is too late for me to recant those words, but I will try to make amends for them at least. When next I see him I shall draw him aside, and humble myself, and try to build a bridge between us. And then who knows? Perhaps it will be enough to break down the wall he has erected; perhaps with true congress we might speak and know one another. Perhaps we shall become friends at last.