The moon is at the quarter and is ringed round with white light. He bleaches the stars from the heavens, and tints the black dome purple as he rides proudly round the circle of the earth. He has just risen from the tip of the mountains behind me and his face is serene – that evil-blasted land upon which he gazes is quiet, subdued, and he is happy.

My back is to him, for I face Rohan. I am lonely. Aragorn and his bride are in Minas Tirith; the Halflings have gone home; and Gimli is gone with Éomer and Éowyn to Rohan that he might see Aglarond once more. I put the stem of the pipe to my lips and ease a bubble from the bowl. “Blow soap bubbles to the west at night,” Gimli begged me, “and I will blow you smoke rings east. Perhaps they’ll meet over Calenhad.” I had laughed at him and agreed, and took the little black carven pipe of him. Peregrin left with his own two pipes – I cannot borrow that one again. I wonder what he will do with it? I wonder if it tastes of soap? Well if it does, perhaps he will give it away – maybe its recipient will dislike the flavor, and disdain pipeweed. That would be something at least.

The bubble floats, lazy, dissolute, glistening in the moonlight over the white broken stones. I sit upon a crumbling wall in a ruined courtyard in a battered city. The moon and darkness convene to take color away; even the ivies and weeds are black. The wind shifts and the bubble blows away from me, drifting down the low dark alley until it is out of sight.

I hate this wind. It blows from the south, and smells of sea water. It has even blown gulls up the river, though they hug the docks at Minas Tirith and do not trouble me here. I try not to breathe too deeply, but I cannot help myself – I inhale, fill my lungs with the delectable scent. For not only do I smell the Sea, but mingled with this is the smell of Ithilien – cold stone, clean dirt, fragrant wild herbs, rich pine. Said I that I hated this wind? Nay; it blows warm about me yet, comforts and titillates, arouses and placates at once. I dip the bowl into the plate of soap and water, and slowly, carefully blow another bubble, a big one. But I have used overmuch soap and it is heavy, with smaller bubbles and drops clinging to it. It sags sadly, and I pop it with my finger.

The wind sighs round me, whistling in the rocks and crevices and moaning round the broken tower besides which I sit. It is a tall and slender tower, and does not seem to me to be too badly damaged. Did it house bells once, or watchmen? I would like to have a tower with bells in it – I will request it of Gimli when he returns. He has promised to design my city, and I wish to have bells, a full ring of eight if we can manage it. I am sure he will understand.

I persuade a large bubble to exit the bowl. This is a good one; perfectly spherical, floating and undulating by my face. I smile, refill the pipe, and let loose a string of tiny bubbles, uniform and kinetic, and with my breath and my hands I rush them round in a circle ‘til they surround their larger companion. The big bubble spins, ponderous, dignified; the little ones dance their gavotte round it, and I send them all to floating down the empty streets of Osgiliath. No, Gimli; it will not make it to Calenhad; it will probably not survive another minute. But it is a good cluster of bubbles just the same, and I wish you were here to enjoy it with me.

Then I hear the sound of a boot on a paver, and a man’s voice exclaiming. Who is that? I thought I was alone! I pause and listen; then I hear someone say:

“Why; where did that come from?”

Boromir – it is Boromir’s voice!

Nay – it is not Boromir’s voice; that is impossible. Boromir is dead – has been dead for many months now. I close my eyes. How his memory pains me! I never got the chance to reconcile with him; the orcs slew him ere we could speak again in private. I never had the chance to even bid him farewell save in song, and that consoled no one.

The owner of both boots and voice rounds the corner, and I open my eyes. Well it is Boromir’s voice by proxy – his brother Faramir stands amazed, gazing up at me where I sit upon the wall. How like his brother he is! He has the same dark hair, the same gray eyes, the same cleft in his chin; it is almost as though Boromir in spirit walks near me. I sat beside him at dinner two nights ago in the Great Hall in the Tower of Ecthelion; we spoke of trees and cataracts and mountains and bows and badgers. But he is unlike Boromir enough that our exchange was easy and unstrained; he does not seem to be as fettered with esteem as was my old brother-in-arms. And betimes I caught upon his face a look of wonder and apprehension mingled; that is enough like my earlier conversations with Boromir that I was unwilling to follow him to the ballroom; I begged off instead, and slipped out the Tower, out the city, into the fields below.

I am the only Elf in the city, barring Undómiel and her maids. And I do not sicken so for mine own kind that I should cosset myself in a lady’s chamber. Maids are all very well, but sometimes I would rather be alone than to be quite so polite and restrained. I am a warrior, after all.

The man of Gondor looks up at me. I must look very strange to him; the white of the Sindar royalty in all likelihood makes me to resemble a ghost, and of course my hair in the moonlight is silver not gold. I do not know what to say, so I blow another bubble.

“Well met, your highness,” he says at last. Curses upon the Queen, who cast about my heritage all round the city! Now I am your highness-ed ‘til I am red in the face.

“Well met, my lord,” I reply. He looks at me in surprise. Well you have been named Prince of Ithilien have you not? And if you are going to your highness me I shall my lord you right back. It is only fair after all. I blow a little stream of bubbles to chase the big one down; they dance and bob round the man’s head, and then wend their way down the passage ‘til they too disappear. The Steward watches them go, then looks back up at me. Does he disapprove of this pastime as did his brother? It is hard to say; his face is closed, as was Boromir’s.

He bites his lip as he watches me dip the pipe again. I could speak I suppose, but I weary of continually battering myself against the gates of another man’s heart; either befriend me or have done with it! O, how I miss Gimli …

“Do you know, your highness; when I suffer the pangs of ennui, or wish to distract myself from memories which are painful, I retire me to the library, where I might sink my soul into the words and wisdom of those who have gone before me.”

I open my mouth to reply, but am so confounded by his wry politesse I laugh instead. The pipe sits dripping in my fingers; soap dribbles down into my cuff. Still the young man stands, polite, eyebrows raised; it is hard to tell from here, but I would swear he is trying not to smile.

“I am not much of a scholar, my lord,” I say, my lips twitching. “The past five centuries have been rather hectic you know; I have had not much time for study.” I let out another large bubble, wobbly and gleaming; he watches it jiggle and waver, and when I breathe on it to get it moving his face splits into a charming smile.

“You are very good at that, your highness” he says.

I am so surprised I nearly inhale soap, instead of blowing it out. “And are you too an expert in the formation of soap bubbles, my lord?” I ask with a laugh. I put the pipe down in the plate and lean back on my slippery hands, dangling my legs over the side of the wall as I smile down on him. He smiles too and shuffles his boots, looking down at his feet.

“Well it has been many years I confess,” he admits; “but when a child I was middling fair at it.” He pauses then says: “I had a dog – an old hunting hound – he would chase them round the nursery garden; and when he caught them and they burst in his mouth he would look so injured at me, that I had somehow ruined his plaything.”

We both laugh then; I laugh at the image and he at the memory drawn. There is silence a moment, but to my surprise it is not cold; in fact I grow weary of looking down at him. “Climb up here beside me, my lord,” I invite him. “That way you will not crick your neck looking up at me like that.”

“As your highness wishes,” he smiles, and swift and light he ascends the wall to sit at my side. We sit together looking out over the still cold ruins; from here we can descry the river, black and gleaming beneath the moon’s pallid rays. I do not speak; I am unsure what to say to him, he who has lost his brother and father both so close, and been wounded without and within. I wonder what sort of husband he will make the Shieldmaiden, that cold girl with fire in her veins – if he is any like his brother he shall be strong enough to contain that fire; but he must needs have tenderness beside, to melt the ice surrounding her. I hope that she chose well – I should like my nearest neighbors to be drenched in marital felicity; it makes such a difference during court functions. I recall the king of Dale – what was his name, Berod Something the Somethingth – wed a little slip of a thing with a serpent’s tongue and tooth; she hounded his manhood away, and he spit and stung back at her ‘til none could bear to listen to them quarrel.

“Has anyone thanked you, your highness?” the man of Gondor says suddenly into our silence. I am taken aback; I had been thinking of connubial conundrums and not gratitude and know not the stream of his thoughts, that has brought him to this phrase. I turn to him and cock my head.

“I do not understand you, my lord,” I say.

So like Boromir is he, that I half expect him to reply, Nor I you, but he smiles instead, and focusing his gaze upon the distant city of Minas Tirith he says: “I mean, your highness, for being in this War; for fighting the Evil One; for risking your life and health so that mortal men might live at peace.”

“Oh!” I say; I am so surprised I am not sure how to react. “Well, my lord,” I say slowly, “no one has thanked me; but I do not expect thanks. I should have fought anyway, whether here, or in my Lord Father’s kingdom; that I was on a different front of the battle is immaterial to me. Sauron is destroyed; that is the primary thing.”

“But your highness, you as an Elf did not truly have to fight,” he says; his eyes are clear and frank, and his face is friendly. How odd it is, that he should have Boromir’s eyes, yet with warmth within and not the cold! It is eerie how much, and how little, they resemble one another. “You are of the Eldar; Valinor is open to you and not to us. I know your father by reputation, your highness; he is a valiant and strong and powerful king, and could have easily harried his people to the West, where Sauron’s arm could not reach. Then you would all have been safe, to leave Middle Earth to Sauron, and we to fight as best we may.”

Such a thought is anathema to me, and I am shocked that he even considered it. “Leave Middle Earth and men to fight alone!” I cry; I am not sure whether to be offended or not. “Why that should have been detestable and craven; my Lord Father should not have succumbed to such cowardice! When the King of Dale cries for help he goes; it has always been thus for him, and shall be for Thranduilion his son!”

“So I see,” says the man of Gondor; his voice is placating; “so I have always supposed, your highness! I said you could have gone; not that I ever expected you to have done so; or even countenanced such a churlish thing. Indeed I would have been far more surprised had you foresworn Middle Earth for Valinor ere the battle was won.”

I am abashed; I ought not to have suspected him of the selfsame verbal perfidy I suffered at the hands of his brother. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” say I with humble contrition. “I did not expect such thoughts to be voiced by – “ I pause, unsure what to say of him, but the man smiles, though the smile is bitter, and his eyes cloud over.

“By a son of Denethor – say it, your highness; you were thinking it,” he says.

Now I am doubly unsure. We had been so at ease ere my outburst – but he is correct; I had anticipated censure of him, for that was what I ever got of Boromir. Mad! Silly! Puling! Womanish! O but he had other words for me too – brave, strong, quick – ‘twas his anger, and his unease, made him speak so. I ought not think of him in bitterness, and certes it is ought not think of his brother so. I am careful when I reply.

“I was your brother’s friend, my lord.”

He sees through the phrase. “But he was not yours?” he asks quietly. Still he gazes up at Minas Tirith; his eyes are sad.

It is imprudent to lie, and unkind beside. “We did not always see things the same,” I say carefully. “And he did not always approve of me. But yes, I counted myself his friend, and grieved him when he died.”

He sits in silence, and I wonder what sort of friendship there was betwixt these two brothers – so alike, and yet so disparate. Did the elder lord it over the younger; did Faramir suffer Boromir’s haughty disapproval? Yet Faramir loved Boromir, and I am certain Boromir loved his brother – himself more perhaps, but certainly when he spoke of Faramir were his words tender. O Boromir! Would you have spoken thus of me in mine absence? Did you disdain me finally, or were there yet portions of your heart given me? Why did you close yourself to me? Why could we not be friends?

We sit thus, wrapped in our own sad thoughts; however it occurs to me that we are quite foolish to so do. Pining and fading as we are; would not Boromir regard us with exasperation if he were here! “I like mortals,” I say, and when the man of Gondor turns to me perplexed I say: “You seemed to ask, my lord, why I should choose to stay in Middle Earth. I like mortals. I know I am but a Dark Elf, for Sindar though I be I am Silvan too; so upon my royal parents and me there has never been the compulsion to hide our people and our strength from those mortal men who surround us. I like men; I like their wives and children; I love the chattering maids and laughing youths. I like to go into their villages and watch them work and gossip and play, and I flatter myself perchance, but I think they like me too. Though long have they lain beneath the earth I have counted many of them my friends, and I would be false indeed to turn away from them in times of darkness. So that, my lord, is why we stayed, and went not to the West – I like mortals, and I like living amongst them.”

“Do you!” He seems pleased by this, and in his gray eyes I see a light of hope growing stronger. “Then – your highness,” he stammers a little, for he is young yet – “Will you not call me by my given name? I should like to have you address me as Faramir and not my lord.” He clears his throat and looks away; it is difficult to tell in this light but I think he is nervous. “After all we are to be neighbors,” he adds with cool deference; “I should rather we were friends than merely allies.”

My heart leaps. He wishes to be my friend! There is aught in me that draws him and repels him not! And I had no need to batter at any door, to his heart or soul or mind! What tender capitulation; what brave bargain is this! I am gaping; he turns to me no doubt wondering why I have not replied, and thinking perhaps I am offended again, but he must espy the delight in mine eyes for he smiles hesitantly.

“But I should dearly love to be your friend, Faramir!” I exclaim, taking him by the shoulder. “Why you are so like your brother in face I cannot help but love you; and more than he you possess fine and open heart, and are a better conversationalist beside! Yes, Faramir, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, Lord of Osgiliath, I shall be your friend, and you shall call me Legolas – no more of this your highness, save we are in court anyway.”

Again the bright smile lights his face, and he takes my hand in his own. “I am glad,” he says with a laugh; “I have long desired to make acquaintance with an Elf such as you, for though you might immortal be you are earthy and merry and of amicable visage, and these past months have I longed to be of your company, envying the Dwarf and your perian companions.”

“Have you truly?” I ask, pleased. “And have I you, for there are few in these environs who love the woods as do I; yet those times we have spoken have I gleaned from our conversation a love and connection to the trees and hills and waterfalls. I have no brother to offer you, Faramir,” I add; “I know you are grieving and would do all I can to make you happy. Would you like to borrow my Lord Father? For he will love you I am sure, if you are a friend of mine.”

“I should gladly do so,” he says with a laugh. “But you need not loan to me a brother of yours to replace mine own – your presence shall do the same, Legolas.”

Thus smiling we sit in comfortable silence together, and watch the moon as he rises over our heads and gazes crookedly down upon us. I am not lonely now, though I still miss Gimli. How good and pleasant it is to know this man of Gondor is my friend! And friends we shall be, time out of mind; though his life is fleeting and tenuous and lovely, to my heart shall I commit his memory for ever. And O Elbereth, let no bitter word or phrase mar the amity betwixt us; thus might I atone myself for his brother Boromir, and in time the regret shall fade and my love for both brothers be unsullied. And Faramir shall be brother to me, and Éowyn my sister; I shall dandle their children upon my knee …

And, betimes, teach them the art of soap bubbles too.

Nierninwa appears above Mindolluin and I begin to sing. And Faramir does not turn his head from me, but sits in smiling silence listening, and my heart in fullness seems almost to burst with joy, as upon mine upraised fingers lies the soap still glistening.

fin