Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The end of the world – it began on a day like any other.

Not even the most enlightened of the Eldar could have anticipated its sudden and horrifying onset, nor could they have predicted how profoundly Middle-earth would be altered forever.

Once things had been set into motion, there was no halting the relentless tide of corruption that swept across the land, unfolding with swift and inexorable finality.

It was a warm summer day in the year 2911 of the Third Age, as a colossal explosion, originating from the shadowed spire of Barad-dûr, disturbed the previously peaceful continent of Middle-earth, the remnants of the tremors of the earth still felt as far as to the lands of Arnor and beyond.

Those dwelling near enough to Mordor, upon witnessing this calamity, were struck with an icy blend of dread, as dark clouds arose high above the dark tower, for they knew that something terrible must have happened, although they could not yet grasp the severity of the disaster that was to come.

Alas, it was the Firstborn, along the Istari, who first realized what had been done.

Sauron – the dark Lord, would-be conqueror of Arda, once thought defeated by the Last Alliance of Elves and Men - had been reunited with his ring, the One Ring to rule them all.

As he regained his power and gained control over the other, subservient rings, tainting them with his twisted desire for power, the wise beings of light and goodness known as Elrond and Galadriel collapsed to their knees, hurrying to rid themselves of Nenya and Vilya, in front of their alarmed kin.

And with their corruption, the protection they had provided the Elven realms both against the sight of the enemy as well as the ravages of time, dissipated.

Concerning the Istar wandering the lands, known to the Elves as Mithrandir, he fared not much better. For even though he was too powerful to succumb immediately to Sauron's corruption and not as susceptible to its pain as the purely light beings of the Firstborn, Narya had nonetheless become a perilous tool, now bending to the will of the dark lord.

And soon, the catastrophe followed.

The onslaught began with sudden and fierce attacks on the originally prosperous realms inhabited by the children of Ilúvatar.

Dark and malevolent forces, led by the Nazgûl, unleashed a series of coordinated strikes across the vast kingdoms of Men, Elves, and Dwarves. The ferocity of these attacks was unprecedented and sudden, shocking even the oldest among these races who had witnessed countless great wars and knew all too well the formidable power of the encroaching Shadow.

This relentless assault threw even the mightiest kingdoms into disarray. These nations, once equipped with formidable armies and robust defenses, now found themselves ill-prepared. Throughout years of relative peace, their vigilance had waned, their alliances dispersed, leaving them vulnerable.

The Darkness, now the strongest it had been in millennia, seized this opportunity, penetrating their weakened defenses with ease. It spread through their lands and into the hearts of their people, tainting and corrupting everything that was once vibrant and pure in the world.

Unexpectedly, it was the ancient realms of the Elves that first succumbed to the surging armies of the Shadow.

Mirkwood – known centuries ago as Greenwood the Great – fell first.

Although a people of battle-hardened warriors, who had long since fought the encroaching darkness originating from Dol Guldur, their proximity to this source of evil sealed their fate.

The Orcs, alongside other minions loyal to Sauron, unleashed a particular, unbridled fury against the Elves, whom they viewed as the embodiment of everything they opposed – the light to their darkness. Sauron himself, delighting in the fall of the Elves, focused significant efforts on their destruction, even as he stayed back in the Black Lands, a silent observer delighting in the unfolding massacre.

As the protective magic of the Elves waned, the very earth of their lands began to decay, morphing slowly into a landscape that mirrored the dark realm of the East.

Eventually, within a few centuries, their lands were doomed to become indistinguishable, with the Shadow obscuring the light that once filled Middle-earth, turning verdant fields into barren ash.

The Orcs, Trolls, and allied Men of the East, particularly the Easterlings and Haradrim, advanced from their eastern stronghold, seizing wealth, power, and blood. This combined force proved unstoppable.

Eventually, most realms disbanded, fell into ruin, or were enslaved by the Shadow.

Among those who witnessed these events over the years were the last of the Firstborn. Immortality, once a gift, had become a curse in these times of turmoil. Those who still could, who had not sacrificed themselves in the defense of their land and kin, fled to the Blessed Lands.

Yet, the havens soon became unsustainable, and escape routes dwindled until they were no more. Many of those who survived the onslaught and had not fled in time either ended up enslaved in Mordor or succumbed to their grief and faded away.

Eventually, their ancient race appeared to have vanished from Middle-earth entirely, becoming akin to myths to the race of Men, as Sauron’s forces did their utmost to erase all traces of their existence.

The Dwarves fared no better, and arguably worse.

Unlike others, they united and retreated to their last bastions in the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains, attempting to preserve their culture and ready to go down fighting, as their brave folk was wont to do. Unsupported by the other once-mighty races, they waged a valiant, but ultimately doomed resistance.

Within a decade, the Dwarves were thoroughly subjugated, their role among the free peoples of Middle-earth rendered irrelevant, with the few survivors taken captive, forced to work in mines and lend the skills of their craft to the fashioning of weapons used to further oppress their kin and the other races.

Men initially scattered like the Elves, disorganized, overpowered and divided.

Yet unlike the Elves, they soon regrouped, fighting to reclaim their momentarily forsaken cities. Proving great strength of will, they diligently and continuously expelled Mordor's forces, slowly reclaiming parts of their previously mighty territories. Their capacity to adapt to change became their most significant advantage, enabling them to succeed where other races had faltered – in preserving their freedom, or at least, its illusion.

Despite the overpowering might of Sauron and the relentless assaults from the eastern armies, the people of Rohan, their numbers bolstered by the refugees stemming from regions close to Mordor, such as from Gondor and its fiefdoms or Dale, managed to push back.

Although they could not match the dark Lord’s strength, they gradually reclaimed stretches of their lands. They fled to Helm’s Deep, which had served their ancestors well before and eventually stood as the last fortified and substantial refuge of the free Men.

Yet, the sole reason they survived the initial disaster was that Sauron, who had taken great pleasure in the destruction of the Firstborn, desired to dominate Middle-earth rather than annihilate it. Thus, he eventually tempered his relentless assaults, allowing just enough respite for the mortal races to gradually recover, even as his minions continued to roam the lands, killing, pillaging and raping wherever they went and as much as they liked.

And so, for the first time in thousands of years, the realm of Men had grown more formidable than that of the Elves. Yet, this advantage was slight, for they remained vastly weaker than the might of Sauron's legions.

However, not all Men were aligned in their efforts.

Those from kingdoms too ravaged to save, those without refuge, or those whose spirits had long since been tainted by Sauron's malice, turned into solitary wanderers.

Driven to madness by their transformed world, they became as monstrous as the beings that had once robbed them of their liberty.

These nomads, destitute and dangerous, scoured the lands for mere sustenance. In their desperation, some banded together, resorting to extreme actions for survival. Stories of their grim deeds spread, with bands of Men turning on each other, becoming as wild and unchecked as the foulest creatures from the dreaded lands of Mordor they so abhorred.

Even amidst this despair, the remaining Free Peoples of Middle-earth persevered, clinging to the slender hope that something, someday, might shift their grim fortunes and rescue them from their dire circumstances.

And they had been right to hope, for even amidst the bleakest of times, it had already been foreseen that a king would emerge out of the ashes – a great king, who would serve as the spark, if not the sole catalyst, for a fierce blaze that would offer them one last chance at reclaiming their ancestral lands.

And yet, the paths of fate were ever fickle, leaving the outcome of the story shrouded in uncertainty.

Chapter Text

“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.” – Haldir, The Fellowship of the Ring

Chapter Text

It was in this setting, where all hope seemed lost, that a lone elven prince wandered the dark paths of Mirkwood.

Nearly three decades had gone by since Sauron had been reunited with the One Ring and the time that had passed since had left a mark on the once proud warrior.

His name was Legolas, and it was only due to the remarkable craftsmanship of the Elves, that the passage of time had not left a noticeable impression on his clothing, his boots, bow and arrow. Despite being dirtied and ripped, the dark green and brown fabrics betrayed no sign of age.

What was telling, however, was the Elf himself.

Where there had once been an endless bright well of cheerfulness, even in the face of adversity, attributed by his elders to his youth, his face was now expressionless, his eyes seemingly hollow and devoid of emotion.

His body had grown thin, lankier even than the natural slenderness of his people, as he rarely stopped walking, preferring to sleep on his feet, seldom stopping to eat, slowly pushing his body to the limit, his endurance to the brink.

He continued to tread the familiar paths of the realm he had once called home, often gazing upward rather than at the ground beneath. His only connection left to the Valar were Elbereth’s celestial creations above, shining light on his form and the path ahead.

For other than the stars and the moon and the sun in the sky, it truly seemed like the Valar had abandoned Middle-earth to its fate.

Decades were supposed to be inconsequential to the Eldar, who were both cursed and blessed with the prospect of  eternity.Yet, the Firstborn were inherently social beings, meant to sing, be merry, and cherish the world around them—not to wander it alone.

As one might imagine, a decade of loneliness and anguish can stretch to feel much longer than a century filled with joy.

The prince was faintly aware that his ancestors had fought nearly hopeless battles and endured the darkest of times, yet they had never faced such trials alone, without the support of their kin, blanketed by the oppressive terror of Sauron’s reign.

Suddenly, the customary silence and starlit calm of the night were shattered by steadily louder-growing noises — jeers, the clank of armor, the rumbling thuds of footsteps weighed down by heavy gear.

Such disturbance was unusual, for although patrols of Orcs or Men allied with Sauron were nowadays common in the wilderness, they had long since forsaken Mirkwood.

Ever since Thranduil’s kingdom was razed, the forest had been left to the giant spiders—and even their numbers had dwindled, starved as their prey fled the darkened woods.

For the first time in many days, Legolas felt a spark of interest ignite within him.

And with this curiosity emerged a smoldering desire, a longing to seize the opportunity presented to him, to take revenge on those whose brethren had taken such glee in the destruction of his beloved home and its inhabitants.

As such, the elven prince hastened through the underbrush, his legs picking up speed as if they had taken on a life of their own, his movements as silent as the shadows cast by the moonlight filtering through the dense canopy.

With each step, his resolve hardened, driven by painful memories of loss and the sharp thirst for vengeance. Legolas moved with purpose, his keen ears guiding him towards the source of the clamor.

The noises quickly grew louder, a cacophony of coarse voices and clattering gear echoing through the woods.

Eventually, Legolas climbed a towering tree, the density of the forest allowing him to continue forwards undetected, moving above the treeline. He positioned himself on a broad limb that offered a clear vantage point. From his perch, he surveyed the scene unfolding below.

About a dozen Uruk-hai, their black armor glinting under the starlight, were marching in a straight line through the forest. They were unusually animated, their harsh laughter piercing the quiet.

Among them, two figures stood out starkly against the backdrop of their captors' hideousness: a woman, her face pale and drawn, presumably from hunger and exhaustion, and a young boy with dark hair. Both had their hands bound, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and desperation.

Their appearance was surprising – Sauron’s servants did not tend to make human prisoners, preferring to torture and slaughter their kind instead.

Legolas hesitated.

He had anticipated encountering only a group of weaker Orcs, not such a formidable assembly. There was no certainty he could single-handedly overcome them, especially given his slightly diminished strength. His remaining rationale warned him that engaging in this fight could cost him his life, nullifying the sacrifice his kin had made for him decades ago—a sacrifice he should honor.

At the same time, he was dimly conscious that decades earlier, he would not have second-guessed risking his body for a mother and her child. Yet, the last decades under Sauron's tyrannical regime had altered him, shifting his mindset from that of a warrior to that of a survivor.

Nevertheless, as he kept up with the Uruk-hai' brisk march through the underbrush by leaping and climbing from tree to tree, his determination solidified.

What was the meaning of his prolonged survival in this manner? Did he not spend his existence daydreaming, lost in the memories of better times? The young woman had a vital role in nurturing and caring for her presumed son, and the boy might yet grow to lead a life, potentially living, battling, and dying alongside his kin.

If Legolas were to sacrifice his body, thereby giving them a chance to escape and live—however slight that chance might be—it would indeed be a noble, maybe even a welcome exchange.

With his decision firm, Legolas ended his brief contemplation and drew his bow. Weakened or not, he remained a formidable warrior.

Before the Uruk-hai below could react, he had already felled three of their company, who had made up the rear.

Arrows protruded from their vulnerable necks, unprotected by chest armor or helmets, leaving their companions confused.

For the duration of a heartbeat, it was silent, as their chattering ceased.

Then, all hell broke loose.

Roaring, the Uruk-hai drew their weapons. As they frantically scanned for their attacker, a flicker of hope ignited on the prisoners’ faces, noticed only fleetingly by Legolas.

He swiftly downed another Uruk-hai with his bow, which unfortunately revealed his position.

"Alba!”[1] shouted the Uruk-hai nearest the prisoners, having spotted the source of the arrows. He pointed towards Legolas's location on the tree branch. The next arrow was deflected by his shield, the ghastly red eye painted on its front visible to Legolas's keen sight in the moonlight.

In response, a few others drew their bows, aiming at their – now discovered - assailant. The beasts roared and hollered, bloodlust quickly overcoming them at the sight of one of the Eldar.

Preferring to keep his attackers off balance, Legolas leaped from the branch where he had been crouching, instead of allowing them to take proper aim.

With feline grace, he landed precisely as intended—on the broad shoulders of a sword-wielding Uruk-hai.

One swift motion and he had sliced through the creature's neck using one of his artfully engraved, slender, white knives, remnants from his days as a soldier under his father’s command.

Letting the still-gurgling creature collapse to the ground, Legolas promptly fell into a rhythm of evasion and assault, weaving through his foes with the practiced ease of one who had battled the encroaching shadow for over a millennium. As he drew nearer, he struck swiftly with his knives, targeting any unprotected flesh.

To an observer, his silhouette appeared as nothing more than a blur of motion, a dance of death.

Though strong and full of bloodlust, the Uruk-hai had never been a match for elven speed and dexterity.

As one of their archers thought he had a clear shot at Legolas, who seemed fiercely engaged with two foes, he instead ended up striking one of his own. The elven warrior had already spun to the opposite side by the time the arrow was loosed.

Thus, over the course of a few heartbeats, five Uruk-hai lay dead or maimed in the clearing.

Soon, the battle was becoming continuously more heated as Legolas was now fighting for his life in close combat, with the Uruk-hai noticeably seeking to block him in, therefore effectively hindering him in his range of movement.

Only a few moments had passed when the clamor of battle was suddenly pierced by a high-pitched scream.

Legolas did not make the potentially disastrous mistake of letting this disturb his focus. Instead, he used the resulting distraction of his enemies to weave through a gap between the wall of bodies, slicing at their necks as he twirled, but missing the small gap in their armor plates.

Quickly putting some distance between himself and the hideous creatures in front of him, Legolas seized the opportunity to catch a much-needed breath.

At the same time, he scanned for the source of the disturbance using his peripheral vision.

He didn’t have to look far, as his eyes quickly settled on the human captives. They had evidently seized the momentary chaos created by Legolas's confrontation with Sauron's minions to attempt an escape.

However, it seemed as if one of the bow-wielding Uruk-hai had noticed their movement and loosed an arrow their way, not intending to let them escape.

The mother, in a desperate act of protection, had thrown herself over her son, absorbing the brunt of the attack. She now lay motionless atop her boy, who, trapped and terrified, had let out the piercing scream that had cut through the noise of battle.

As the menacing figure of the Uruk-hai now walked towards the fragile forms of the woman and her son, poised to deliver another, perhaps fatal blow, Legolas, making use of lightning-quick reflexes, switched to his bow, notched an arrow, and shot.

The arrow struck true, hitting the creature clean through the back of the head, so that the tip emerged on the other side between the eyes.

The brute's body stiffened momentarily before crumpling to the ground, mere inches from the cowering pair, where the boy still visibly struggled to free himself.

However, this moment of instinctive heroism lasted only very briefly, as Legolas now paid for it dearly. The Uruk-hai he had been engaged with prior to this disruption had caught up and used the chance to take a swing at him.

Ducking away in order to keep himself from being decapitated, the Elf was forced to deflect the hit with his right forearm, resulting in a deep cut, warm blood oozing out and splattering on the dark foliage beneath him.

If the Uruk-hai were excited before, they were euphoric now.

The smell of the blood of one of the Firstborn evidently caused them much joy, their faces contorting into crude grins as their fight took on a more feral manner, their swings becoming more ferocious, their shouts turning into taunts.

Legolas’ resolve had also hardened, recognizing the need to bring this fight to an end.

With six Uruk-hai still advancing on him, Legolas quickly slid his bow over his shoulder, once more drawing his twin knives.

Their blades gleamed ominously under the moonlight.

The first to reach him was a towering Uruk-hai wielding a spiked mace, an unusual choice of weapon for their kind.

Legolas ducked and rolled under the swing that aimed for his head and countered with a clean slice across the back of his attackers’ knees. The enemy howled in pain and stumbled, providing the Elf the opportunity to finish him off by swiftly cutting his neck.

As the body fell still, another assailant charged, swinging a broad-bladed sword. Legolas sidestepped, the weapon missing him by inches, and used the momentum to bring his knife across the attacker’s exposed arm, effectively cutting through the sinew.

The Uruk-hai roared, dropping the sword as the limb became useless. Legolas didn’t hesitate, and once more a well-placed strike to the neck ended his cries permanently.

The fight continued in this manner, with Legolas weaving through his enemies, skillfully switching between offense and defense. He was a blur of action, parrying blows and repaying each attempted hit with deadly strokes.

Despite his skill, the number of opponents also took a toll. Legolas felt the strain of the battle wear on him, his movements growing slightly heavier, the wound on his arm throbbing with each swing of his knife.

He felled another Uruk-hai, foolish enough to think he could outmaneuver the Elf. Legolas caught him by surprise, driving his knife up through the chin and into the skull. As he withdrew the blade, he turned just in time to block a strike from the next attacker.

This one was smarter, keeping his distance and trying to coordinate with his comrades.

Legolas kicked out, his boot connecting with a kneecap, causing the creature to buckle. As it fell forward, he met it with his knife, piercing through its neck.

Only two remained now, circling cautiously. They eyed each other, hesitating, their initial euphoria replaced by a dawning realization that they might not come out the winners of this battle.

Using their moment of doubt, Legolas attacked. He lunged towards one, feinting a strike. As the brute flinched backwards, using the shield to protect his front, Legolas spun around, catching his opponent off guard and driving his knife deep into his side.

As he collapsed, the golden-haired warrior whirled to face the last of his foes.

This final Uruk-hai was the largest and appeared the most cunning. He eyed his opponent warily, circling, looking for an opening. Legolas stood ready, waiting for it to attack first.

His patience paid off. As the creature suddenly sprung forward, he dodged a particularly vicious swing and, with a deft movement, slipped behind the brute. Before he could turn to follow, Legolas drove both knives into a gap in the monsters ill-fitting armor, into its back, right through the heart.

As the final Uruk-hai fell, Legolas stood alone among the bodies of his defeated foes, breathing heavily, his knives dripping with dark blood.

He surely must have presented a terrifying sight, for when he turned to look at the two humans whose lives he had saved, they seemed to be wary of him.

Legolas arched a slender brow, feeling slightly bemused.

The boy had in the meantime taken up the bow of the Uruk-hai who had only moments prior threatened their lives and notched an arrow, pointing it at the Elf.

While he lacked the physical strength due to his evident youth and malnourishment to properly draw the bowstring, his form was impressive, considering his age.

Although the child had to be aware that he stood no chance against a warrior who had just finished off a whole group of Uruk-hai on his own, the boy stood steadfast, unwilling to flee and leave his mother behind.

The woman still laid on the ground, weakly gripping her son by the clothes of his pants as if to try and persuade him to move.

"Stay back! Tell us who you are!” the brave child shouted, his voice trembling.

Legolas was momentarily at a loss. He should examine the woman’s wounds, perhaps help them reconnect with any nearby kin before departing, but it seemed that saving them had not been sufficient, the boy obviously mistrustful after everything he had witnessed.

But before Legolas could string a sentence together that would convince the child of his good intentions, the woman let out a soft gasp, her gaze focused on the warriors’ face.

She gently patted her son on the leg, signaling him to let go of his weapon. "Aragorn, do you see his ears? He is one of the Firstborn – he does not serve the dark lord, he will not hurt us.”, she claimed confidently, her voice soft and breathless, barely audible.

Her son, now revealed to be named Aragorn, hesitated for a few heartbeats, fixating his gaze on said elven ears, a slight curiosity now visible in his facial expressions, before lowering his bow.

"My mother, she is hurt – will you help her?”, he now pleaded, his eyes wide and hopeful, evidently placing great trust into the woman's words.

Legolas, feeling the weight of the expectations placed on him by an innocent child to save his mother’s life, found himself slightly uncomfortable now, even though helping had been his intention in the first place.

Therefore, he avoided meeting the boy’s gaze and offered no reply. Instead, he stepped forward to assess the woman’s condition.

What he saw was far from reassuring.

The arrow had penetrated the woman's body, which was by now turned to the side, deeper than he had initially thought. It appeared to have entered between her ribs, as indicated by the scant portion of the shaft visible outside her body.

Her labored breathing and weak coughs suggested that the arrowhead might have pierced her lung.

Legolas was not intimately familiar with human resilience, his limited experience was confined to rare interactions with the peoples of Dale. However, based on his assessment, he seriously doubted that the woman could survive such an injury, particularly given the absence of any tools or trained healers.

He wasn’t even certain if an Elf’s robust body could recover from a wound so severe, his own bone-deep arm wound already starting to stop bleeding.

As he looked into the woman's eyes, he saw a flash of recognition — as if she understood her fate — and fear, likely for her son’s future.

Legolas had to will himself not to flinch as the woman reached out to grasp his hand, unaccustomed as he was to the touch of strangers.

However, an even greater surprise followed when she began to speak to him in a language he had not heard in many years - Sindarin.

"Please, fulfill my last request, so that I may go in peace,“ she pleaded, her tone filling Legolas with an uneasy foreboding. "My name is Gilraen and my child is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the three of us the last heirs to the line of Isildur.“

Recognition flickered across Legolas' face, which seemed to embolden Gilraen as her voice grew more determined with her next words.

"He is the last hope for the free peoples, for it is his destiny to reunite the ancient kingdoms – their last chance to free them of Sauron’s rule. So it has been foreseen. He carries the wrapped shards of Narsil with him, as proof of his heritage, but the Uruk-hai recognized it for what it was and took it, surely intending to gift it to the dark lord. It must be around here somewhere.“

She paused briefly to catch her breath, a pause Legolas respected by remaining silent.

"We originally were part of a company on our way to Lothlórien, to seek the wise Lady Galadriel's help and advice. But we were attacked, and our group was scattered as my husband stayed behind with his men to fight them off, thereby providing us the opportunity to flee. However, we were attacked again, our protectors slain, and Aragorn and I were taken captive.“

Speaking so much had evidently taxed Gilraen greatly, for she was now shaking. Legolas had to grasp her hand firmly to prevent it from falling to the ground, as she no longer had the strength to hold it up herself.

Her son, who seemed not to speak the language, or at most understood only a few words, looked at his mother questioningly.

He had crouched down beside her, gently brushing a few dirty locks of hair out of her face.

Although he must have been burning with curiosity about what his mother and their unknown savior were discussing, he displayed remarkable restraint for his young age, patiently holding his tongue.

"Now I beg of you – will you protect my son and safely bring him to Lothlórien so that he may be reunited with his father, and together they can accomplish what our company originally set out to do?“ Gilraen finished, her voice imploring as she looked up at the Elf, who until now had betrayed no emotion.

"Lothlórien is abandoned. Your husband will not find anyone there—they have all fled over the sea or passed over to the halls of Mandos,“ Legolas responded, noting the shock that flickered over Gilraen's face.

He refrained from mentioning that he had not planned to take a human child under his wing, even temporarily, and that the prospect was an uncomfortable one.

"Nay, it cannot be so — you must be mistaken. We were told by someone trustworthy that we would find the wise Lady Galadriel's guidance there — he would not betray us.“

Legolas did not protest further, unwilling to insist that their supposed trustworthy source might not have been so reliable after all, likely having led them into the ambush they had experienced. He did not wish to cause the poor woman further distress with his suspicions.

Instead he pondered over the situation he had found himself in.

Despite his initial reluctance and the unexpected turn of events, Legolas realized he had no real choice but to honor the woman's final request.

Regardless of whether her conviction in her son’s supposed grand destiny would prove correct — a matter about which Legolas harbored serious doubts - Aragorn was still just a child.

The experiences of living through the massacre of his kin and of living under Sauron’s oppressive rule over the past decades may have hardened Legolas, but they had not made him cruel enough to abandon an innocent child to certain death. Even if he was confident that they would find no living Elf in Lothlórien, at least he could ensure the boy's safety until he could be reunited with his father.

It would only be a matter of a few weeks then, before he could return to the comfort of treading familiar forest paths, lost once more in beautiful memories of the past, not made to think about the present and future.

Legolas sighed inaudibly, before earnestly looking the woman in the eyes. "I swear to do everything in my power to keep your son safe until he is rejoined with your husband.“

Gilraen smiled weakly, which drew her son's attention, who visibly perked up at the sight.

"I cannot put into words how thankful I am for your kindness. Now...Please grant me and Aragorn a few moments alone, so that I can inform him of what we have arranged.“

Legolas nodded and stood up, carefully letting go of Gilraen's hand. Aragorn immediately took his place, grasping her long fingers in his own small hands, no doubt waiting for her explanation of what was going to happen.

The Elf gave them a passing glance before stepping away to collect his arrows, as well as those of the Uruk-hai which were crafted well enough to be of use to him.

He also searched for the shards of Narsil - and Gilraen had spoken the truth, for he found them with the last, imposing foe he had slain, who had probably been the troop’s leader.

The privacy he had granted the pair behind him was an illusion, however, as his keen sense of hearing made it impossible not to catch the words hurriedly exchanged behind him in the common tongue.

He deliberately tried not to pay attention, even as the sharp cries of the boy began to echo behind him once Gilraen explained that he would have to go with the stranger now, that he would have to leave her behind.

Legolas spent the next few moments scavenging the battlefield, collecting Uruk-Hai arrows, inwardly disgusted at the thought of having to rely on such craftsmanship. He also grimaced in repulsion as he tore a sufficiently clean-looking cloth from one of the bodies' hoods, using it to wipe the blood off his arm and to bind his wound.

Once the conversation behind him had subsided and there was nothing more of use to collect, he returned to Gilraen and his temporary, would-be ward.

Standing again beside the boy, Legolas found himself momentarily at a loss. He had planned to leave quickly, aware that predators or Sauron’s other minions might be drawn by the scent of blood.

Yet, as he looked down at the mother and son — Gilraen with eyes closed, weakly stroking her child’s hand, her breath shallow and rapid, lips tinged with blue — he knew they could not in good conscience leave her to die alone. But how did one fill the moments waiting for another's life to ebb away?

Legolas had witnessed the passing of his kin more often than many others of the Firstborn. They, blessed and cursed with immortality as they were, knew those who departed would go to the halls of Mandos, to eventually be reborn. Their destiny was interwoven with Arda’s, bound until the world’s end and perhaps beyond.

Yet, he had never been a direct witness to the death of a mortal, too secluded had he been in Mirkwood. Never before had he been confronted with the stark finality of their departing of Middle-earth.

In his contemplation, he felt a mix of sorrow and a peculiar sense of envy — sorrow for the woman’s imminent parting from her family, and envy for her soul’s forthcoming peace, as she would not be forced to be reborn or live on until grief eventually overwhelmed her and her body faded away.

His reflections were abruptly interrupted when Gilraen began to sing, her voice piercing the heavy silence, which had previously only been interrupted by the sound of her labored breathing.

It would be the last time Gilraen surprised Legolas with her knowledge of elven customs, as he immediately recognized the words.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel

silivren penna míriel

o menel aglar elenath!

After a brief moment of surprise, in which Legolas chose to listen, he joined in. As soon as he did, Gilraen stopped, cut short by a painful cough. But soon after, her face relaxed, seemingly taking comfort in the melodious elven voice singing of the Valië Elbereth Gilthoniel.

Na-chaered palan-díriel

o galadhremmin ennorath,

Fanuilos, le linnathon

nef aear, sí nef aearon!

A Elbereth Gilthoniel

o menel palan-díriel,

le nallon sí

di'nguruthos!

A tiro nin, Fanuilos!

Legolas was aware of the exact moment Gilraen’s breathing ceased. Nonetheless, he persisted with the song until the last line had resonated fully, until he could be confident that the woman had embarked on her journey to wherever mortal souls are destined after death.

Her eyes were closed, giving her the appearance of simply resting, a stark contrast to those slain on the battlefield whose deaths usually came swiftly and unexpectedly, leaving them staring unseeingly ahead.

He carefully rid the woman of the coat she was wearing, using her own cloth to cover her body, as he had nothing else to give and refused to cover her with the garments of those who had caused her death. While doing so, he gave the boy next to him a quick glance from the corner of his eye, who had become surprisingly still, appearing dazed.

Once he found the woman’s  body sufficiently covered, Legolas turned his full attention towards  his new ward.

"Come.”, but as he turned to leave, expecting Aragorn to follow, said child finally reacted.

"You will leave her like that?!”, he protested, his tone aghast at the perceived carelessness of his new guardian. "We must bury her!”

As Legolas turned, he saw that the boy still had tears of grief brimming in his eyes, contrasting with the anger in his voice. 

"We need to go, before predators or other Orcs are drawn to the scene.”, the Elf explained, doing his best to remain patient even as his skin prickled with the awareness of their exposure and vulnerability in the small clearing, surrounded by corpses.

"I do not care! It is not right. I will stay with her until she is buried. I will not allow the monsters to find her.” the child responded, crossing his arms and refusing to get up.

Legolas, facing the immature stubbornness of a child for the first time and unable to comprehend the lack of practicality, was at a loss, feeling his annoyance grow.

"I heard what your mother told you – did she not ask you to listen to me, as she tasked me with ensuring your safety, until you can be reunited with your father?”

Aragorn offered no response, his gaze fixed ahead with an expression of simmering anger.

Legolas briefly considered forcibly moving the boy, who clearly lacked the Elf's strength, but quickly dismissed the idea. It felt too undignified, and he had a dark premonition that dragging the boy away now would have the consequence of making the next weeks in the boy’s company most unpleasant.

Instead, Legolas devised a compromise he hoped the boy would accept. He walked back to where Aragorn and Gilraen stood, ensuring he remained in the child’s line of sight.

Demonstratively tapping his boots against the hardened earth, he began: "The ground here is tough and dry. We lack the proper tools for digging, and even if we had them, the dense rootwork of these trees would hinder our efforts.”

Before the boy could voice another protest, Legolas swiftly presented his alternative: "However, there is a custom among my people. Death was once rare for us before the dark lord’s rise, but on the few occasions it occurred, we constructed a stretcher and placed it in the fork of an ancient tree. You may call it a 'tree burial.' The enemies will not find her there, and it elevates her to the watch of Elbereth Gilthoniel, whom she sang of. Would this be acceptable to you?”

Aragorn squinted at the Elf for a moment, appearing skeptical, as if he suspected Legolas had just made the concept up. Eventually, he relented, recognizing the truth in Legolas' words. He nodded and stood up, ready to assist.

Relieved, Legolas inwardly sighed, grateful to bypass further fruitless debate. He immediately seized the opportunity to engage the boy, aiming to distract him from his sorrow.

"Collect some sturdy branches. I'll cut more cloth from the enemies' corpses to make ropes, so we can construct the stretcher,“ he instructed.

The Elf felt that he had the right idea, as Aragorn listened, appearing eager to be useful and to have a distraction from his thoughts.

The construction proceeded swiftly, far quicker than digging a grave would have been. Legolas skillfully bound the wood and his makeshift ropes together to create a stretcher.

They carefully placed Gilraen's covered body upon it, but not before Legolas had cut off the end of the arrow to position her more comfortably. They secured her with ropes to prevent her from slipping.

Then came the most challenging part - hoisting the stretcher up into the trees.

Raising the stretcher into the tree was a daunting task, especially given that Aragorn, still a child, lacked the strength for heavy lifting.T hey stood beneath an ancient oak, its vast branches reaching skyward. Legolas surveyed the structure, calculating the best approach.

"We will use that lower branch as our fulcrum,” Legolas decided, pointing to a sturdy limb a few Ells up. "I will manage the heavier work, just help as much as you can.”

Aragorn nodded, his young face set in a determined expression, the tear streaks on his face glistening in the moonlight. They had yet to dry.

Together, they tied one end of the ropes they had fashioned around the handles of the makeshift stretcher. With his elven agility, Legolas climbed the tree trunk with ease. Once he reached the branch, he secured the ropes over it, ensuring they were tightly fastened.

After climbing back down, Legolas joined Aragorn on the ground. "Ready? On three,“ he instructed, preparing to lift most of the weight himself, but feeling as if it would only be right to at least offer the boy to help. "One, two, three!“

Together, they heaved, Legolas pulling with all his might while Aragorn did his best to assist.

The ropes strained under the weight as the stretcher bearing Gilraen's body slowly ascended. Leaves whispered softly, disturbed by the rising makeshift cradle.

Once the stretcher reached the desired height, Legolas quickly climbed the tree once again to maneuver it into the fork, guiding it into a secure position nestled among the branches. The forest was serene up here, bathed in the soft moonlight filtering through the leaves.

Legolas dexterously tied the ropes around adjacent limbs to stabilize the stretcher. Once he felt satisfied with the security of their arrangement, he climbed down to rejoin Aragorn on the ground.

They both looked up one last time at the final resting place they had created - a tranquil tribute amidst the trees.

"We must go now.”, Legolas declared, knowing that the sun would rise soon, wanting to get some distance between themselves and this place before dawn approached. He truly hoped that there would be no more protests from the child.

Thankfully, Aragorn, who had once more fallen silent, acquiesced this time.

Together they walked away, leaving the corpses of the Uruk-hai behind, to be feasted on by spiders or any other scavengers desperate enough to resort to such foul meat.

Soon after Legolas and Aragorn vanished into the thickening mists of dawn, the first rays of  sunlight pierced the somber canopy, casting a gentle glow over the sacred space where Gilraen's  body rested high in the embrace of the ancient oak.

Below, the fallen Uruk-hai lay forgotten, their dark forms destined to slowly become part of the forest floor.  Eventually, after the bigger creatures of the forest had eaten their fill, insects burrowed into the cold flesh, each creature playing its part in the relentless cycle of decay and renewal.

In the treetops, Gilraen’s resting place remained untouched and serene, undisturbed even by the birds.

[1] Black Speech: „Elf!“

Chapter Text

It did not take long for Legolas to come to the realization that he had miscalculated grievously.

Originally, he had estimated the journey to Lothlórien would span about two weeks, yet now it appeared it would take close to two moons.

After all, Aragorn, with his shorter stride, could not match the swift pace of Legolas' elongated steps. Moreover, the boy required frequent halts—whether to relieve himself in the thickets, to rest his weary legs, or to sleep, eat and drink.

Oh, and how Legolas had underestimated the mortal child’s incessant need for sustenance. He found himself spending considerable time hunting, his skill with the bow proving invaluable.

The company of men from which Aragorn hailed must consist of exceptionally talented hunters indeed, to keep a child so adequately fed. He appeared only slightly underweight, an impressive feat considering the current lean times of scarce game and barren soil.

Then there was the matter of fire, invaluable both for cooking the tough meat of the skinny rabbits and other small animals that Legolas caught, and for keeping Aragorn warm, as he chilled much more quickly than the Elf.

This necessity brought with it the peril of attracting unwanted attention, a risk of which Legolas was acutely conscious, heightening his anxiety.

Although confident in his own ability to fend off or elude most threats, he now bore the burden of a vulnerable child’s safety - a commitment made to Gilraen to protect her son at all costs. Legolas had never broken a promise and had no intention of failing now. Therefore, they only lit fires if necessary and when they did, the Elf was quick to put it out again, much to the child’s dismay.

Furthermore, he had learned that Aragorn had seen but eight summers, yet he knew not what this meant in the span of human growth and maturity, as to his knowledge, elven children grew at a slower rate but matured more swiftly.

Beyond this, he had gleaned little about the boy, as their exchanges were sparse, limited mostly to practical matters.

Legolas, who was inclined towards solitude — a consequence of decades spent in isolation — found little urge to converse. Yet, he also suspected that Aragorn harbored some resentment towards him for initially intending to leave Gilraen without a proper burial.

But whether the boy was truly sulking, or his demeanor was shaped by the grief of recent loss and the horrors he had witnessed, or perhaps a mixture of the former two, Legolas could not say.

There had been only one instance over the last few days where they had exchanged more than a few words. It had been a peculiar incident, as during one night, Legolas had fallen into a deeper sleep than intended. Normally, he kept guard as Aragorn slept, taking only brief and light naps, still conscious of his surroundings.

However, that night exhaustion had seemingly overwhelmed him, likely due to his own lean and undernourished body struggling to heal the deep gash in his arm, drawing upon his reserves of endurance.

That night, he had been jolted awake by a sudden and frantic tug on his arm. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to refrain from reflexively striking out at the small boy responsible for his abrupt awakening – and yet, it was the sight of Aragorn’s frightened face that had truly dispelled the remainder of his grogginess.

His initial assumption had been that enemies were nearby, but as he had strained to listen and look, he had detected nothing unusual—only the natural quiet of the night, occasionally interrupted by the wind and the rustling of foliage.

It was only when Aragorn had spoken, drawing Legolas’ attention back to him, that the Elf had understood what had happened.

“Why do you sleep with your eyes open? I thought…” the boy had begun, his voice trailing off towards the end, unfinished, but he had not needed to complete his thought.

While admittedly lacking in knowledge of mortals – and even more so, their children – he had interacted enough with the men of Dale to know that they had the peculiar custom of sleeping with their eyes closed.

Aragorn had apparently not been aware of this difference between their races.

“I do not know, why do you sleep with your eyes closed?”, Legolas had replied, trying to sound somewhat lighthearted in an attempt to reassure his temporary ward.

However, he had apparently failed miserably, for Aragorn had still looked wide-eyed, with a spooked expression on his face. Instead, the boy had finished the sentence he had started before, even though Legolas had not demanded any further explanation.

“I thought you died. Maybe because of the arm wound. We had one man in our company. He was very strong - nearly as strong as father. But then he got a bad injury. He died a few days later in his sleep - mother said it is because the Orcs weapons are filthy, and his injury was not cleaned well, and he had an infi…-infection.”

Faced with the realization that the boy had likely witnessed more of his kin die within eight short summers on this earth than Legolas had in the nearly two Millenia before the rise of Sauron, the Elf had felt at a loss. He had understood then that the child’s fears were very much understandable, and yet he did not want to lie and give a promise he could not guarantee to keep. Instead, he had settled for a gentle truth.

“Aragorn…I have made a vow to your mother that I would do my utmost to ensure your safety. I do not take this lightly – so I will do my best to stay alive. I have fought and lived through much graver circumstances, and I will continue do so until you are back in the protection of your people. Do not worry needlessly and rest now, for the sun will be up soon, and we have a long way ahead of us.”

Only then had the child seemed to emerge from his frightened state. Aragorn had nodded hesitantly and scooted a little closer to the Elf, before curling back into his blanket, until only a mop of curly dark-brown hair was left visible.

Legolas had felt a wave of relief, as he had believed that he had finally said something right, and privately thought to himself that maybe the child would stop sulking in his company now, turning their journey a bit more amicable.

His hopes had been quickly dispelled, however.

The next day had not begun well, as Aragorn had been visibly grumpy, which was maybe attributable to his lack of sleep and general exhaustion.

Another few hours later, their situation had deteriorated, for they had used up all the water in both their flasks the day before, and the incessant complaints of thirst were currently testing the Elf’s patience.

“Be quiet.”, Legolas ordered now, abruptly halting in his steps. Thankfully, the child listened.

He strained his ears, and a new wave of relief fell over him, for their predicament would soon be solved.

“I can hear the sounds of rushing water – the Anduin, it must be close by.”, he said. “Save your breath, so that we may walk faster and reach it more swiftly.”

And so that my ears may finally stop ringing, he added in the privacy of his thoughts.

The prospect of water significantly boosted the young human's motivation. Aragorn visibly perked up, accelerating until he was nearly running ahead. Behind him, Legolas maintained his pace with long strides, all the while keeping his senses sharp for any signs of danger.

Soon, Aragorn also heard the sounds of rushing water. Recognizing them, he broke into a full sprint, catching Legolas by surprise, as for the first time on their journey, he had to increase his pace to keep up with his ward.

Eventually, the terrain gently sloped downward, leading to an embankment along the broad river. Without hesitation, Aragorn dropped to his knees on the damp ground, eagerly scooping handfuls of water into his mouth.

Legolas watched intently, initially concerned that the boy might fall into the swift currents, leading to him needing to be rescued from drowning.

Yet, his concern swiftly shifted as he sensed another, much more imminent danger.

He sprang forward, pulling Aragorn back from the river by the arm, visibly startling him not only with the suddenness of the action but also with the contact, as Legolas generally avoided such physical interactions.

“Do not drink the water!“ Legolas commanded sternly, his gaze quickly scanning the surroundings, looking for the source of the foul odor that had suddenly assaulted his senses.

When he couldn't identify the source of the foul odor, he turned back to Aragorn, who now wore an impatient expression.

“Why not? I am dying of thirst—“

“— continue drinking this water, and you will be dying of something else.“, Legolas interjected sharply, cutting off the boy's complaint.

Legolas’ senses remained on high alert, even though he didn't detect any immediate threats in their vicinity. After a few moments, he eventually explained to the child. “The river here carries the stench of death. There must be corpses upstream, poisoning the water. You cannot drink it.“

Aragorn scrunched his nose in disgust as he grasped the situation. Nevertheless, he still cast a longing look toward the river.

“But I am so thirsty... I last drank yesterday morning, and it was only a small sip! I cannot walk anymore, my feet hurt and I am so tired...“

Legolas, who had been hearing similar complaints throughout the day, frowned. “We need to move upstream, beyond the source of the contamination. Then you can drink safely, and we can refill our flasks. You will have to endure until then.“

“How far must we walk? How long until we get there?” Aragorn whined, clearly unimpressed by the proposal.

“I cannot say,“ Legolas replied, who was dissatisfied with the uncertainty himself. Their progress was already slower than he preferred, and this detour would only delay them further.

Aragorn groaned, frustration now overtaking his disgust. Carelessly, he slumped to the ground and announced, “I cannot walk any further. I am tired, and my mouth is so dry, it hurts to swallow.“

“You must. There is no other option.“

“No! Can you just go refill our flasks and bring them back to me?“

“So that you can drink it all immediately, leaving us with nothing for tomorrow?“

Aragorn crossed his arms. “I am not moving. I want to sleep.“

Legolas, a member of an immortal and wise race who had lived nearly two millennia, found his patience waning. He briefly closed his eyes, pondering whether to carry the boy. Although he disliked the prospect, it was not the only reason he hesitated.

The child had not seemed to realize that the presence of corpses might indicate a recent battle, and that it was unclear who had fought or who had emerged victorious. Legolas was fairly certain that the scent of death was mingled with the unmistakable and repugnant odor of Orcs.

But when had they passed, and were they still nearby? Could the combatants have belonged to Aragorn's original company?

While it might have been useful to have Aragorn confirm any human bodies as his kinsfolk, Legolas was not cruel enough to expose the child to a scene of death deliberately.

After all, as far as he could tell, Aragorn had already witnessed too much tragedy in his brief years on Middle-earth – and with his alleged role in its future, there would inevitably be more to come.

With a repressed sigh, the Elf finally gave in. Looking into the boy’s eyes, he became serious:

“Alright. But I have two conditions. Firstly, you must promise that you will not drink this water while I am gone, no matter how appealing it seems. Secondly, you must hide - I will help you to climb a tree. You must stay still and quiet, as I will not be there to defend you, were anything to happen. Do you agree?”

For a moment, the boy seemed visibly surprised, probably not having expected his guardian to acquiesce so easily. However, he clearly did not wish to squander this opportunity.

“Aye! I will not move, I promise!” Aragorn quickly agreed, although he averted his gaze, seeming sheepish.

For a brief moment, the Elf squinted suspiciously at the boy, trying to determine if the child's promise could be trusted. But there was no turning back - now that he had offered this option, convincing Aragorn to continue moving would present an even more formidable challenge.

Quietly hoping he would not come to regret this decision, Legolas walked over to a tree he deemed sturdy enough to support Aragorn's weight and suitable to conceal him within its foliage.

Positioning his hands to form a sort of net at the base of the trunk, he nodded to Aragorn to come closer.

“Step into my hands. I will give you a lift - grab onto that branch there, and pull yourself up into the tree fork,“ he instructed.

Bolstered by the prospect of being able to rest his weary limbs, the child did not hesitate. He did as he was told, stepping forward and placing his foot in Legolas's interlocked hands.

With a firm push from his guardian, he reached upwards, his small hands grasping the thick branch above him. One determined pull later, and he had successfully hoisted himself up into the tree fork.

Legolas, who did not wish to waste any more time, immediately began his own graceful ascent, climbing up into another sufficiently strong looking branch above Aragorn.

As he climbed, he could feel the child's curious gaze resting on his figure.

Although Aragorn had seen Legolas climb before, it seemed to still be fascinating to him, probably more so because this time, his focus was not distracted by the fresh grief of his mother’s passing.

Once the Elf was perched above the boy, he leaned forward and struck out his hand.

“This is the last part. Grab onto my hand, I will pull you up.“

However, the boy did not immediately react, instead looking up at the other with big, fascinated eyes and declared, “Father is also a good climber. But I think you are even better. You move just like a lynx!“

Legolas paused, unsure whether to be more amused by Aragorn’s tendency to judge his surroundings by the standard of his clearly much-admired father, or bemused, for he had never been compared to a feline before.

Ultimately, he settled on a twinge of impatience as the child had yet to grasp his offered hand. Leaning further forward, Legolas decided to act, firmly grasping Aragorn’s arm and pulling him up in one smooth motion.

The child let out a small yelp of surprise, and once perched beside Legolas on the branch, he suddenly seemed much less impressed. Clinging to the trunk, he inquired a bit nervously,  “Are you certain this is safe?“

“Much safer than the ground. Do not look down.“ Legolas responded, already beginning his descent.

Unfortunately, this advice prompted Aragorn to glance downward, causing his face to turn noticeably paler.

“M-Master Elf...“ the young boy stammered, clinging tightly to the tree.

Once on the ground, Legolas looked up, slightly dissatisfied with how the foliage did not completely conceal the boy. However, he did not want to push the already frightened child to climb higher, where the risk of serious injury from a fall would increase.

This would have to suffice.

“Stay put and nothing will happen. I will return as swiftly as possible.“, he called upwards.

The boy still seemed scared, but then a determined expression settled on his face as he visibly willed himself to be brave. His posture relaxed slightly.

“…However, if you were to fall, make sure to relax your body, bend your knees and absorb some of the impact by rolling or using your hands.”, Legolas added after a moment's thought.

Promptly, Aragorn tensed up again, clearly not reassured by the well-meant advice. However, he just gritted his teeth and nodded, his desire to rest his weary feet obviously overcoming his newfound fear of heights.

When there was no other response, Legolas resumed his journey, finding his path along the Anduin. As he moved swiftly upstream, he hoped to soon fill the two empty flasks secured at his waist. The smell of death and decay intensified with each stride, putting him on edge.

Deep down, he truly hoped he would not come to regret separating himself from the boy he had sworn to protect.

Nary half an hour had passed when Legolas finally reached the source of poison within the Anduin’s flow.

He knew he was nearing the grim site long before it came into view, the unmistakable stench of decaying corpses wafted through the air, so potent that Legolas thought to himself that even humans would surely recognize it.

The location was at a section of the river marked by a slight decline, mimicking a small waterfall. Here, multiple rocks and fallen trees jutted out from the water, forming rapids.

Entangled among these obstacles were the bodies of both Orcs and Men alike, hanging grotesquely from the rocks. Flies swarmed the bodies, forming dense black clouds that buzzed audibly.

Legolas, who could neither see nor hear any nearby activity, decided to investigate further. With agile leaps from rock to rock, he approached the scene for a closer inspection.

The evidence of a fierce battle was undeniable, which explained why the stench had carried over such a large distance and such a large body of water. Among the bodies, he counted over two dozen Orcs and a few Uruk-Hai, but only three men were among the deceased in the water.

The corpses that were partially out of the water showed visible signs of bloating and the onset of decay, as well as infestations of maggots, which led Legolas to roughly estimate that they had been there for approximately six sunrises.

In contrast, those submerged in the chilly currents of the Anduin were relatively well-preserved. Their limbs, although waterlogged and swollen, bore wounds from swords and arrows that were still discernible.

It was clear the humans had fought valiantly, though Legolas could not ascertain the size of either group involved in the clash. There was also the grim possibility that more men had fallen than the scene suggested, as some might have been devoured by the Orcs on the spot or taken by their horde to be eaten later.

Legolas suspected these men were part of the company led by Aragorn's much revered father, as the timing seemed to align.

He hesitated. It was very unlikely that he would be able to recognize Arathorn based solely on his son's resemblance.

Therefore, there was the possibility of said men lying here among the fallen, with Legolas being none the wiser. He had briefly considered this before he had separated himself from Aragorn, yet had ended up refraining from asking Aragorn about his father’s appearance, fearing the boy might grow suspicious of such a sudden inquiry.

Frowning, Legolas committed the details of their features to memory, planning to subtly question Aragorn later without arousing his suspicions.

To him, all the men bore striking similarities: they were tall, even by elven standards, broad-shouldered, with dark hair, pale skin and either grey or blue, now lifeless eyes. Their attire of dark green and brown resembled the clothing preferred by his own people—designed for stealth and mobility, with only occasional pieces of leather or metal armor protecting the shoulders, back, or abdomen. Legolas even noticed a quiver on one of them.

Although Legolas had never personally interacted with any descendants of the ancient kingdom of Númenor, he was familiar with the descriptions passed down by his father. Long before the fall of Arnor, Thranduil had sent emissaries to the Realms in Exile for matters of trade and other diplomatic concerns.

The characteristics of the men he observed aligned well with those descriptions, leading Legolas to speculate whether these individuals might be of the Dúnedain, remnants of Arnor’s long-lost glorious past, a possibility which would serve to further corroborate Gilraen's belief in her son's heritage and his connection to Isildur.

Not that it was of much concern to Legolas – whether Aragorn could grow up to reunite the kingdom of Men or not, in his eyes, there was little hope that their scattered and beleaguered kind could ever muster enough strength to defeat the Dark Lord and his allies.

Neither Elves nor Dwarves had managed to withstand Sauron’s onslaught—what hope was there for mankind? They survived only because the Dark Lord had permitted it.

Legolas stood up from his crouched position, since there was no more information to be gleaned from these corpses. As he did so, something on the opposite side of the river, a short distance further upwards of the battlefield, caught his eye.

Once more making use of the rocks and fallen logs protruding from the river, Legolas deftly crossed the rapids to investigate.

Upon reaching the other side of the river, Legolas's sharp eyes quickly discerned numerous prints in the soft mud. There were human footprints interspersed with hoofprints, suggesting that men and horses had been here.

More ominously, there was a large number of heavier prints that could only belong to Sauron’s servants, as well as prints that appeared on first glance as those of large wolves, but were actually those of Wargs. It was difficult to discern the chaotic pattern of prints, but an idea of what might have happened started to form in the Elf’s head.

To Legolas it appeared that the men, probably of Arathorn’s company, had been pursued by the Orcs for a while, until they had finally chosen this part of the river as a strategic point to make a stand.

The river, serving as a natural barrier, would have slowed the Orcs' advance, providing the men with the opportunity to ambush them as they had tried to cross the rapids, an opportunity to fight back.

However, the strategy must have been ultimately overwhelmed by the sheer size of the Orc’s company, as indicated by the many prints, forcing the men to flee. The three human corpses Legolas had found earlier in the river likely had not died where they lay but had been callously thrown into the water by the beasts after the skirmish.

Legolas was at a loss to fully understand why the creatures had done so, as their mindset was a complete enigma to him.

Most likely, they had taken a perverse pleasure in desecrating the bodies in this way, thereby denying their kin the chance to perform proper burial rites. Moreover, if such actions also led to the contamination of the river, potentially harming other living beings in the process, that was probably an unintended yet favorable outcome in their eyes.

Legolas followed the prints for a short while before halting. As they moved away from the river and the ground became less moist, the tracks grew increasingly difficult to discern.

While the Elf was confident he could continue to follow them if he tried, he had seen enough. The tracks led downstream, aligning with the theory that this was part of Arathorn’s company, who would have also needed to follow the flow of the Anduin in order to eventually reach Lothlórien.

Even though they were on the opposite side of the river compared to Aragorn’s hideout and had departed several days earlier, the proximity was still too close for Legolas’s comfort. If they were still being actively pursued by a large force of Orcs and Uruk-Hai, there was a real risk that some of the enemies might have splintered off and could still be lurking nearby.

Another major concern weighed on Legolas' mind. It was by now obvious that the size of the Orc band had been unusually large.

This, in turn, made it seem improbable that the Dúnedain had merely encountered a random patrol of Sauron’s minions. Instead, it appeared to have been a targeted attack, by a small army specifically assembled to hunt down these men. It made sense, considering what Gilraen had told him, about how they had been separated.

Was all of this simply because of Isildur’s surviving heirs? Was Sauron’s thirst for revenge that great, or did he truly believe that his nemesis’ line might grow to become a threat to his all-encompassing reign?

Legolas decided he needed to collect water and return to Aragorn as swiftly as possible. Then, he planned to move them further inland, away from the river.

Aragorn’s presumed company would have to find a way to shake off their pursuers before reaching Lothlórien on their own. The Elf’s primary concern was to ensure his ward’s safety and deliver him securely to said place.

And so, once had filled up the flasks further upstream of the battlefield, he quickly set out to find his way back to the young boy, his steps once again picking up speed as if controlled by another might – just like they had a few days prior, when his dreary routine of wandering ancient forest paths had been interrupted.

Due to his haste, Legolas managed to halve the time it took to return. However, his dark premonition still seemed to hold true. Just as had been the case a few days ago, he detected the presence of Sauron’s dark spawn long before he ever laid eyes on them.

They made no effort to be quiet—why would they? In these times, few dared to challenge them and when someone did, the Orcs relished in the prospect of bloodshed.

Legolas swiftly climbed a tree to gain a better vantage point before continuing his hastened journey.

The sounds of clanging gear, armor, and rough bellows were coming from the same direction he was headed. They were too close for comfort, too close to Aragorn.

Internally, Legolas cursed his luck and naivety, hoping that they had not yet detected the boy. He made a vow then—in the future, he would not let the child out of his sight, no matter how much he complained or whined.

Upon finally sighting Aragorn, Legolas initially felt relief, as the boy was still in the tree, largely concealed by the foliage, though he looked very pale.

But the danger had not passed.

Legolas also caught sight of their enemies, whose presence he had detected earlier by sound and smell. They were just a few trees away, near the riverbank where Aragorn had previously attempted to quench his thirst before he had been pulled away.

The enemies were loudly quarreling among themselves—in Westron, which Legolas would have found unexpected had he not been able to see their unusual tall stature and sallow faces, nearly leading them to resemble sickly men.

These were Half-orcs, a twisted crossbreed of Humans and Orcs, which explained their current lively activity even in the face of their loathed daylight.

The altercation appeared to be between their leader and one of his subordinates. Legolas guessed at their ranks solely by their stature, as the biggest and strongest often assumed leadership among their kind.

“All I'm sayin' is, you sure there's a young 'un here? I don't smell nothin' but Men, and they're long gone. And why would humans leave their spawn behind anyway? I think yer wrong, we are wasting our time.”

“You're a fool, Ozaf, that's what you are. No wonder they ditched you — you can't even tell a kid's smell from that of yer own putrid feet. Kid smells way different, like fresh, tender meat.”

“Uhhh…but boss, didn’t they ditch ye too?”

“Shut it, Ozaf, or I'll shut it for ya. I'd still be with them Uruks if that jerk hadn't chopped off my arm. I can still kill with the other, but yer dumbness? No cure for that.”

“But where is it then?”

“Probably hiding somewhere if it’s got any more brain than you. We just need to sniff it out. If those damn Uruks hadn’t taken all the Wargs, we’d have caught it already. Now, quit yapping and spread out!”

The last sentence was bellowed, the leader’s voice growing louder as he issued the command, finally having grown impatient with his subordinate’s questioning.

The other Half-orcs, who had been laughing and jeering at the interaction, obeyed their leader’s command and finally began dispersing, looking for clues. A few of them walked uncomfortably closer to Aragorn’s direction.

Legolas, having used the meantime to stealthily close in on his ward’s position, suddenly halted.

Now that the Orc-men were actively searching nearby, it was impossible to whisk the boy away undetected, either through the treetops or along the forest floor. The foliage was too sparse, and there was a significant risk of being heard and sighted, despite his stealth.

However, at least fate been kind enough to have granted them one small advantage, as a light breeze was carrying their scent away from Sauron's minions, hindering the Half-orcs off from discovering their location – for now.

Just then, Aragorn caught sight of Legolas, only a few trees away.

The visible relief that washed over the boy's face surprised Legolas, as he had believed that Aragorn hadn't particularly warmed to him. Yet, despite their relationship – or lack thereof, it was evident that the boy now placed his trust in Legolas to successfully rescue him from this situation.

But before the Elf could further examine the unnamed feeling this realization sparked in him, two events unfolded in rapid succession.

They occurred so rapidly, with only minimal seconds in between, that they appeared as if they took place simultaneously, though one had clearly precipitated the other.

Two Orc-men had come alarmingly close to Aragorn's tree, as they examined the thickets near the base, and excitedly called out upon discovering the boy's footprints.

Caught off guard and without a definitive plan yet, Legolas had instinctively readied his bow. Yet, instead of targeting the Orc-men—which risked drawing their gaze upward into the treeline to look for the source of the arrow—he fired at a distant stone lying on the forest floor, hoping to create a diversion with the resulting noise.

As he did so, the enemies, much to Legolas’ relief, fell for the ruse. One of them shouted with a mix of excitement and urgency, “It's the young ‘un, it must be – it’s running!“

This loud proclamation in turn drew the rest of their band toward the noise, successfully diverting their attention away from Aragorn's hiding spot.

Seizing the opportunity, Legolas quietly notched another arrow. This time, he selected one of the Orc-made arrows he had scavenged earlier, as the loss of their inferior craftsmanship presented no great waste.

With precise aim, he sent the arrow slicing through the air into a dense thicket even further away. The resulting rustling and snapping of the undergrowth as the arrow buried itself in the vegetation mimicked the sound of hurried movement.

The Orcs, spurred on by the possibility of capturing their quarry, immediately hustled towards the new disturbance, their excitement palpable. Legolas, observing them now from a safe distance, could scarcely believe his fortune at their gullibility.

It seemed almost too easy, like leading rats away with a trail of crumbs.

And unfortunately, he would be proven right in his doubt. As the Orcs continued moving deeper into the forest, apparently falling for the ruse he had created, Legolas prepared another arrow. Once again, he aimed even further away, ensuring each successive noise drew the enemies away from Aragorn.

Yet, before he could loosen the string, the leader’s furious voice rang out through the woods once more.

“What are ye doing, dimwits? This is clearly a ruse, and yer falling for it! Don't you notice yer being led away?”

Inwardly cursing the fact that the Half-orcs’ commander possessed both brains and brawns – very much unusual for their kind – the Elf realized that their time was running out.

Searching for Aragorn and ensuring he was visible, Legolas caught the boy's eye and mouthed:

“Run.”

It was clear that the child had understood, as his eyes grew wide once again, though he frantically shook his head.

Yet the Elf had no time to wait and quarrel with the stubborn boy once again, he simply had to put his faith in the child’s will to survive.

With a graceful leap, Legolas jumped off the branch.

“Are you looking for me?”

The Elf’s voice was cold as ice, his expression stoic.

Strangely enough, even though all nearby Orc-men immediately turned their attention towards him, they appeared too stunned to react at first.

Then, one of them bellowed, "Bite me arse, it’s a damned Elf!”

“We see it, Ozaf, ye dumbass!”, another retorted.

“B-but, weren’t we lookin’ for a human child?”, asked yet another, sounding perplexed.

“Shuddup, who cares, I’ve never played with an Elf! Thought they were all gone!”, jeered the fourth, licking his thin, yellow-tinted lips.

As the Half-Orcs began to converge on Legolas, he remained motionless. He dared not glance in Aragorn’s direction, but he earnestly hoped the boy had gotten the message and seized the moment to escape unnoticed.

“Let’s not kill him right away.”

“Yeah, fun first, eating later!”

“Them Uruks gonna look right daft when we bring 'em an Elf-head!”

“Stop talkin’ shit – draw your weapons and fight, ye vermin!”

And one final time, the Orc-men sprang into action at their leader’s command.

Drawing their swords and bows, with mouths seemingly foaming, the Orc-men finally descended upon the Elf, who up until now had shown no intention of defending himself.

Just before his white knives clashed with the first attacker, he finally allowed himself a quick glance upward.

There, on the trusted branch where Aragorn had been hidden, was now only empty air — no sign of the boy remained.

Finally, relief washed over Legolas, who was now able to fully focus on the conflict at hand. Though he had only a few days prior felled a dozen Uruks, the prospect of facing over twenty Half-orcs alone was daunting.

Moreover, this time, there was a stake to his own survival, as Aragorn was dependent on it – and, as he had explained to the boy only a night before, he had no intention of abandoning his promise.

He had not forgotten the trusting look in the child’s eyes from a few moments prior, as he had looked to the Elf for safety, either.

So, without much further hesitation, he shifted tactics. Disengaging from his initial opponent, Legolas turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, catching the Half-orcs off guard. Their surprised shouts of anger and frustration filled the air as they scrambled to react to his sudden flight.

“Oi, stay here, I’m not finished with ye!”

“He’s runnin’!”

“SHUT IT, OZAF!”

“I'll chop off them pointy ears when I gets ya!“

“Back off, that one's mine!“

Legolas raced through the forest, his feet deftly navigating stones, roots, and branches that littered the ground.

If he were to stumble, it would truly be disastrous.

The Elf knew he held the advantage in endurance, his stamina far surpassing that of his foes.

But the Half-orcs were driven by a savage determination, fueled by their lust to spill the blood of one of the Firstborn. Their numbers were many, and their resolve to capture him was unyielding.

The sound of their pursuing steps mixed with their harsh grunts and mocking jeers. How long would he have to continue this chase, until he could lose them? The distance between them grew, yet still, he could hear them, always a little too close for comfort.

Even though he could run forever, he needed to return to Aragorn. Considering how the forces of evil seemed to be drawn towards him like moths to a flame, the Elf did not wish to leave him alone for long.

Just as trepidation began to nip at his resolve, Legolas' sharp eyes spotted salvation—a towering tree near the banks of the Anduin, its branches stretching out over the swift river currents – providing him with an idea. In a fluid motion, he adjusted his path toward it, gaining even more speed, the world around him appearing to fly by, a colorful blur of motion.

Reaching the tree, Legolas wasted no time. Once more, as he had done so often over the course of the last days, ever since he had met a little human child and his mother in the woods, he climbed the tree with the grace and agility that were his birthright.

As soon as he was positioned on a sturdy branch overhanging the river, he paused for only a moment to survey the churning waters below.

The river's depths called to him, promising a cold but effective escape from these vile, loathsome creatures.

There was no time to hesitate, if he wanted to succeed in throwing the pursuers of his trail.

So, he closed his eyes, drew in a deep, steadying breath, and leaped. The air rushed past him as he fell, the sounds of the forest and his pursuers fading into a distant roar.

Then, with a mighty splash, he plunged into the Anduin’s depths, sinking down into the icy waters, sweeping him away from danger and towards an uncertain fate downstream.

The river, indifferent to the dramas of the land, carried him swiftly away, his elven cloak billowing around him like wings.

And he had not been a moment too early.

Above, he could hear the bewildered, furious Orcs rushing past, mistakenly believing the Elf had escaped into the forest.

Yet, for Legolas, there was only darkness.

Chapter Text

Aragorn was sick of being scared.

He had felt frightened back when his grandfather had been injured and wasted away from the following infection, with no one, not even Gilraen, able to help him.

He had felt apprehensive all the way back when his parents had announced that they would have to leave the woods, to embark on a potentially dangerous journey, far away from their home.

He had been fearful when they had been attacked, when they had been forced to split up and flee.

He had felt petrified when the big Orcs had caught up to them anyway, slaughtering and devouring all of them except for Aragorn and Gilraen, whom they took captive instead.

He had been utterly terrified when his mother had confessed to him that she was dying, that she was beyond salvation, that he would now have to leave her behind and follow a stranger.

Indeed, sick and tired he was of fear, a useless and burdensome emotion, that, in his view changed nothing – he had been scared all these times, and the terrible things had happened regardless.

And yet, he could not escape it. Fear was indifferent to his opinion of it, it was all-encompassing and had a tendency to override everything else.

It was pitch-black.

Even if the meager light of the stars might have been enough to at least make him able to see his hands before his eyes, he did not see anything, cowering in a small tunnel located beneath a large rock, which had probably once served as an animal’s den.

He had no way to ward off the cold, since his guardian possessed all their gear, including the blankets, as well as the skill to reliably make a fire.

Consequently, Aragorn's shivers came not just from terror but also from the biting cold, compelling him to curl tightly into a ball.

The boy was incredibly thirsty and yet – he regretted ever having complained about it. He should have been quiet, should have gone with the Elf, should not have run away.

He would rather be parched and tired than alone in the dark, with only his thoughts to keep him company.

Aragorn did not know whether his temporary guardian had survived or been killed by the cruel Orcs, like all the others before him.

The latter seemed likely to him, as their horde had been overwhelming, and the Elf was only one. Superior skills could only compensate so much, after all. Aragorn had known many great men who had fallen to the Orcs, overwhelmed by their sheer numbers and ambushed from all sides.

He was not sure he particularly liked the strange being, for he seemed cold and aloof. The Elf had never even shared his name, though the boy did not know whether it had been on purpose or a mere oversight. Aragorn had never dared to ask.

And yet, he had also been the first being Aragorn had met, other than those belonging to his father’s company, who had aided them. He had not asked for anything in return, and although he rarely spoke and looked strict, he had taken care of the boy so far, just as he had vowed to Gilraen.

Aragorn really hoped that he had not been killed.

The boy might have been young, but he was far more aware of his surroundings than others often realized – he was well aware that his guardian could have escaped the Orc-men easily, that he could have just as well chosen not to approach the boy again once confronted with the troops.

If the Elf fell, his death would be attributable to Aragorn, just like his mother’s, who had shielded her son from the arrow with her own body.

The child was exhausted, sad and scared – and yet, he seemed to grow number to it all with each moment that passed.

Maybe he would be able to fall asleep. The prospect of escape – a temporary one, but nonetheless, an escape, from his situation was a welcome one. If only he could close his eyes and awake to a world where all of this had been a dream, both his parents were alive and well and together, and no stranger had sacrificed himself for him…

Yet, just as a fitful sleep began to claim him, a sudden noise snapped him to alertness, banishing all thoughts of rest.

Instinctively, Aragorn pressed himself further back into the tunnel, his back flush against the cold wall, holding his breath, afraid to make even the slightest sound.

To his horror, he noticed a shadow loom over the entrance, swallowing the scant vestiges of light he had not even realized were there.

Someone had stealthily approached the den, and Aragorn had not realized it until it was nearly too late.

After a few tense moments of silence, during which he could only hear his frantic heartbeat and the blood rushing in his ears, everything changed with a single, softly spoken word:

“Aragorn?”

He recognized that voice instantly.

Before he could second-guess himself, wondering if he might have misheard in his desperation or if someone was mimicking the voice, he had scrambled out of the tunnel with frantic speed.

He barreled forth, colliding with the long legs of his guardian.

Without a moment's hesitation, he clung to the barely discernible outline of the Elf, grasping around his thighs, as he himself barely reached the tall being's waist.

“You lived!” Aragorn exclaimed, his voice rich with joy and disbelief, the emotions unmistakable even to his own ears.

There was a pause, however, during which the Elf did not return the child's embrace nor reply, rendering the moment increasingly uncomfortable.

“...I am also very glad. You did well.”, finally came the response then, sounding both strained and sincere alike.

Aragorn promptly released his hold, stepping back a few paces and subconsciously scratching his nose in a gesture of embarrassment.

Now facing the Elf, able to scrutinize him—or more specifically, what little was visible in the darkness—Aragorn's attention was diverted, distracting him from his sudden abashment.

Only now did he start to fully process an observation he had made while embracing the Elf but had not considered important in that very moment.

“Why are you wet?”, he asked, peering up and down at the other with a puzzled expression.

Indeed, the Elf’s usually silky hair hung in dark damp clumps, with water droplets trickling down from the strands. His clothes and gear were similarly drenched.

Aragorn had to forcefully suppress a sudden gleeful giggle as he these observations led him to an insightful connection, which was promptly confirmed when the Elf took a step toward him, fumbling with something secured at his belt.

His guardian was usually the epitome of stealth, nearly silent in movement, a trait that had admittedly fascinated the boy during their wandering together.

So how was it possible that Aragorn had heard the Elf approaching while hidden inside the tunnel, even before he had called out?

The answer was straightforward now — his boots were dripping, likely filled with water and mud, causing the Elf's steps to emit uncharacteristic squelching noises, a stark contrast to his usual grace.

The boy did not know whether his guardian had recognized the cause for his sudden amusement, as he did seem a bit grumpier to him, not deeming him with a reply once again and instead unceremoniously shoving an item at the child’s chest.

“Here – was this not the reason we separated in the first place?”

Aragorn truly did not know how he had gone from miserable to elated over a near-stranger’s survival and a filled flask of water so swiftly, but in this moment, he felt as if his heart could burst with joy.

He was not even able to utter out a quick thanks – feeling slightly guilty over it, as his mother had taught him better manners than this – before he was already guzzling down the refreshing, cold fluid.

Water had never tasted this good before, soothingly running down his long-parched throat. Unfortunately, even amid this unexpected bliss, the warning Arathorn often gave his son soon proved true: All good things in life come intertwined with trials.

“Once you are done, hand the flask back to me. We need to move.”, said the Elf, embodying that very trial.

Aragorn nearly choked on his last gulp at that statement, only barely refraining from doing so. Once he had swallowed, he quickly started to voice his protest.

“What? Are we not resting now to travel by day again?”

“We are not.”

“Why?”, Aragorn pressed, his impatience mounting with each curt response. Could the Elf truly not see that he deserved an explanation for these decisions?

“There is still a band of Orcs roaming nearby. The greater the distance we put between us, the better. Also, you are clearly shivering, but we cannot use the sodden blankets, nor can we build a fire, as it would draw the enemy towards us. Therefore, you need to keep moving to keep warm.”

Despite the logic in this explanation, Aragorn felt far from appeased. “But I am tired! And my legs ache…”

The Elf stared at the boy for a moment, before he turned his head towards the stars above, uttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

Only then did he turn his attention back to his young charge, his expression one of resigned determination, as if anticipating further argument.

“Aragorn, recall our last discussion—it nearly led to your capture. Trust me, it is imperative that we keep moving now.”

The thought of spending the rest of the night on his feet, especially when he felt he could collapse from weariness at any moment and was unable to see more than a few steps ahead, filled Aragorn with an urge to shout in frustration.

Instead, he swallowed his emotions down and decided, that if he already had to do this against his will, he might as well get something out of it.

“Alright, I will go. But first, I have two conditions.”, he declared, purposely mimicking the Elf’s earlier phrasing with a tone of exaggerated self-importance.

The other’s raised eyebrows signaled that the irony was not lost on him, though he appeared less than amused.

Nevertheless, he did not dismiss the proposal outright, instead replying: “Name your terms.”

A grin flashed across Aragorn’s face, buoyed by the sense that his attempt at bargaining seemed to bear fruit. His father surely would have swelled with pride at his negotiating tactics, had he been here to witness this display.

“Firstly, I want to have the second flask of water. I do not care if we will not have anything left for tomorrow, I am thirsty now.”

The Elf exhaled deeply but did not object. Instead, he reached to his belt, retrieved the second flask, and handed it over before folding his arms across his chest. 

“And what else?” he inquired. 

The boy hesitated, a sudden shyness creeping over him, replacing his previous confidence.

“Aragorn...?” 

“I want to-…Could you tell me your name?”

The Elf’s eyes snapped towards his, causing Aragorn to uncomfortably look elsewhere.

He did not like meeting the other’s gaze for extended periods, as something about their unnatural depth unsettled him.

It was one of the few strong reminders that he was not human, even if he seemed similar to one at the first glance.

“My name?”, the Elf echoed, and for the first time this night, a noticeable emotion was audible in his usual rather monotone sounding voice – surprise.

But then he shook his head, and even though there was no smile visible on his face, Aragorn felt that his question had amused the immortal being.

Before the child could get defensive, however - pointing out that the other also knew his own name, and that he ought to know what to call the person he was entrusted to for the time being - the Elf replied.

“Legolas. It means ‘Greenleaf’ in my people’s tongue.”

Aragorn closed his mouth, the earlier urge to argue swiftly dissipating. “That is a nice name.”, is what he ended up saying instead.

“You have my thanks. May we go now?”

Aragorn was a boy of his word, and as such, once he had truly drunk his fill, he nodded, gritting his teeth at the prospect of the exhausting night ahead of him, but purposely putting on a brave face.

And with this, they made their way off, two silhouettes vanishing into the dark cover off the night.

It was long past sunrise, many hours later, that Legolas found himself sitting in front of the remnants of a quenched fire, his gaze mostly distant, as he was lost in thought. Occasionally he threw watchful glances towards the sleeping boy a few steps away.

They had walked for several hours through the night before, in which they had made reasonable progress, considering the circumstances.

Eventually, shortly before the approach of dawn, Legolas had chosen to halt.

The boy next to him had looked as if he could have keeled over at any moment and the Elf had not wanted to carry him, in order to have his hands free and be able to draw his weapons immediately, should the need for it arise.

And Aragorn truly had been utterly spent.

Once Legolas had announced his decision to stop and rest for the night, the child had laid down and collapsed into sleep right then and there, only with his own clothes on his body to warm and comfort him – not that Legolas would have been able to hand him his bedroll anyways, as all their gear was still lying out to dry, which had been a slow progress in the cold dark night.

Over the course of the morning, Legolas had successfully managed to shoot two squirrels as well as a sparrow – a most satisfying yield for a hunt, which should serve to sustain the boy at least for the course of the morning.

He had also felt considerate enough to pick some herbs, which he had recognized as a kind the Wood-Elves had liked to use to add some flavor to simple meals.

As he had started to roast the game over a quickly assembled campfire, concern had crept up in Legolas’s mind. Usually, the smell of food would have roused the boy by now, as had been the case over the course of the previous days.

However, today the boy had remained motionless, undisturbed in his slumber even as the fire died and the food cooled.

The child had looked decidedly pale at the end of their journey the previous night, yet not a word of complaint had passed his lips—whether from sheer grit or because his mind had been too sluggish to articulate his discomfort, Legolas had not been able to tell.

By now, the boy's complexion had returned closer to its usual, slightly tanned hue, yet the depth of his sleep remained a concern.

However, besides a sudden onset of worry, the Elf also found himself plagued by a strange sense of guilt.

He was willing to freely acknowledge that he was quite limited in his understanding of the fragility of mortals, and even less so of their children’s. While he had been unable to help his growing impatience with their lack of progress, he could not help himself from fretting now that he might have pushed the boy too hard, potentially to the brink of his endurance.

Legolas knew nothing about how to treat illnesses, as his kind was not prone to suffer them, other than for some rare and exceptional cases.

If Aragorn grew sick, what should he do? He knew how to treat injuries, how to keep the boy fed and how to protect him from threats like Sauron’s minions – but an illness? That was an invisible adversary he could not fight.

Amid this unfamiliar blend of emotions, a slight movement caught Legolas's eye—Aragorn was stirring, gradually emerging from his deep slumber. The Elf remained silent, observantly watching as the boy’s consciousness gently floated back from whichever realms mortal minds tended to visit during sleep, his eyelids fluttering lightly until...

...suddenly, Aragorn sat bolt upright, startling Legolas with the abruptness of his movement.

“The sun is up! Have I overslept? Do we need to leave?” Aragorn blurted out, pushing himself up on his elbows before swiftly standing, though he wobbled slightly as he found his footing.

“Calm down. We will leave later today – once the sun is past its peak. Here, have some food. I caught some game for you.”, Legolas explained.

Observing how the boy's spirits lifted at the mention of food and how eagerly he grabbed the roasted chunks of meat—muttering a quick thanks before eagerly digging in—Legolas felt some of his worries fade. He knew little about mortal ailments, but he doubted a child would eat with such gusto if he were truly unwell.

But then, the boy paused and squinted at Legolas, his expression unreadable. “When the sun is past its peak, you said?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Yes. Do you think you will feel well enough to travel by then?”

This question seemed to confuse Aragorn even more, much to Legolas’s puzzlement. Had he really pushed the boy so hard that now any consideration seemed suspicious to him?

The unfamiliar pang of guilt that had lingered earlier threatened to return. However, Aragorn’s demeanor suddenly softened, and a small, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face.

“Of course! I am strong—just like my father!” he declared proudly.

Legolas, unfamiliar with the man in question, held back his comments. Yet, the mention of Arathorn sparked a query in his mind, momentarily sidelining his remorse. As the boy happily nibbled on the remnants of the roasted sparrow skewered on a stick, Legolas found his opening.

“Arathorn – your father, could you describe him to me, perhaps? I would like to recognize him when we eventually reunite in Lothlórien.”

“Father? He is very strong and tall. He is the tallest out of all of us. If you were to stand next to him, you would look like a Dwarf, I think!”

Legolas barely suppressed a grimace at that comparison and found himself starting to doubt the accuracy of the boy’s descriptions.

There was an evident sense of hero-worship in the boy's tone, something Legolas found unrelatable from his own experiences. His memories of his father were tinged with grief, which perhaps shaded his perception differently.

He was also rather confident in his assumption that the boy had actually never once seen a Dwarf, otherwise he would know that the Edhil[1]  and the Naugrim[2] truly bore no resemblance.

Blissfully unaware of the discomfort his declaration had roused in the Elf, the child continued on enthusiastically, unusually talkative for his usual rather withdrawn demeanor. “I am going to be at least as tall as him when I am an adult, my parents both said so! My grandparents were also really tall, my mother told me it runs in our family.”

Legolas offered a respectful nod, patiently waiting for Aragorn to circle back to the initial topic, which he soon did.

“He is also very broad, nearly twice your width. He is the best swordsman among us, and he also knows archery, although he is not as good at it. He is very smart, although not as smart as mother - he said so himself.”, Aragorn rattled on, leaving Legolas to wonder whether the boy was subtly mocking him or genuinely had such a skewed sense of comparison.

Realizing that he would not be able to discern if any of the river's corpses were Arathorn based on the boy's glorified descriptions, Legolas interjected: “Does he have any distinctive marks, perhaps a scar?“ 

“Uh, he has this long scar under his eye, running across his nose to the other cheek. He got it fighting evil men when I was much smaller. Mother was really worried, but father said it left his eye untouched, so he could still admire her beauty. Then they kissed a lot, which was a bit gross.“

Legolas, continually baffled by the mortal child's ramblings, decided to stop wondering why such a distinctive scar had not been the first detail mentioned. If as prominent as Aragorn described, it seemed unlikely indeed any of the bodies he had seen were Arathorn's.

This in turn raised hopes that his plan of handing Aragorn off to his father would be possible, thereby sparing the boy further anguish.

His musings were interrupted as the child looked over, a thoughtful expression on his face before speaking up: “You should eat too, you know. You are really thin and I have only seen you eat once... Here, take this!”, Aragorn said earnestly, offering up the remains of the skewered meat with a hopeful expression on his face.

The Elf hesitated for a moment, before ultimately taking the offering, having an inkling that refusing would either offend or upset the boy. With their relationship recently improved – marked by more conversation in the past hour than in the previous week – he did not want to jeopardize their newfound truce.

“You have my thanks.”, he responded therefore, and his expression of gratitude was promptly met with a grin.

Legolas took his first bite of the skewered meat, the simple flavors mingling with the faint smokiness from the fire. It was meager and somewhat tough, yet his body immediately seemed to gratefully welcome the sustenance.

As he chewed thoughtfully, he realized just how long it had been since his last proper meal. It was near impossible for Elves to starve and yet – food was still important for them, to maintain their strength, endurance and resilience.

Almost as soon as he began eating, Aragorn launched into conversation again. The boy's words spilled out in an enthusiastic stream, touching on everything from the stories his mother used to tell him to his dreams of what lay beyond the stars.

Legolas listened, his initial bites slowing as he pondered this sudden shift in the boy's demeanor.

What had changed? He wondered if he had somehow acquired a margin of the child’s trust with his actions of the previous day, or if Aragorn, feeling more secure now that they were stationary and fed, was simply temporarily reverting to the more carefree nature of childhood that the harsh realities of their situation had stolen.

As Legolas continued to eat, each bite seemed to not only nourish his body but also ease the tension that had been subtly building in him – the transformation was not lost on him, it mirrored the subtle shift he was observing in Aragorn.

Quietly contemplating this, Legolas let the boy's chatter wash over him, nodding occasionally or making soft sounds to indicate he was listening attentively.

Eventually, Aragorn’s rather one-sided conversation gradually shifted, as he eventually started addressing the Elf directly, his statement filled with an endearing earnestness:

“My mother told me that the Elves used to be the best archers in Middle-earth. But I always found it hard to believe that anyone could be better than Elgarain. She is our only woman fighter and can hit a blackbird from thirty yards away! Do you think you could beat her?“

Legolas arched one slender eyebrow, a bit confused at the image of a company of Rangers this large – as indicated by the tales he had been told so far and the many human prints near the river – only having one female warrior among them.

But he did not ask, as he found himself suddenly overcome by a feeling of playful competitiveness – a feeling he had not experienced in many a year, although it was what had originally made him the best archer among his kin in Mirkwood.

“I do not know.”, he lied.  “But let us find out, shall we?”

And with this, he finished the last remains of his food and stood up, drawing the trusty bow he always carried on his back.

Legolas surveyed the forest around them, searching for a sufficient target that would both challenge his skills and make an impression among his young charge. His gaze eventually settled on a distant pinecone, perched precariously at the very tip of a tall branch, swaying gently in the breeze—a small, hard target, nearly eighty yards away.

“Observe,“ Legolas said to Aragorn, his voice low and steady as he prepared his bow. The boy's eyes followed the direction of Elf’s pointed finger, squinting to make out the tiny object so far in the distance.

“What are you targeting? I do not see it...“, he frowned.

Preferring to show rather than tell in order to make a greater impression, Legolas notched an Orc-arrow to his bow, drawing the string back with a graceful ease that belied the strength required.

And in his focused state, the forest seemed to quiet down, holding its breath, the only remaining sounds the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of birds. The Elf aimed with calm precision.

After a moment's pause, allowing the wind to die down, Legolas released the arrow. It cut through the air with a swift, whistling sound, flying straight and true toward the swaying pinecone.

The shot was perfect. The arrow struck the pinecone, knocking it off the branch with a force that sent it spiraling through the air before it ultimately found its resting place on the ground several feet away, the impact visible even from their distant vantage point.

Aragorn's astonishment was palpable, his mouth agape before he sprang to his feet with contagious excitement. Any lingering skepticism had vanished, replaced by exuberant cheers that threatened to break the tranquility of the forest, so that Legolas had to shush him.

“That was incredible! I scarcely saw it before you struck! Elgarain would be so angry, had she seen this!”

Legolas, feeling satisfied with the demonstration and the boy's reaction, found himself enjoying Aragorn’s childlike wonder.

However, he was also willing to concede: “Elgarain sounds like a remarkable archer indeed. Yet, my people and I have honed this art for thousands of years. It would be a mighty impressive feat, were she able to beat me.”  

Aragorn nodded, looking pensive, although the initial starry eyes had yet to fade. “True, mother spoke of the longevity of Elves before. You must possess a lot more experience. How many summers have you seen?”

The Elf found amusement in the boy's curiosity, knowing his answer would only deepen the fascination. “We Elves do not measure time as mortals do. However, it must exceed eighteen centuries by now...“

“Centuries?” Aragorn echoed, his eyes widening in astonishment.

“Indeed. I am considered young among my kin,” Legolas confirmed, curiously observing the boy's struggle to comprehend the vast expanse of Elven years compared to his own short existence on the surface of Middle-earth.

In a moment of uncharacteristic warmth, Legolas, moved by a strange feeling resembling fondness, glanced skyward to gauge the sun's position before extending an offer that came as a surprise to the boy and – himself.

“We have time ere we resume our journey. Would you care to learn and practice archery in the interim?”

Aragorn was clearly taken a back by the offer, a flicker of surprise passing over his face.

“My father has been instructing me, along with others in our company. Elgarain too, occasionally,” he then disclosed, though he did not seem uninterested, despite the explanation initially appearing as a sort of protest.

“All the better. You shall impress them with your progress upon your reunion.”, the Elf remarked, feeling pleased as the boy eagerly nodded at the prospect, appearing to warm up to the idea.

The same kind of subtle happiness was mirrored in Aragorn’s smiling eyes. “I would be honored to learn from you, Master Elf.”, the boy then declared, sounding much more formal than the situation demanded.

Aragorn truly presented enjoyable company, whenever he was not voicing loud complaints or otherwise whining about their circumstances.

Legolas drew his bow from behind his back, a graceful curve of polished dark yew, and handed it to Aragorn. He inspected the bowstring meticulously for a short moment, before remarking: “I will need to adjust the tension here.”

Thumbing the string thoughtfully, he explained further: “It is set for the pull of a grown Elf, and we must make it suitable for you.”

Immediately, the child’s expression soured slightly at the implication, as his pride, like that of a young wolf challenged, flashed in his eyes. Legolas noted this silently but continued unfazed. “First, though, I must retrieve the arrow I sent forth.”

Indeed, in these times no arrow could be squandered – regardless of their inferior make. With swift strides, he disappeared into the underbrush, where the fallen pinecone marked the arrow's resting place.

Upon his return, he found Aragorn struggling with the bow, his young muscles straining unsuccessfully to draw the string even a fraction of its intended length.

Positioning himself back before his charge, the Elf could not help but infuse his otherwise innocent-sounding query with a bit of mirth.

“Oh, did my words not reach your ears? Perhaps I did not speak clearly enough. The bowstring still requires adjustment for you.”

Aragorn, who was breathless and seemed a bit sheepish at the Elf’s address, dropped his gaze momentarily before meeting Legolas’s eyes again.

His next response belied this bashfulness: “You truly are strong.”, he admitted sincerely. “I doubted it because you seem frail compared to the men I know.”

Feeling bemused and yet again at a loss on whether the child truly was too insensitive to realize the offensiveness of his blunt words or was doing so intentionally, the Elf frowned slightly.

“Is it perhaps a custom among mortals that I am not aware of, to continuously insult one’s companions?”, he inquired, his tone barely masking the sarcasm woven into his words.

Aragorn’s horrified expression answered the Elf’s question sufficiently. “I-I did not…I did not mean… Forgive me, Master Elf!”, he stuttered, stumbling over his words as his cheeks started to color in embarrassment.

At the realization that the boy truly had intended no harm, and that his tongue had merely outpaced his thought, the Elf decided to wave it off, feeling appeased.

Instead of chastising Aragorn further, he settled for teaching the boy a lesson.

“Elven strength lies not in the bulk of muscles, but in the harmony of body and spirit. Our hröa[3] are much sturdier and more resilient than they might seem, meant to withstand the endless flow of time. It would be wise to remember this and not judge solely by appearances.”

Properly admonished, the boy bobbed his head along to Legolas’ words, appearing abashed. The red color now extended all the way to the tips of his ears, making for a humorous image.

“Now, let us adjust this string, and then your true training can begin.”

As the Elf spoke, his hands moved deftly to modify the bowstring tension, his skilled fingers working quickly and precisely, although he could not help but feel a slight pang of discomfort at altering his most trusted weapon in such a way, even if it was to be only temporary.

Once adjusted, he handed the bow back to Aragorn, encouraging him with a nod.

The boy gripped the weapon, eyes alight with determination, and this time, when he pulled, the string moved. It was a modest draw, but a victory, nonetheless.

“Very well.” Legolas praised. “Now, let us begin in earnest.”

“Archery is about much more than strength and good eyesight,” he proceeded to explain, deciding to impart a foundational lesson he remembered from his own early training – a lesson that now seemed tinged with nostalgia.

“It also demands patience, an understanding of the wind, and a keen sense of your arrow's weight. Mastering these skills – and others – until they become second nature requires extensive practice…“

And so, under the vast, ancient trees of the forest, the Elf began to instruct the prophesied king, his lessons accompanied by the whispers of the wind and the rustle of leaves, a symphony only the wild could compose.

[1] Sindarin: “Elves“

[2] Sindarin: “Dwarves“

[3] Quenya: “body“ it is not clear whether Legolas actually spoke the language canonically, but in this version, he does not speak it, except for some words - “fëa” (soul) and “hröa“ (body) being among them.

Chapter Text

“Adar[1].“, Aragorn’s voice rang out confident, his eyes alight with pride at the swiftness of his response.

“Roch[2].”, Legolas offered in exchange. Despite his reply, his eyes were as distant as the timber of his voice.

The young one hesitated, the word emerging slower this time as thought furrowed his brow.

“Uh…Hên[3]?”

He had yet to take notice of his guardian’s distraction.

“Naug[4].”, the Elf replied swiftly once more.

“Hmmm… gîl[5].”, Aragorn pronounced, a triumphant gleam on his face, for he had just surpassed his own record.

“Laboth[6].“ said Legolas then, appearing to take no notice of his charge’s small victory.

The child’s brow furrowed deeper, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth now. “Not again… I cannot summon any more words that begin with ‘h’. What does Laboth even mean? I have forgotten. Legolas, are you listening?”

Legolas, indeed, had not lent his ear for some time.

Aragorn, full of feelings of euphoria and anticipation, was understandably eager for the end of their journey and the reunion with his kin, which was the reason why it had taken him this long to take notice of his guardian’s distraction.  

Meanwhile Legolas bore a different weight, his mind clouded with graver concerns that continuously set his nerves on edge. A subtle tension marked his gait, and his senses remained vigilant, ever watchful for signs of malevolence. His replies came mechanically, familiar words tumbling from his lips with scarce a thought.

No outwardly apparent cause stirred his unease, for there had been no trace of Sauron’s allies since their narrow escape from the Half-Orcs nine days past.

Their journey had thankfully not been drawn out over two moons, as Legolas had feared soon after their departure from Gilraen’s resting place. Indeed, they had quickened their pace in recent days, spurred on by the boy's visibly lifted spirits and newfound determination.

Their initially frail truce had held firm, the spare moments which were not spent on the march filled with the continuation of their archery practice over the course of the last few days. The Elf had to admit that his charge was a remarkable student, once he set his mind to it, gifted with a patience and skill he assumed to be extraordinary among mortal children.

There was no doubt in his mind that Aragorn had the potential to become a great warrior one day.

At the boy's sly request, where he hinted that his parents had begun to introduce him to the elven tongues but had not gotten far as his warrior training had always taken priority, Legolas had also taken up the task to teach him Sindarin. The child had expressed a hope to impress his father with fluent elven speech upon his return, as well as with his progress with the bow.

As such, they had spent much of their time on the road practicing, resulting in their most recent exchange of words, interrupting the otherwise quiet of the sparse forest they now found themselves in.

They had even spent an afternoon fishing, the child’s patience tested as he stood silent and still, waiting to impale passing fish with his homemade wooden spear. Though unspoken, Legolas could tell that the boy had secretly turned it into a competition to see who could bring the most food to the table that day.

The child had lost. Even if gifted with extraordinary patience for a human boy, he could not match the stillness and endless fortitude of an Elf. To his credit, he seemed only slightly disappointed at this defeat, soon cheering up at the realization that he would be able to eat his fill later.

That evening, Aragorn had joyously declared around the campfire that they had, at last, fare other than bird and squirrel meat — only to quickly stammer apologies upon noticing Legolas’s expression, hurriedly assuring him of his gratitude for the Elf’s efforts in providing them with food.

Legolas had outwardly retained his stoic demeanor, but inwardly, a tiny part of him could not help but be amused whenever his young charge stumbled over his words.

Aragorn embarrassed easily once he realized his mistakes, making him a tempting target for teasing.

Not that his honorable guardian would ever do such a thing, of course.

It could be said that these past days had brought a semblance of peace to Legolas, a tranquility he had not known ever since the explosion originating from Barad-dûr near thirty summers past.

Yet, this calm had not lasted long.

Instead, unease had gripped him since they had crossed the bridge over the Anduin just north of Lórien the previous afternoon, and it had only intensified with every step they had taken since.

That day, he had informed Aragorn of the significance of reaching this landmark, explaining that it meant just a day or two of marching remained. In response, his charge’s spirits had soared with the knowledge that the enchanted woods of Lórien were close.

Meanwhile, Legolas had grimaced at the craftsmanship of the bridge.

It had been an impressive structure, reminding of Dwarven influence, were it not for the sinister decorations that marred its grandeur. The bridge itself had been constructed from dark, basalt stone, which absorbed the light around it, making the pathway seem narrower and more foreboding than it truly had been. Its arches had been expertly cut, soaring gracefully over the churning river below.

Upon consideration, it was quite likely that the bridge had indeed been built by enslaved Dwarves, forced to build a monument for their conqueror.

However, it was the ornamentation that had truly disturbed Legolas.

At the center of the bridge, where the arch was highest, a colossal all-seeing eye had been carved into the stone.

Its pupil was a deep, hollow void, filled with a blackness that seemed to drink in the light. Surrounding the eye were intricate patterns of thorns and barbed vines, twisting around the arch like serpents. As the wind passed through, it had carried with it a low, mournful whistle that sounded almost like whispering, as if the bridge itself were speaking in a tongue long forgotten.

Aragorn, however, had appeared unfazed — and why would he feel otherwise?

The boy had had no knowledge of the bridge that had once stood there, a beautifully crafted work of elven artistry made from wood and artistically planted trees that formed the structure's foundation. Indeed, it was likely that he had never seen elven art, having been born decades after the Firstborn's decline.

To him, the dark craftsmanship of the bridge, while impressive in scale, had been nothing out of the ordinary.

Soon, this knowledge of what had once been would remain only in Legolas’s memories. In a few decades, once Sauron had successfully purged all traces of elven existence from Middle-earth, they would become akin to myth, surviving solely in the tales and tomes of mortals.

Legolas was pulled from his worrisome thoughts by a gentle tug at the hem of his cloak. When he looked down, he found himself met with the large, concerned eyes of his young charge.

“Legolas? Is something wrong?“

The Elf hesitated. There was no use in attempting to explain to Aragorn how discovering the destruction of the previous bridge and its replacement with the Dark Lord's structure the day before had filled him with a strange, dull pang of loss.

Nor was he able to put into words how currently, each step into the increasingly dense forest gave him a strange sense of foreboding - as if the trees themselves here were warped, witnesses to a calamity, resembling those near Dol Guldur in Mirkwood.

Hence, Legolas decided against sharing these thoughts. There was, after all, no other path but forward.

So, he simply shook his head. “There is no indication of evil here.“, he half-lied, but added cautiously: “Be careful regardless.“

Aragorn nodded, his expression turning serious. For a moment, he was silent, the playful mood forgotten as he seemed to ponder deeply while they walked along the wooded fringe of Lothlórien.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked: “Will you travel with us, once we meet my father and his Rangers?“

Legolas turned sharply, struck by surprise at the question he had never considered before.

His initial reaction was a firm No, yet the faint glimmer of hope in the child's eyes gave him pause.

Instead, he ended up swiftly redirecting the conversation with his own inquiry.

“Why do you ask?“

The child hesitated, his response uncharacteristically measured and deliberate.

“I just... you do not have anyone else, right? You have never mentioned other Elves... And my mother said they were all either…they died or sailed over the sea. You could come with us — I am sure the others would welcome you, and your skills would be a great fit.“

Astonished by the child's unexpectedly keen insight, the Elf remained silent for a moment, a stark contrast to the turmoil of thoughts and emotions the question had stirred in him.

For a fleeting moment, he imagined it—a future not among his own kin, but alongside companions who would once again offer him direction and purpose. He envisioned himself fighting and hunting with them, protecting and providing as he once had used to do.

It was a future where he did not wander age-old forest paths, his mind either vacant or haunted by the glories of the past, cursed to do so until Arda was no more, or until he eventually fell to the might of Sauron’s forces.

Yet, doubt soon crept in. For nearly two millennia, he had lived almost exclusively among his kin in the secluded realms of his father, seldom interacting with other races or even Elves from different regions.

He struggled to see himself fitting in with a company of Men, forever cursed to remain the outsider, perhaps viewed more as an exotic curiosity than as a comrade, simply because he might be among the last of his kind.

Moreover, joining them would serve as a painful reminder of all he had lost, of the harsh reality that there was no future for the Elves in Middle-earth.

Never again would he join a patrol in Mirkwood, battling evil side by side with his kin. Never again would he hear the harmonious songs of his people echoing through the ancient trees. Never again would he sit around a campfire, listening to tales of sorrow, beauty and bravery alike, as the stars wheeled overhead.

Indeed, he was certain that any camaraderie with the Dúnedain could never replace the bonds he once shared with his fellow Elves.

And even if he did grow close to them, the idea of deliberately placing himself in a situation where he would inevitably watch those he came to consider friends grow old and die – as opposed to his own enduring existence –  was daunting.

This, after all, was the gift of Men: to pass on and find peace in realms where none of the Firstborn could follow, leaving him to linger on.

Even the child walking beside him now, barely reaching up to Legolas' chest, his cheeks flushed with youthful vigor and, as a descendant of the Númenóreans, presumably blessed with an unusual long life, would eventually grow old and appear to surpass Legolas in age, despite the Elf's centuries of life.

Once more he found himself unable to explain his reasonings to Aragorn. Therefore, his initial instinctive reply held firm.

“No.”

Disappointment and a flicker of hurt crossed the boy’s face before he visibly withdrew.

“Oh. I understand.”

Feeling as if he had been unnecessarily harsh, yet unwilling to change his stance, Legolas said no more.

And so, they continued onwards their journey, the silence around them deepening into a palpable, uneasy quiet.

“Aragorn.”

“Hmm?” responded the boy, his pout reminiscent of their early days together – an apt echo, given that this afternoon might mark their final hours as guardian and ward.

“We are nearly there. I see structures ahead.” Legolas stated, outwardly maintaining an air of indifference to the child's sullen mood.

Upon hearing this, Aragorn's spirits visibly lifted. The child narrowed his eyes, peering into the distance, until he spotted what Legolas was referring to – the outlines of a few half-demolished telain[7], likely watchtowers on the outskirts of Caras Galadhon, where many more of these wooden platforms could be found.

Once more, Legolas was taken aback by the child’s sudden surge of energy. As soon as Aragorn discerned the structures his elven companion had mentioned, he broke out into a sprint, seemingly expecting to encounter his company at any moment, without putting much thought into any potential danger ahead.

“Aragorn, halt!”, Legolas called, surprised.

But the boy, fueled by a surge of youthful eagerness, paid no heed to this order, his feet carrying him swiftly towards the structures in the distance.

Legolas's concern deepened.

He had long since registered the solemn silence that enveloped the woods. Here, the ancient Mallorn trees stood, once vibrant and adored by all the Firstborn, but by now stark and lifeless.

Unlike the living trees of the realms, even those of the infamously tainted Mirkwood, which spoke to him through the whispering of their leaves, these woods were ominously silent. Their bark, once a gleaming silver, was darkened to a morose grey, brittle and flaking away at the slightest touch.

No foliage crowned their lofty boughs, no golden flowers adorned their branches. The desolation wrought by the shadow of Mordor had leached the very life from them, draining the earth of its nutrients. Without the sustaining power of the Lady Galadriel, the Golden Wood had succumbed to a barren death, rendering these mighty sentinels of the forest mere husks.

The Wood-Elf felt their loss deeply, even if he had never known them, not seen them grow from sapling to giant – and likely never would, as he doubted that Mallorn trees, once a reminder of his kindred’s home in Valinor – would ever again grow in Middle-earth.

Therefore, it was no coincidence that on their travel through Lothlórien, they had passed multiple trees, which, once standing proud and towering, had toppled and now laid there as monuments to desolation.

Aragorn seemed oblivious to the fact that each fallen titan they passed was not just a tragic sight but also a harbinger of an imminent threat—that these mighty giants could fall without much warning.

“Aragorn, listen to me!“ he called, hoping to pierce the boy's focused intent with the gravity of his voice. Yet, he also did not dare to shout too loudly, all too aware that  — while not in their immediate vicinity, as far as he could detect — Sauron’s servants might always be lurking near.

Whether the child did not hear or actively choose not to listen, he did not slow down.

Without another choice left, the Elf quickened his own pace, darting after his charge with agile strides borne of urgency.

Soon, it became evident that they had ventured closer to Caras Galadhon, the heart of these woods, than Legolas had initially perceived, having crossed its borders without realizing.

After all, this was only his second visit to this realm. His own first and only visit to the city, shortly after the ruin of Thranduil’s halls, had been in a desperate quest for aid.

Yet, he had arrived too late at the time, as by then Lothlórien had already been forsaken, the Elves having deserted their resplendent abodes, leaving behind their dead and the shadows of their once vibrant woods.

Back then, he had been unable to appreciate the legendary beauty of the forest he had longed to see with his own eyes for over a millennium.

Now, thirty years on, the transformation was stark, his surroundings nearly unrecognizable. The once timeless realm of ancient beauty and tranquility now bore the scars of violence. The forest city, once serene, had been ravaged by Orcs and plundered by marauders drawn to tales of its riches.

As Legolas treaded softly among the wreckage, his pace slowed without his notice or command in spite of his initial haste, as remnants of conflict begun to surround him.

Discarded armor and forsaken weapons littered the ground, relics of a battle lost to time. Yet, no skeletons other than those of dark forces marked the battleground — the bodies of the Elves seldom lingered once their fëa had departed.

The once intricately woven and lived-in telain stood fractured and desolate. Most hung precariously, their wooden limbs shattered. Only a few of these elven dwellings remained intact enough to dare entry and the air was thick with the poignant silence of a glorious sanctum violated, forever altered by the passage of dark forces.

Legolas halted.

His musings had clouded his senses so deeply that he had neglected the path beneath his feet, which was an uncharacteristic oversight for him.

As a soldier of Mirkwood, not looking where one stepped could quickly become a fatal mistake, for the forest floor was often laced with the silky threads of giant spiders, cunningly spun to signal the approach of prey to their lurking masters.

It was only when something crusty and slightly sticky clung to the underside of his boot that Legolas’s attention snapped to the present.

Furthermore was it a testament to his inner turmoil, that he paused and looked downward, yet was slow to comprehend the significance of what he saw.

Before him lay a dark, ochre stain, largely dried but partially tacky—likely the result of the forest floor’s humidity and the cool air that blanketed the grove, coupled with the sheer volume of the spill.

It was blood — blood where none should be. The last battles that had scarred this land were supposed to have taken place years ago.

As realization dawned upon Legolas, the forest seemed to whisper secrets it had first kept silent, as deathly silent as its shattered Mallorn trees.

Scattered around him, amidst the undergrowth, lay not only the relics of warfare between Elves and Sauron’s troops, as he had initially thought – there were also two blades and a bow of unfamiliar make, discernible by the way they were not yet overgrown and overtaken by nature.

Upon a closer look, footprints began to reveal themselves—delicate imprints that spoke neither of Elves nor of Orcs, alongside heavier marks, which were all too familiar and could only belong to the latter category.

A faint tang of iron lingered in the air, previously masked by the earthy scents of moss and decaying wood, yet growing ever more pungent as Legolas' gaze sharpened.

The fact that Legolas could sense only his and Aragorn's presence did nothing to quell his sudden surge of trepidation—dread that they might have been lured into a trap, that the boy was currently out of his sight and that he could be killed just as they neared the relative safety of his father's protection.

Not daring to raise his voice again, Legolas swiftly picked up speed, shaking off the distraction caused by his sense of loss for what had once been.

Darting between the trees toward where he had last seen Aragorn, he experienced a brief moment of concern about how far the child might have wandered during his pause.

A moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity.

He need not have worried, however. Once he had passed beyond the next bend, the sight that met his eyes left him stunned.

For in front of him, the mightiest of the Mallorn trees, once a towering giant that housed the Lady and Lord of these woods, lay fallen, its great trunk having dragged down other trees in its monumental collapse.

There was wood, furniture, and belongings shattered and strewn about, a testament to the force of its descent. The fallen tree had created a long, lengthwise clearing in the midst of the forest, stretching out like a scar through the surrounding woods.

The enormous web of rootwork lay exposed in the air, and it was impossible to take in the entire tree from top to root in a single glance, so colossal was this forest giant.

And amidst all this debris, a lone figure knelt on the ground.

Aragorn spared no attention to the mighty scene in front of him, however. In his arms, he cradled the lifeless body of a man, both their figures dwarfed by the colossal trunk that lay splintered around him.

He did not glance up when Legolas approached, nor when the Elf halted beside him. Aragorn's body was bowed, his face hidden against the man's chest. No sobs could be heard, but his small frame trembled visibly, akin to a leaf caught in a relentless storm.

It only took one look at the man’s face to confirm what Legolas had already feared to be true with his first glance at the scene before him.

If he had thought before that the Rangers tended to look rather similar, there was no denying now that Aragorn bore a striking resemblance to the man cradled in his arms.

A man who was clearly his father.

The child had not exaggerated as much as the Elf had suspected - Arathorn indeed was a tall and broad figure, with noble features, a sharp chin, and an impressive white scar spanning his cheeks, crossing over the bridge of his nose.

But now, he also bore an arrow, protruding from the socket of his eye, resulting in a gory sight, with the blood long dried but still very much visible.

There had never been a chance of survival, and it was uncertain how long he had been dead, back even while Aragorn and Legolas had been discussing whether the Elf should join the company.

Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas barely noticed the corpse of a woman lying nearby. Her bow was nowhere to be found, but based on Aragorn's description, he was certain this could only be Elgarain, the talented mortal archer, who presumably had fought valiantly beside her chieftain to the end.

Her fatal wound was a result of close combat—a ghastly gash across her neck, similar to those of the other Men nearby.

It seemed likely that Arathorn had been one of the first to fall, perhaps ambushed from afar, while the others had remained to defend the honor of his remains until their last breaths.

Had any escaped? It was unclear, as there lay a dozen men around, and it was unknown how many they had lost on their journey here, aside from the battle by the Anduin.

One thing was now clear to Legolas—this had been no mere happenstance. He had suspected as such back on the banks of the great river and now it was confirmed:

These Rangers had been savagely hunted, perhaps from the moment they had left their home to embark on this ill-fated journey—a journey they never should have undertaken, for they had been deceived, and it had been as Legolas had known all along: They had found no living Elf here, let alone the council of the wise Lady Galadriel.

Legolas could not claim with certainty to know the motives of the Dark Lord, but it seemed that Sauron had done everything in his power to annihilate the bloodline of Isildur.

Why else would he dedicate such effort to hunting down a single group of Men, yet spare those in Helm’s Deep?

Did Sauron know that Arathorn's son had survived, that a sole heir remained? If so, there was no doubt he would be the next target, given the depths of Sauron’s apparent obsession.

Amidst the turmoil, thoughts that had raced through his mind like lightning now ground to a halt. Legolas felt a surreal disconnection, as if the past days had been but a fleeting dream—a dream in which he could perform a noble deed, fulfill his promise to a dying woman, and then return to his previous life.

But now, with no binding obligation, no clear objective, and no reason to continue as the boy’s guardian other than his own conscience and the fragile bond they had formed over recent weeks, he felt unmoored.

Before him, the boy wept silently and alone, and Legolas found himself adrift, uncertain of how to offer solace or what course to take next.

Yet, just as numbness threatened to set in, it was swiftly replaced by the steely resolve of a warrior, prince, and lone survivor of the kingdom of Mirkwood. Long accustomed to making hard decisions under immense pressure, his mind, which had momentarily ground to a halt, began feverishly considering possible solutions.

If any Rangers had survived, it would be best to leave Aragorn with them. But where to begin searching? If they were wise, they would have already fled, with no reason to believe their chieftain's son still alive.

The alliance of Rohan, Gondor, and other Men might shelter a child of their kind. Yet, Legolas had no direct dealings with them beyond knowing they resided in a fortress by the name of Helm’s Deep. In his mind, there was no guarantee of their support.

Furthermore, Sauron would surely scrutinize such a place first, knowing that if the boy survived the massacre of his kin, he would have the best chance for survival within the last free city of mankind. In a large city like this, Legolas had no doubts about the presence of the Dark Lord’s spies, who would quickly alert their master to the boy’s presence.

What other choice was there, then, but to take the boy and hide, to raise him until he could defend himself or until they chanced upon the remnants of his people?

Legolas knelt down and, after a brief moment of hesitation, placed his hand on the boy's shoulder, awkwardly attempting to offer comfort through touch where words failed him, for nothing could ease the sorrow of the moment.

He had learned that lesson well enough himself, not so long ago.

And now, this grieving child, innocent and cruelly orphaned, faced the dreadful future of growing up under the care of a near-stranger.

Aragorn raised his head. His face was streaked with tears, eyes reddened, his chin wet, but he remained silent, even quieter than when he had mourned his mother’s death. He briefly tensed beneath Legolas's grip, a subtle reaction that the Elf took as a cue to speak.

“Aragorn… we must depart. Peril is near.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Legolas realized his error, though they could not be retracted.

The child tensed for a moment, then whipped around, looking up from his father’s corpse for the first time since he had beheld the grim scene.

Tears did nothing to soften the edge of the raw, palpable rage distorting his young face, as he forcefully shoved Legolas away, causing the surprised Elf to stagger and regain his balance.

“You do not even care, do you?” the child snarled, his question rhetorical and his tone accusing.

But he did not stop there.

“You could not care less. Just like when mother died and you wanted to leave her for the scavengers. You truly have a heart of stone.”

It was ironic that as the child accused Legolas of heartlessness, the very accusation itself revealed its untruth, betrayed by the sharp pang in the Elf's heart.

Nonetheless, Legolas’s response did little to help his case as he attempted to placate the boy with a calm voice and scarcely a change in expression.

“I understand your grief, Aragorn. But you must mourn later. Do not let your parents' sacrifice be in vain, for though I did not know them, it is clear they wished for you to live on.”

“What do you know? You know NOTHING!” the child snapped, rising and clenching his fists. Then, his voice softened very slightly as he added. “I am not moving, there is nowhere for me to go, anyways.”

“I will take you with me.”

Aragorn fell silent for a brief instant, seemingly surprised by the Elf's vow.

Legolas seized the opportunity. He hesitated for the length of a heartbeat before admitting his suspicions, reluctant to frighten the child but ultimately feeling it necessary for him to understand the danger they faced, especially since he insisted on staying. “We must find a place to hide—Sauron wants to see you dead, I am certain.”

The anger in Aragorn’s eyes flickered but did not diminish as he recovered from his shock. “You will take me? Just a few hours ago you could not wait to be rid of me!”

The Elf, realizing that they were making no progress, paused to gather his thoughts.

Decades later, a wiser Legolas would reflect upon this moment and wince. It was clear in retrospect that Aragorn was in this very moment merely reacting to the tumult of emotions within him—the grief he had suppressed in the weeks following his mother's death now finally erupting in a fiery burst of anger.

Though the child had seemed resilient, curious, and eager to learn, his unresolved feelings had been simmering beneath the surface throughout the duration of their journey, repressed out of a need to be brave for himself and for his father, who would be devastated by the loss of his wife.

But now, there was no need for pretense, no reason to feign bravery.

At that moment, Legolas should have recognized that the boy’s words were driven by his hurt and done his best to offer comfort, regardless of how pathetic his attempts should turn out to be.

Yet the current Legolas, unaccustomed to such overt displays of emotion – considering that his own kin had tended to keep their emotions leashed, very rarely choosing to show them overtly – and still stung by the accusatory words of one of the few he had spoken to in decades, did not know better.

Thus, he chose to appeal to Aragorn’s reason, trying to convince him with the logic of his words, the truth of which the child surely knew deep down.

“Any other men beyond those of your company are perilous now, and Sauron’s gaze may seek you among them. We must depart swiftly, for the enemy could return. Disturbing the scene would reveal our presence. We should leave all as it is. Come, let us—”

But he never finished his sentence. Aragorn's cries interrupted him, the child covering his ears in a clear refusal to listen.

“STOP TALKING, I AM NOT LISTENING! GO AWAY! I DO NOT NEED YOU!”

Startled by the sudden rise in the child's shouts and feeling his skin prickle with the awareness of their exposed position in the clearing, Legolas was acutely aware that their voices could carry a great distance. Moreover, the clamor made it impossible for them to hear the approach of any potential enemies.

Urgently, Legolas attempted to calm the boy, though it seemed a futile effort.

“Aragorn, you must-…”

“I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE!”

The boy’s scream was this time accompanied by his fists, as he stood up, attempting to shove the Elf away, who evaded. This seemed to make Aragorn even angrier.

“GO! WHAT IS IT TO YOU IF THEY KILL ME?!”

“-I do not wish for you to die, and I also promised your mother-…”

“LEAVE!”

With the next forceful shove from the furious child, one more effort to push Legolas away, the latter reacted.

Reflexively, the Elf dodged Aragorn's flailing arms, swiftly maneuvering around the child, whose eyes visibly widened in surprise.

With a calculated strike, he targeted a point at the base of the boy's neck—a spot well-known to him for its ability to render someone temporarily immobile with minimal risk of injury when applied correctly.

After one precise hit, the boy crumpled to the ground. Legolas caught him deftly, gently lowering him onto the forest floor next to his father's corpse.

The screams abruptly ceased, replaced by a heavy silence, though he could still hear the echoes of Aragorn's accusing shouts ringing in his ears.

A moment of concern followed as Legolas remembered that Aragorn was a mortal child, not an Elf, and the pressure he considered light might have different effects on a human. Disturbed by this thought, he quickly checked the child's pulse. It seemed too fast to him, but this could be attributed to his state or the difference between their races and ages.

Frustrated by his limited knowledge of these differences, Legolas ceased checking Aragorn's neck and instead observed his breathing, which appeared normal. After a few moments without signs of injury or strain, Legolas's tension eased.

A short moment later, marked by uncertainty on how to proceed, Legolas reached into his satchel, fingers brushing against the smooth surface of a small flask he had not used in a very long time.

The flask contained water from the Gûlduin, an enchanted stream in Mirkwood known for its potent ability to induce sleep in anyone who drank from it.

The soldiers of Mirkwood had always carried it with them for the purpose of subduing prisoners—an admittedly rare necessity—or treating someone on the field, in order to spare them the need to be awake for any particularly painful treatment. It also had the benefit of slowing ones’ heartbeat, which could be lifesaving if bitten by one of the giant venomous spiders, increasing the time which could pass between the bite and the intake of the antidote.

He pulled out the flask, its weight both familiar and foreign in his hand.

Legolas still carried it more out of habit than need, as it had not been used for a long time. Alone, he had no need to spare himself from the pain of treatment—not that he was prone to injuries in the first place—nor would it be particularly wise to render himself unconscious if infused with venom.

The first time he had used it on himself had been after his first and only visit to Lothlórien, when the memories of the massacre of his kin had haunted both his sleep and his waking hours, leaving him desperate for a dreamless night.

Opening the flask, Legolas carefully poured only a few drops into a small cup. He gently lifted Aragorn's head, ensuring the child was in a comfortable position before bringing the cup to his lips. The enchanted water would ensure the child remained unconscious and pain-free.

As the liquid touched Aragorn's lips, Legolas whispered a quick apology, hoping that the boy’s ire would have passed once he woke up and that he would not suffer from too much grief, knowing that he had been denied the chance to say his proper goodbyes.

He truly desired for the child to live - even if it meant the boy would despise him for it.

Patiently, he waited until he saw the subtle signs of the water's effect, the child's breathing deepening into a more restful pattern as his face relaxed, softening from the previous strained grimace.

With Aragorn safely subdued, Legolas set about preparing for their departure. He wrapped the flask back in its cloth and secured it in his satchel. He then gathered their belongings, as Aragorn had lost his own, smaller satchel and flask in the tussle.

He stood, looking down at Aragorn, who was a mess—tear-streaked face, frizzy hair, and dirt-streaked clothes reflecting the wildness he had displayed just moments prior.

Legolas could not help but hope once more that upon waking, Aragorn would forgive the necessity of his swift, though unkind, intervention. They needed to leave, the sooner the better.

There was no time to give Arathorn and his loyal company of rangers anything resembling a proper funeral—not when his son was right there, warm, breathing and alive. There was no time for mourning, which Legolas could sympathize with.

The child might not have believed him, but he had felt similarly once, back when he had found himself the sole survivor of the massacre in Mirkwood.

Neither had he lied to Aragorn when he had claimed that this was what his father would have wanted. For it was clear to him that both Gilraen and Arathorn had loved their son very much, and that they believed in a great future for him.

Once more, he glanced towards the still form of the child.

Regardless, Legolas decided then that when Aragorn awoke, he would let the boy choose his own path. After all, who was he to dictate the other’s fate?

Just now, the child had been ruled completely by his pain, but when he had calmed down, he would hopefully understand his current situation and the peril he was currently in, simply for the fault of the blood flowing in his veins.

If Aragorn still wished then to distance himself from Legolas as soon as possible, the elven warrior swore to himself that he would respect his wish and help him to Rohan, even if he believed it to be a wrong, potentially deadly choice.

He stood up, planning to take the boy upon his back, but halted before he could attempt to do so.

His eyes had spied some arrows lodged into the earth a few feet away, which looked like they still could be salvaged. They were not of orcish, but mannish make, and of rather good quality, based on what he could assess from a glance.

When looking at Arathorn, he also realized that there was a small bag at his waist which looked as if it contained field rations, which was also the case with Elgarain.

Suddenly, Legolas felt himself glad that Aragorn was currently unconscious, because even the Elf felt shame at what he was about to do, especially after having declared the urgency of their situation.

Yet, the realization that useful materials, including cloth, which was rare to come by in the wilderness, could be scavenged here, had overcome him. Considering that Aragorn and he would presumably spend at least the next months fleeing and going into hiding, they would need all the useful resources they could acquire.

Promising himself that he would only take a few moments to gather the most important items, Legolas set out, turning bodies over and collecting arrows and food, as well as clothes, ropes, and a short sword he felt could fit in the hands of a child like Aragorn.

Additionally, he found a well-crafted bow, possibly Elgarain’s, which he intended to give to the boy—if he still wished to continue practicing archery with Legolas after everything that had happened. It would surely be more comfortable for both of them if Aragorn possessed his own bow, rather than having Legolas adjust the strength of his own weapon every time they practiced.

He indeed was swift about it, for he had not lied, yet other than the unease of the looming danger and their exposed location, he also felt judged, as if the child behind him would stand up any moment and accuse him of robbing his kin’s corpses of their valuables, like a common thief.

Shortly after he declared his task finished, having searched the body of another dark-haired Ranger fallen to a sword nearby one of the large boughs of the giant Mallorn tree, he intended to go back, take Aragorn with him and leave.

But then, something made him freeze in his steps, as this time he was unexpectedly overcome by an emotion he could not possibly discern.

Feeling confused, he turned.

It was as if he was compelled forward by a mysterious hand, a draw impossible to ignore, making everything in his periphery appear unimportant, sharpening his focus to the point that it appeared he could take no other steps than in this particular direction.

It should have made him suspicious and yet – it felt like he had been overcome by a power that was good, that could not possibly be besmirched by the foulness of Sauron or any others like him.

And so, he acquiesced, deciding to trust in his instincts.

Every step forward felt rewarding. Cynically, he thought one might compare him to a moth drawn towards a flame, but he doubted that he would get burned.

He could not tell when his eyes had closed, acting out of their own volition in the same sense that his legs were moving, until he knelt down, feeling that this was the source of the mysterious pull.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Before him, stuck in the earth and nestled between dead branches, lay a small wooden casket.

With the utmost care, Legolas retrieved the item from its resting place. Very softly, he wiped off the dirt and dust that had accumulated on its surface until the shining silver wood beneath was visible.

The casket was artfully engraved with the image of two magnificent trees. Below, there was an inscription, which Legolas deciphered to be Quenya, leading him to assume this must have belonged to the fair lady of these woods—for she had been one of the few Elves left who spoke this ancient language fluently.

Feeling as if he had no right and yet desperate to glance upon its contents, he stared.

Finally, after a few moments in which he could hear naught but the blood rushing in his ears, he opened the casket in a manner near reverent.

Inside, a phial glowed with a soft, inner light. It seemed as if merely gazing upon it could cleanse the blemishes of his soul—the bitterness, the anger, the pain.

If only looking upon this phial could make him feel as such, then how would it be to touch it?

Did he dare to?

He did.

As soon as his long fingers made contact with the shining phial, he felt overcome with light.

Memories rushed by him—moments where his father had gifted him with a rare smile, the warmth and pride in Thranduil's icy blue eyes clear as they shared a private moment in the great halls of Mirkwood.

He saw himself as a young Elf, eager and determined, hunting spiders with his kin, his heart racing with the thrill of the chase and the camaraderie of his fellow warriors. He heard the songs echoing throughout their halls at dusk, the voices of hundreds of Elves intermingling into one harmonious symphony.

He recalled the proud moment when his mentor had declared he could teach him no more, that Legolas's martial prowess had surpassed all expectations. He remembered the day he was chosen as a commander, the youngest ever in the history of Mirkwood.

First, he had been a soldier, then a trusted commander, his confidence growing with each successful campaign.

It was the warm feeling of watching a fragile seedling grow into a magnificent oak over time, and the joy of eventually reconnecting with the tree as if greeting an old friend.

As the liquid light from the phial suffused him, Legolas remembered. But this time, the memories were not tainted by the pain of loss.

Instead of being bitter visions of an unreachable past, the images were now anchors of resolve, reminding him of who he was. An Elf, a Warrior, a Prince—but most of all, a beloved companion, friend, and son. Even if he could not see his people now and not for many more years, they would eventually reunite in Valinor, no matter how much time passed.

Legolas did not know when he had begun to weep—all he knew was that he did not want to let go of this feeling, he could not stand to forget the beauty that had once encompassed him here in Middle-earth.

For he had forgotten—not the images, but the meaning behind them, the strength they should have lent him. It was a miracle, perhaps one granted by the Valar, that none of the Orcs or mannish raiders who had walked through here had found and destroyed or robbed this casket after all the time which had passed.

With deep reverence, Legolas swaddled the phial in all the cloth he could possibly fit in the small case, hoping to protect it from any damage. Then, he put it back in its place before ultimately securing it in a bag he carried near his waist.

It seemed quite cynical how he stood now, in the middle of a clearing within a ravaged city, surrounded by his recently orphaned charge and his dead kin, yet his heart felt lighter—at least for the moment—than it had in decades.

When he walked back towards his charge, once again intending to lift him and finally leave the gruesome scene, he paused.

The Elves had no particular value for funeral rites, as they considered their hröa just a vessel. If it had been vacated, unable to withstand time as their immortal counterparts did, they would not partake in elaborate burial ceremonies, which Legolas knew that Men, in contrast, held in high regard.

For his own kin, the body of a corpse was viewed as hollow, knowing that their fëa had long passed on into the halls of Mandos to be reborn—presuming that the Elf had not done a great evil in their life on Middle-earth.

But for these mortals, it was different. No one in Middle-earth knew where their souls went after death, and maybe Eru Ilúvatar himself was the sole guardian to this secret.

From this angle, Legolas could better understand why it had been so important to Aragorn to send his mother off properly. For who could tell if her spirit still lingered nearby, or if she might need her body again in the future?

Legolas had always been aware of this difference, objectively, and yet only now did he feel any sense of true understanding of what this sense of uncertainty about one’s fate might entail.

As such, even if he was still convinced that staying back to prepare burials would be a potentially disastrous decision, he felt the need to settle on some parting words—just in case Arathorn’s spirit was lingering nearby and able to listen, restless as to what would happen to his son.

Legolas knelt by Arathorn’s lifeless form, the stillness of the fallen warrior uncomfortably similar to that of his son in this very moment, so that it appeared like father and son had died side by side.

The Elf cleared his throat, and began to speak, his voice soft, yet earnest.

“Chieftain Arathorn…“ he began, his words halting at first, before he took heart and continued onward in a serious manner.

“I regret that we never had the chance to meet in life. From what your son told me – very enthusiastically, might I add – in life, you were a man of honor and bravery. I wish it were under different circumstances that I now stand beside you.“

He glanced at the still form of Aragorn. “I promised your wife I would protect your son, and I renew that vow to you now. I will do my utmost to ensure his safety. I will neither fail my promise to you, nor Gilraen.“

Legolas paused, the silence around him heavy, his words the only noises to resound through the clearing, as not even the sound of wind was to be heard. “May your spirit find peace, and may you watch over your son from afar.”

He bowed his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “Farewell, brave warrior. The light of Elbereth’s creations shall shine upon you.“

With that, Legolas placed the chieftain’s hands across his chest, arranging him in a position reminiscent of rest. Then he rose, feeling he had said everything he possibly could to a man he had never truly known.

One final time, he turned back to Aragorn, gently lifting the boy onto his back. In that moment he was glad that his charge was unconscious and could not protest, for surely he would have some choice words to say about the way he was slung over the Elf’s back, not unlike a sack of vegetables.

After one last look at the fallen, Legolas walked away, his steps firm and resolute, carrying not just the weight of a child, but the burden of a promise that would shape the fate of Middle-earth.

Many hours later, once the moon had risen high in the sky, barely peeking through the dense clouds amidst the night sky, dark-furred beasts slowly stalked out of the shadows of the trees into the clearing.

They were drawn there by the smell of fresh sweat and tears—clear indicators that someone had recently been there.

The beasts licked their lips, excited by the prospect of fresh prey, eyes glowing ominously in the dark.

Their leader, the largest among them, clad in black fur, suddenly rose onto its two hind legs. Its jaws contorted into an unhinged grin, appearing all the more unnerving because of the mannish expression on the wolfish face.

“Found him.” it announced in a deep voice, the words barely recognizable even to others who spoke the Black tongue.

Its pack, however, understood.

Excited at the prospect of a hunt, their howls pierced the quiet of the night, an ominous echo in the midst of a dead forest, causing any creature unlucky enough to be in the vicinity to flee in a wild panic.

Then they set off, as quietly and swiftly as they had arrived—black, grey, and brown shadows merging with the forest.

[1] Sindarin: „Father“

[2] Sindarin: „Horse“

[3] Sindarin: „Child“

[4] Sindarin: „Dwarf“

[5] Sindarin: „Star“, „bright spark“

[6] Sindarin: „Hare“

[7] Sindarin: „Platforms“ (specifically referring to those built by the Galadhrim Elves in Mallorn trees)

Chapter Text

“How are you feeling?”

Those were the first words Legolas spoke upon seeing signs of Aragorn stirring. The question was loaded and could be interpreted in many ways. Physically, Legolas wondered if the waters of the Gûlduin had taken a stronger effect than intended, as the child had not woken up for the rest of the day, causing the Elf no small amount of anxiety. For Elves, the sleep induced by these enchanted waters merely lasted an hour at most.

Emotionally, his tone asked, ‘Are you still furious with me?’, ‘Have you come to terms with what happened?’, and ‘Do you still wish for me to leave you to your death?’

Aragorn could have interpreted the inquiry in any way, yet he chose to respond to none.

Instead, he lay on the bedroll where Legolas had placed him, hands folded upon his chest, eyes staring unseeingly into the sky. His eyes were glistening, but no tears fell. He was completely silent—a behavior both relieving, considering his prior enraged state, and at the same time, disquieting.

Once more, worry crept up within the Elf. Leaning forward, balancing himself with one arm, he glanced at Aragorn’s face from above, intending to get a good look at his pupils to see if they reacted to movement correctly or were otherwise unusual in size.

The boy’s gaze briefly flickered towards Legolas’ face, yet he remained silent.

Sensing now that he was expected to speak first, the Elf took heart. He leaned back, giving Aragorn more space, but kept his eyes fixed on the boy’s in an attempt to appear earnest.

Usually, the boy had a tendency to look away, appearing uncomfortable with prolonged eye contact, but this time, he held the gaze.

“Aragorn… I-… wish to apologize for how I handled your grief. You were right to feel it, and regardless of the danger, I was cruel.”

For a moment, the boy’s eyes widened in astonishment, the first visible emotion since his fit of anger earlier in the day, giving Legolas the sense that finally, he had said something right.

Eventually, just as the Elf began to believe that he would not get a response, Aragorn spoke, though unexpectedly, he posed his own inquiry:

“You said that you understood, before. Did you also lose your family to the Orcs?” he asked bluntly.

What the child wished to gain from this knowledge, Legolas did not know. Perhaps he sought comfort not only in being understood but in being near someone who had gone through the same experience. Feeling conflicted, as this was not a topic he wished to discuss, yet not wanting to ruin the fragile rapport the question seemed to offer, he settled on a short, elusive reply.

“When my home fell, I was not there as I should have been. When I arrived, they were all dead. I found my father beneath the corpse of his mount. I was the sole survivor among my kin.”

“Yet you are still alive.”

“Indeed. There is naught else we can do but honor the sacrifice of those who died.”

The boy stared for a moment before he nodded. “You are right,” he whispered. “Father would have said the same.”

Then, he followed this up with another statement, one that made Legolas glance at him in visible surprise.

“I… apologize. For what I said before. I know that what happened is not your fault. I was just… so angry, and sad, at everything. And you were there.”

Although the Elf had admittedly felt stung, still remembering the accusations hurled at him clearly, he had never blamed the boy for his reaction. Still, the apology was a soothing balm for his soul. “You have long since been forgiven. Do not fret. Your reaction was understandable.”

Aragorn seemed relieved, yet still made no attempt to get up. For a long while, he remained silent. Legolas did not attempt to break the quiet, as he felt that the boy was deserving of the opportunity to gather his thoughts. He only hoped that it would not result in another outbreak of emotions, for he was truly ill-equipped to deal with such a thing.

Thankfully, this did not happen, as eventually, Aragorn posed another question:

“What now? Where will we go?”

Relieved at the boy’s willingness to discuss the future, Legolas presented his proposed plans.

“I am confident that the Dark Lord wishes you dead. Therefore, I propose that you go into hiding. There is a forest further south where we should be able to take refuge. It is known for its peril, such that even dark forces hesitate to enter it.”

Then, he hesitated. He did not like to admit his uncertainty, and for a brief moment, he regretted that he had spent the last decades in Mirkwood. If he had wandered further, he would know more about the current state of Middle-earth. Instead, he found himself having to confess:

“However, I know not what became of it in recent years, and if this still rings true. We must hide until Sauron loses your trail, although I do not know how long that will take. Afterward, I see two courses of action. Firstly, we could travel and try to look for any survivors of your people.”

“And the alternative?” Aragorn inquired, giving no indication of what he thought of the proposal so far.

“I am not aware if you know this, but further south in Rohan is a holding called Helm’s Deep. It is where the combined forces of Gondor, Rohan, and other Men reside, their last bastion.”

Fortunately, Legolas knew this with certainty, as he had occasionally overheard Orcs passing through Mirkwood speaking of the fortress.

“Sauron’s servants tend to avoid it, as it is fiercely defended. They might take you in as one of their own, although I do not know if they will agree, if food is scarce. Also, I fear that the Dark Lord would have his ways of finding out if you appeared there.”

“It seems like regardless of what I do, I will be at risk of dying anyways,” said Aragorn then, dryly, sounding much less disturbed at the prospect than he ought to.

“Indeed, although I do not think there is safety to be found anywhere, regardless of your person,” Legolas replied.

Aragorn nodded, appearing lost in thought, his gaze distant once more. “Father said that it used to be different, but I can scarcely imagine it. Even if it is not the Orcs, it is the coldness of the winter, or sickness, or lack of food.”

Once more, the Elf found himself surprised at how beyond his years the child seemed, suddenly, a stark contrast to how he had behaved only a few days prior.

“I think I want to go to Rohan.”, the boy said then, after another moment of thought had passed.

An unexpected sense of dread rose up within Legolas’s chest at these words.

“Are you confident in your choice? You understand the risks?”, he inquired, and maybe it was only to him that his voice seemed sharper than he had intended.

There was a pause, as Aragorn’s eyes snapped over, staring at the Elf’s face for a moment. He appeared not to have found what he was looking for, as moments later, he withdrew again.

“I think so. At least there, I can fight the monsters and protect people. And one day, I will find the others. I think some of them must have lived, but we were always travelling… I do not know where they might have gone.”

“…as you wish.” Legolas said, a sinking feeling in his chest, as though he had already failed his promise to Arathorn and Gilraen. He could not be certain, yet agreeing seemed to him like signing the boy’s death sentence.

There could also have been another factor at play, making his heart feel heavy, but he did not wish to give it much further consideration.

“Would you want me to st-…” Aragorn began, hesitantly, but was immediately interrupted as a sound rang out, causing Legolas to jump up from his seated position, alarmed and tense.

“Quiet!” he shushed the boy, who immediately obeyed, rising from his laying position and looking around in alarm.

Legolas was deathly silent, his trusted bow drawn in reflex, though there was nothing to shoot. It still provided a source of comfort in his hands. Goosebumps soon appeared on his flesh as he discerned the sound more clearly, and it bore ill news.

After a short while, during which Aragorn seemed oblivious to what had disturbed Legolas, the boy whispered, sounding unsettled: “What is wrong?”

Legolas did not reply, instead turning around and beginning to pack their few belongings. “We need to leave, immediately. Here, take your flask. Are you feeling fit? We need to be swift.”

The boy obeyed, though he was clearly dissatisfied with the lack of explanation, his anxiety rising. He had never seen Legolas this visibly tense before.

“What is it? I did not hear anything,” he queried again.

“Howling,” Legolas replied darkly.

“Wolves? That is not so bad, we just need to start a fire, and they will leave us alone.” the boy replied, face appearing hopeful that their problem could be solved this easily.

“No. These are not mere animals. The sounds are much too distorted, and their voices more guttural.”

“W-wargs then?” Aragorn guessed, appearing considerably more worried then.

Again, Legolas shook his head. Already prepared, he started walking off at a brisk pace. Aragorn soon followed, straining to keep up with Legolas's swift stride, but he posed no complaint, presumably because he had no wish to encounter the aforementioned creatures.

“No. Gaurhoth.” the Elf revealed, his tone and face grim. Though he had no experience fighting these foul beasts himself —abominations born of Sauron’s dark arts—he was near certain that the dreadful, almost mannish echoing howls could only come from such creatures.

Familiar with the tales of Beren and Lúthien[1], he had no desire for either of them to face such foes.

“Gaurhoth?” Aragorn repeated questioningly. “I have not heard that before, it sounds Sindarin.”

“Indeed. I do not know how your kind would refer to them. Gaurhoth used to be very rare, before. I am only familiar with them from my father’s tales. They resemble unnaturally large wolves, yet are much more cunning than either Warg or Wolf, for Sauron imprisoned evil spirits within their bodies.”

Now Aragorn visibly paled, and the sudden breathlessness in his voice seemed not only attributable to the effort of both half-running and talking. “You mean Werewolves?!”

“Perhaps. We need to hurry. They might be far away now, but they are swift and will catch up eventually.”

Then Legolas promptly shifted the topic, surprising the child beside him. “Aragorn, how confident are you in your swimming abilities?”

The boy refrained from asking any more questions, choosing to save his breath for a reply. “Quite. M-…Mother said it is an important skill and made me practice often, when the weather allowed it.”

“A wise woman indeed.”, Legolas responded. “Her foresight shall serve us well. We are near the Anduin, as I intended to use it as a point of orientation. I propose we enter it and swim downwards as long as possible – we will not lose them completely, but it will buy us time, as they will have to look for our trail.”

Aragorn nodded in agreement, appearing apprehensive but voicing no complaint. It was likely that, other than being frightened and overwhelmed at the rapid turn of events, the child did not look forward to entering the cold river water in the dead of night.

“We must ensure to leave on the same side of the river again. I do not know if we will be able to safely cross it again later, to reach Fangorn. Additionally, if we are lucky, the Gaurhoth might expect us to exit on the other side. They could assume our next destination to be Rohan.”

Legolas himself was not as confident in the idea as he acted.

He remembered only all too clearly the worry he had felt only little more than a week prior. Back then he had feared that he had demanded to much of the mortal child and now these same concerns plagued him.

But once again, there was no other choice he could see, and so he kept his worries to himself.

A few moments later, they reached the Anduin, just as Legolas, who had been able to hear the rushing water long before Aragorn, had accurately predicted.

The Elf cast an estimating glance over the dark waters, glistening under the light of the moon and stars above. The river was wide and deep at this point, but the current did not seem overly strong. It seemed to him that their escape plan would be possible.

It had to be.

However, there was one matter that remained to be solved.

What to do with their gear?

He might be strong, and they carried only the bare necessities, with most items like flasks or small bags fashioned at his waist. Yet, Legolas was not overconfident enough to believe he could swim well for an extended period with the weight and cumbersome size of two bows, a filled quiver, a sword, and a satchel.

Then there was also the matter of keeping the blankets and clothes dry, as they would not be able to make a fire later on, lest their daring plan be for naught. If they did not manage to keep at least some of it dry, they would have to spend the rest of the night in wet clothes without any way to warm themselves.

Legolas felt quite annoyed with himself at the moment.

After all, he knew how to create an effective coating, using simple materials such as charcoal, dried leaves, and tree resin, a skill taught to every Edhelhîn[2] in Mirkwood. The generally humid environment had made it necessary to protect their rations from getting wet and spoiling quickly. However, he had not done so in a while, as there was little use in protecting one’s food if one did not particularly care about sustaining oneself.

This had changed with the last time he had been drenched in the waters of this river, following their escape from the Half-orcs, after which he had made a mental note to waterproof his satchel. Yet, other matters had taken priority since, and he had not planned to enter the Anduin again anytime soon…

Aragorn was watching him attentively and seemed to take a guess at his train of thought. Once more, he proved himself smarter and more attentive than the Elf had initially given him credit for, as he offered, albeit hesitantly:

“I could carry some of our gear...?”

But Legolas shook his head, not willing to even consider this proposal. “You need to focus on keeping your head above the water.”

Then, as he looked along the riverbank and spied a few branches of cedar wood, an idea struck him. This day seemed to consist of much improvisation on his part, indeed…

About an hour later and little more than a mile further downstream, Legolas felt quite satisfied with their progress. The boy had yet to complain and kept up with their pace well, although what they were doing could hardly be referred to as proper swimming, as it was more akin to letting themselves drift in the river's current.

Their improvised solution had held up well so far, leading to the Elf’s cautiously optimistic outlook that they might just be able to keep their most important belongings dry.

Legolas had ended up fashioning a simple small raft out of wood. It had not taken long, as they thankfully possessed enough ropes due to his scavenging, and there were plenty of materials to be found in the forest, with much dead wood lying around, waiting to be collected. Fortunately, some of the trees were cedar, which Legolas knew to be particularly buoyant.

Additionally, they had taken great care to wrap their clothes. They had rid themselves of their outer layers beforehand, leaving them in only their undertunics and breeches. Both the blankets and their clothes were in the satchel, which Legolas had wrapped inside his cloak, crafted by his kin to be both durable and water-repellent.

They had bound and secured all of this, along with the weapons, onto the small raft. Legolas now held onto it while swimming, making sure not to let go—even though he had tied it around his wrist as well, to ensure they would not lose their equipment if he lost his grip for any reason.

When Aragorn helped with the preparations, the boy had noticed their additional gear for the first time. It wasn't particularly hard for him to deduce where the Elf had acquired their new belongings over the last few hours.

Thankfully, the fit of rage Legolas had anticipated did not occur. Instead, Aragorn raised his eyebrows and gave him a look that made the Elf feel as if he, a nearly two-millennia-old being, was about to be chastised by an eight-year-old mortal child.

“Is this Elgarain’s bow?” Aragorn had asked, stroking the wood and somehow managing to sound both aghast at Legolas's lack of respect for the dead and yet also happy to have this reminder of someone he had obviously appreciated greatly. “I recognize it – see? She carved the image of a deer on the inside of the wood, so she could see its image in her periphery while aiming.”

The Elf had stayed silent then, not knowing how to respond. It had been an accident, as he had not considered to whom the bow had belonged, only how it could be useful in the future. It was a well-crafted piece, although Legolas had planned to create a better one once he had collected the proper materials for the string. Yet, now that he knew that this weapon had sentimental value to his young charge, he abandoned the idea.

Legolas had not heard the Gaurhoth in a while, although he could not be sure whether this was due to them actually having increased the distance between them or the beasts foregoing their usual howling, as they instead focused their efforts on stalking their prey. With any luck, this detour would cost the Gaurhoth a significant amount of time, as they would have to search for their trail before they could resume the hunt.

Although Aragorn had yet to complain about exhaustion, Legolas decided that their progress would have to suffice for now. The wind had begun to pick up, making the air feel colder than the water where their bodies were not submerged. Black clouds had started to form above their heads at a rather concerning speed, barely distinguishable from the night sky, except for how they obscured Elbereth’s stars, rendering their surroundings much darker than they had been an hour before.

It was of no particular concern to the Elf if it started to drizzle—wet as they already were—but Legolas had no desire to spend any more time in the river with the threat of an oncoming storm. Furthermore, he also had the unsettling feeling that the current was slowly growing stronger. All in all, there were enough reasons to believe they should leave the river and head landward.

Legolas truly had no desire to see the Anduin again anytime soon afterwards, for the past weeks had brought him much more intimate acquaintance with it than he liked.

“Aragorn!” he called out and continued once he had gotten a noise of acknowledgment in return: “This is enough for today—head for the riverbank to your right and let us find shelter. It will rain soon.”

“Aye!” was the relieved reply. The child’s voice seemed a bit breathless to him, but he wrote it off as the difficulty of talking while one's neck just barely peeked out of the water.

As Legolas began to turn towards land, mindful not to splash their little raft too much, he glanced backward toward his charge. Aragorn was not far behind and had switched from even breaststrokes to a front crawl, obviously determined to bring this ordeal to a close, a pinched expression on his face.

He was probably significantly colder than the Elf in these waters, so this was no particular surprise.

Reassured, Legolas turned around once again, focusing his own efforts towards reaching the shore.

It did not take long for him to do so, which was fortunate, as the wind started to pick up in strength. While he struggled with pulling the heavy improvised craft onto the muddy slope, he glanced toward the river to look for Aragorn, so that he could call the child over, to hand him his clothes and the blanket to warm himself.

However, when he looked towards the dark waters nearby, expecting to spy a tiny head with a dark mop of curls, he felt alarmed, for the child was nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, he let go of the structure, frantically searching the river for Aragorn. Where had he gone? He had been there only moments before...

“Aragorn!” he called out, the tension clearly audible to his own ears. To his relief, there was a reply, although it sounded strained.

“Here!” the child yelled. Legolas promptly followed the sound with his sight and let out a breath of relief he hadn't even realized he was holding once he found the boy.

Yet, this reassurance did not last long.

The reason he had been unable to find Aragorn was that the boy had made little to no progress in reaching the shoreline. Instead, he had drifted off, farther downstream.

By the look on his face, barely visible amidst the dark waters, he too had realized this and seemed to be struggling to contain his rising desperation. He had switched back to breaststrokes in an effort to conserve his energy, but his strokes were becoming visibly erratic as panic began to set in.

Legolas could see the telltale signs: Aragorn's movements were increasingly uncoordinated, his arms splashing more than propelling, his kicks weakening. The boy's breath came in ragged gasps, his head bobbing dangerously close to the waterline. Terror was starting to take hold, sapping his strength and clarity of mind.

“Stay calm, Aragorn!” Legolas called out, his voice steady and reassuring despite the sudden urgency he felt. “Focus on your strokes and keep your head above the water. I am coming to help.”

In his haste to help, the Elf nearly forgot about the raft still attached with a rope to his arm, an uncharacteristic oversight. Annoyed, he quickly set about the task of untying himself. Yet, when he turned back around, Aragorn had drifted even farther, as the current carried him along at a worrying speed.

Legolas broke into a sprint, leaving their equipment behind in order to run swiftly alongside the river to catch up. He was so focused on not letting the child out of his sight again that he barely registered the first few, fat drops of rain striking his skin, slowly gaining in intensity.

Once he had caught up, he jumped into the water in one fluid motion.

“Here!”, Aragorn shouted once more, wide-eyed, desperate to make himself visible to the Elf. He got caught off in a sputter instead as he swallowed some of the unruly water around him.

The rain began to fall more heavily, the droplets splashing onto the river's surface, creating a haze that made it even more difficult to see. Legolas's keen eyes strained to keep track of Aragorn, whose small form was becoming increasingly obscured by the downpour and the dark, churning waters.

With renewed determination, the Elf made an effort to reach the child swiftly, his powerful, practiced strokes cutting through the water with ease.

The relief of soon being in Aragorn’s arms-reach was imminent, and for the fraction of a heartbeat, Legolas thought that the situation could yet be salvaged, and they would get out of this predicament with just a bad scare and a lesson for the future not to underestimate deep waters.

And then, their situation turned from bad to worse.

One moment, Legolas had the boy clearly in sight, just a few more paddles away. The next, Aragorn was gone.

The Elf’s heart immediately lurched in his chest as Aragorn vanished from sight. Dread, a rare and unwelcome visitor, gripped him tightly. How could it all have gone wrong this quickly?

His eyes, sharper than any mortal's, scanned the tumultuous waters, desperately searching for any sign of the boy. The rain hammered down relentlessly now, merging with the river to form a chaotic, swirling mass that defied his every effort.

“Aragorn!” he shouted, his voice almost lost in the roar of the wind and the rushing river. He treaded water frantically, turning in every direction, but there was no trace of the child. Fear clawed at him, sharper than any blade, as he realized the mortal boy in his care could be sinking beneath the surface in this very moment.

Without wasting another second, Legolas took a deep breath and dove underwater, heading for the spot where he had last seen Aragorn. The river's cold embrace was absolute, and even his elven sight was rendered nearly useless in the inky blackness. He strained his eyes, but the darkness was impenetrable, a curtain of pitch enveloping him.

He reached out with his hands, sweeping them through the water, hoping against hope to feel something—anything—that could guide him to Aragorn. His fingers met only emptiness and the cold, rushing current that threatened to carry him away.

Time seemed to stretch into eternity in those desperate moments. Just as despair began to creep in, he felt it—a faint, almost imperceptible touch against his hand. His heart pounded with renewed vigor as he grasped at the sensation, his fingers tangling in something soft and yielding.

Hair. He had found hair.

With a rush of relief, Legolas pushed downwards, following the trail of hair until his hand found the collar of Aragorn's undertunic. He wrapped his fingers firmly around the fabric and kicked powerfully towards the surface. Once again, the seconds which passed felt like hours as he battled the river's pull.

Finally, they broke free into the open air.

Legolas gasped for breath, hauling Aragorn's limp form above the water. The boy coughed and sputtered, drawing in desperate gulps of air as the Elf held him tightly across the heaving chest. Relief washed over Legolas, mingled with the lingering edge of fear. He couldn't afford to lose focus now.

With Aragorn clutched securely to his side, Legolas swam towards the shore with determined, mighty strokes. The river fought him every inch of the way, but he would not be deterred. The rain beat down upon them, the storm's fury undiminished, but his resolve was stronger still.

At last, they reached the riverbank. Legolas pulled Aragorn out of the water first, then climbed up himself, both of them soaked, freezing and exhausted. The Elf quickly scanned their surroundings, seeking shelter from the relentless storm.

“Come.” Legolas said, his voice steady but urgent as he helped Aragorn to his feet. “We must find shelter. The storm is worsening.”

The boy was clearly unable to respond and leaned heavily on him for support, his whole frame shaking uncontrollably from fear, exhaustion and the all-encompassing cold. Legolas led the way, his keen senses guiding them toward a nearby cluster of trees that might provide some cover from the storm. The forest's embrace offered a measure of safety, and he knew they needed to get warm and dry as soon as possible.

The trees closed around them, offering a fragile barrier against the elements. Legolas found a spot where the canopy was densest, and the ground was slightly elevated, providing some protection from the rising water.

Aragorn shivered, his teeth chattering as he tried to catch his breath, but the Elf had nothing to warm him with. Even if he wanted to make a fire now, regardless of the danger of their pursuers, all of his millennia-refined skills would not help him light one with the sodden branches in their vicinity.

The boy’s lips had taken on a concerning blue hue, and he was still coughing as he weakly leaned against a tree, his eyes closed.

Legolas watched in alarm, aware that the danger had not passed yet, as it was unclear how much water the boy had taken in. It was still possible for him to drown while on land, and the Elf would be able to do naught but watch as he succumbed to the fluid in his lungs.

To his relief, the coughing soon died down, and slowly, the boy regained his color, although he still looked miserable. The child sat down, leaning his back against the bark of the tree, his dark sodden hair still dripping wet.

“I will be right back,” Legolas spoke then, once he felt confident enough that his charge would not just keel over and die right then and there. He loathed to leave, but at this moment there was nothing he could do other than collect their gear before the rain could drench it completely.

That resulted in the first reaction from the boy, whose eyes promptly snapped open. “D-d..do…n-not… l-l-leave,” he barely managed to press out between his chattering teeth, leaving the Elf astonished and speechless.

‘Are you not aware that it was my decision that nearly got you killed?’ Legolas wanted to respond, overcome by an uncharacteristic desire to shout. He could not possibly imagine how his presence could be of comfort to the child now—if anything, it truly showed the lack of alternatives Aragorn had.

Instead, all he could do was make the best of the circumstances he had caused.

“It will not take long,” he answered, not looking at the boy’s expression as he did so. He could not handle any more guilt in this very moment, watching fear or disappointment flicker across Aragorn’s face as his plea was denied.

He did not lie, however. His steps were swift as he ran back along the shoreline, and it did not take as long as he had estimated. The whole ordeal had seemed to stretch on so long in his mind, but judging by the distance to their gear, they had actually not been carried as far away as he had initially thought. Everything had happened over the course of a few minutes.

A few minutes, which could have cost Aragorn his life.

Human lives were so fragile, so very fleeting, like dew on the grass, shimmering in the morning light before vanishing with the rise of the sun. Legolas would do well to remember this if there were to be any chance of the child surviving long enough to see Rohan in the future.

Oh, how ironic it was that he worried about the potential of Sauron’s spies posing a danger to Aragorn when it was his own carelessness that currently posed as big a threat as any Orc, the Elf thought to himself, overcome by a sense of self-loathing.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as Legolas gathered their gear, securing it quickly and efficiently, his mind still reeling from the close call. He mentally chastised himself for not having caught any sign of Aragorn’s exhaustion sooner.

He should have expected it—the boy had spent the day wandering, and when they had finally reached their destination, he had been witness to possibly the worst sight of his life. Aragorn had raged, tiring himself out emotionally until Legolas had knocked him out and fed him something akin to a tranquilizer – without prior knowledge of how it might affect a human boy.

And only hours later, he had demanded the boy enter a freezing river in the dead of night.

Legolas, a being of a race once renowned in Middle-earth for their wisdom, currently felt very foolish.

The rain continued to pour, each drop a reminder of the peril they had narrowly escaped. Once he swiftly arrived back at the boy’s side, as he had promised, he saw that the child had not stopped shaking. Aragorn had curled up into a small ball next to the tree, appearing to do so both in an effort to conserve his warmth and to comfort himself.

He barely looked up as Legolas set down their gear and made upon retrieving their blankets and clothes, which had thankfully remained dry. Nor made he any effort to move.

Gently, Legolas knelt down besides the child.

“Aragorn, you must dry yourself. Put on your clothes, too.” he urged, unfolding the blanket with nimble fingers.

The child stirred, but his eyes remained lidded, his body trembling violently.

And so, with careful hands, Legolas wrapped the blanket around the boy, attempting to rub some warmth back into his limbs. The fabric absorbed the moisture from Aragorn's soaked clothing, skin and hair, but it was a losing battle. The rain continued to fall relentlessly, seeping through the thick canopy of leaves above them.

Legolas' brow furrowed with worry as he worked. He could feel the boy's cold seeping into his own skin through the damp cloth. Despite his best efforts, the blanket quickly became sodden, offering little protection against the chill.

The rain continued to fall relentlessly, seeping through the thick canopy of leaves above them.

“Stay with me, Aragorn.” Legolas said, growing increasingly concerned with the boy’s continued lethargy. He began to rub the boy's limbs again, trying to stimulate circulation. “We are safe now. You must fight the cold.”

Aragorn's eyes fluttered open briefly. He managed a weak nod, his lips moving but no sound escaping.

Legolas was left with no other option than to effortlessly continue his ministrations, his own heart beating steadily with a blend of determination and concern.

Eventually, the shaking ceased.

When it did, Legolas sat down heavily beside the boy, leaning against the tree and finally allowing himself to exhale a genuine breath of relief. He assumed the worst was over. Spanning his cloak above their heads, he endeavored to shield them from the worst of the downpour.

Aragorn had fallen asleep at some point. Shortly after, his head drooped, coming to rest against Legolas' side in a manner that looked terribly uncomfortable. Nonetheless, the Elf hesitated to move him, unwilling to wake the child who desperately needed this chance to recover from the day's trials.

As Legolas kept watch, his senses remained alert for any sign of danger. The storm continued to rage, and his thoughts began to wander.

They had always been in danger, for he had already assumed Sauron to be actively hunting for the boy and his family shortly after taking Aragorn under his protection. But there had always been the prospect of an end in sight. Once they reached the relative safety of the Rangers' company, Legolas would have fulfilled his promise and duty, and they had just needed to hold out until then.

Or so he had thought, at least.

All of this had changed with their arrival at Lothlórien. Sauron’s grudge was unwavering, and he appeared willing to hunt Isildur’s bloodline until the ends of Middle-earth. Even Legolas' assumption of Fangorn serving as a hideout was no guarantee, for he did not know whether the Gaurhoth would truly be hindered from entering the forest – it was simply the best solution the Elf had been able to come up with on the spot.

Perhaps Legolas alone could endure being on the run, continuously evading and fleeing from his pursuers, but the mortal child in his care lacked such endurance, as had become clear today. Aragorn would die if they kept this up, and it truly seemed like there was no end in sight. Even if they lost the Gaurhoth, Orcs, Uruk-hai, and other minions would soon follow, all under the dark master's command.

At this realization, Legolas halted his thoughts.

Yes — if the Dark Lord would not relent as long as Isildur’s heir lived—what then, if Aragorn were to die?

Only a few moments earlier, he had chastised himself for his improvised, not fully fleshed-out plan and yet he could not stop himself from entertaining another one. Yet, slowly, an idea began to take shape in Legolas' mind, despite his initial misgivings.

As he sat there contemplating, accompanied by the sound of rain and thunder, ominous sounds of furious, distorted howling could be heard faintly in the distance.

The beasts had arrived at the Anduin.

[1] The tale of Beren and Lúthien is a legendary love story in Middle-earth between the mortal man Beren and the elven princess Lúthien. Beren was once captured by Sauron, and because his company refused to reveal their identities, Sauron ordered werewolves to devour them. The elven king Finrod Felagund (Galadriel’s eldest brother) sacrificed himself for Beren, allowing him to survive until Lúthien came to his rescue and successfully freed him together with the hound Huan. Aragorn, Elrond, Arwen and her brothers all descend from this couple’s sole son, Dior the fair. (Because, like a true king, Aragorn likes to keep it in the family — sorry.)

[2] Sindarin: Elfling (Elf-child)

Chapter Text

For as long as Aragorn could remember, whenever his parents or the other Dúnedain had spoken of the Firstborn, there had always been a sense of great reverence and deep respect visible in their eyes.

The way they had described their kind—their incredible resilience, wisdom, and grace—had almost made it seem as if the Elves were akin to celestial beings.

At least in Aragorn’s mind, that was how he had come to imagine them.

Blessed with immortality and capable of feats that seemed like magic to the other races, were they really so different from the lesser Valar?

At least, this was what Aragorn had thought before meeting Legolas.

It was not that his parents had been necessarily wrong in their descriptions—for Legolas was indeed strong, long-lived, and fair. He appeared to know everything and seemed to never tire.

In all their travels so far, he had shown no fear. Sometimes it seemed as if the earth could crumble and give way beneath Legolas’s feet and he would still remain standing, tall, unflinching and proud, nary an expression visible on his face.

Furthermore, the Elf had shown little emotion during their journey, aside from occasional annoyance, which should have made him appear detached and distant from the world around him. Yet, Aragorn thought differently. By the end of the day, once the initial astonishment and fascination had worn off, Legolas appeared to him not all too different from a human.

For his guardian was surrounded by a strange air of sadness. Sadness was an emotion Aragorn knew very well, both from himself and the other Rangers. Everyone had experienced loss and grief at some point, and evidently, the Elf was no exception.

It was not always present or noticeable, but especially in the rare moments when he was not actively engaged and did not notice his charge looking, Legolas’s icy blue eyes seemed almost haunted.

Deep down, Aragorn burned with curiosity at what the Elf had seen, what he could tell of his home, his family. Of the tales he could tell, with all his years of experience, of how the world had been before the rise of Sauron.

But he dared not ask.

He remembered that once, a few years ago, his mother had spoken to Tarvin—one of the younger Rangers who had always been kind to Aragorn and had behaved much like an older cousin might. Back then, his mother had ordered the boy to refrain from pestering the older men about their experiences while fighting against Sauron’s forces shortly after the eruption of Barad-dûr.

She had explained in a gentle but serious manner that although she understood his curiosity, he needed to restrain it, for some of these men had seen terrible things.

That even though they had grown outwardly desensitized to it all, adopting stoic and gruff demeanors, it did not mean that they were not hurting. They carried scars that were not visible, and every question, intentional or not, had the power to dredge up memories more painful than the strike of a sword.

Aragorn wondered if it was the same for Legolas.

It was partially this realization which had led to him forgiving his guardian so quickly for how he had handled the passing of his parents. There was also the fact that, as the sole survivors of their respective families, they both had been dealt a similar fate, although they had not bonded over it since Aragorn’s disastrous near-death experience in the Anduin three days prior.

Since that incident, much had transpired. Aside from Aragorn’s newly discovered and rather embarrassing aversion to flowing water, their diversion seemed to have paid off.

At least, Legolas claimed as much. Aragorn was not so confident.

Only the previous night, the boy had nearly jumped out of his skin, waking to the most horrifying sounds he had ever heard. He had not immediately recognized the noises as howling, but once he had, he became incredibly alarmed.

When he had told Legolas that he was able to hear their enemies for the first time, meaning they must be close, the Elf had reassured him. According to him, the wolves had taken the bait, and while they had been audible to Legolas for a long time, their sounds continued to originate from the other side of the river. The Gaurhoth evidently had yet to pick up on their trail.

Therefore, they could not possibly know that their prey had long since steered away from the Anduin, wandering further inland toward the Limlight, a smaller river leading towards Fangorn, which was supposedly their next best option for a safe haven.

While Legolas’s calm explanation had indeed been reassuring, the boy had not been able to help the goosebumps that appeared on his skin every time the distorted wolven cries echoed through the night. It was truly no wonder now that the elven warrior had acted so concerned upon hearing them for the first time.

Yet, even with his guardian’s reassurance, the journey since then had been fraught with tension. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush set Aragorn's nerves on edge. Legolas remained vigilant, his eyes ever watchful, his senses attuned to the slightest hint of danger. The Elf's demeanor had always remained one of unwavering calm, still Aragorn had sensed the underlying tension, the weight of responsibility his guardian carried.

However, a short while ago, his musings about Legolas’s behavior had started to take on a different note.

For in this very moment, he could not help but wonder if the other Elves had also been this peculiar, or if his guardian was truly unique in his strangeness. Recently, Legolas’s plans and ideas had begun to take on an…unconventional note.

They were in far too deep to change course now, yet he could not help but voice a complaint.

Pouting, he called out to Legolas behind him, who was currently busy tearing Aragorn’s reserve tunic to shreds.

“Is this really necessary?”

The Elf glanced up but did not pause in his work. Instead, he diligently continued strewing the blood-stained clothes around the cave floor, so that, with any luck, it would appear as if Aragorn himself had been torn to shreds and devoured afterwards.

Legolas then threw a pointed look at the ripped-up tunic and the remains of his second-favorite pair of breeches, which were already littering the floor of the — at least for the moment — vacated bear den, as if to reinforce his point.

“There is no use in second-guessing now. We can only hope that the ruse works. We have nothing to lose and everything to gain,” he stated, echoing what he had already told Aragorn when he first introduced the idea of staging his death.

Back then, Legolas had not given Aragorn much time to consider the proposal, either. Instead, he had quickly moved on to asking if he could make an incision in his elbow to collect blood and give their ruse more credibility.

Indeed, Aragorn thought, the time his guardian had apparently spent as a hermit in the woods had not done him any favors in terms of politeness.

“We are in luck, at least. With the approach of winter, and the scarcity of food, the bears are exceptionally ferocious and will feed on whatever they can. It will make the scenario of your tragic demise more believable.”, the Elf explained.

“Will it, now.”, the boy muttered quietly, still not particularly happy about the circumstances.

While the Elf had surely heard him, he wisely ignored the boy’s expression of dissatisfaction, instead choosing to elaborate on his reasoning.

“By the time they reach this cave, our scent trails should have faded. However, the scent of your blood will undoubtedly capture their attention. Now, continue walking around – the more concentrated your scent is here, the better.”

Obediently, Aragorn kept trudging in circles.

“We must also depart before the bear truly arrives to its den, drawn by the scent of your blood. I can sense that it is nearby, although it does not seem to have detected us, yet.”

Overcome by a sudden burst of motivation, Aragorn quickened his pace.

Meanwhile, Legolas placed a wooden item on the floor, arranging it near the tunic – or rather, its remains. It was a beautifully crafted wooden pendant, engraved with the image of a tree, supposed to symbolize the White Tree of Gondor.

This pendant was not just any trinket. Legolas had crafted it with meticulous care, ensuring that it would appear as if it were a necklace of great importance to Aragorn—one he would never lose on purpose. Over the past few days, he had insisted that Aragorn wear it constantly.

He had also taken measures to make it look well-worn and cherished, spilling grease on it to create dark stains, scorching parts of the wood with a hot blade to give it a charred appearance, and even rubbing it with earth and grit to dull its shine.

The boy privately thought to himself that the idea was quite clever, though he did not plan on telling the Elf this.

Then, finally, Legolas announced:

“There is naught else we can do for now. The Gaurhoth are cunning beasts. Whether they will be distracted by this ruse is up to the Valar now.”

Aragorn stopped his steps, relieved but still anxious. “Do you really think this will work?”

Instead of giving a direct reply, Legolas answered cryptically, “Have faith. The scene, including the pendant, will tell a story of a struggle and a tragic end. We might just be fortunate, for once.”

The boy nodded, still uncertain. He could not tell whether the Elf gave such a mysterious reply because he was – well, an Elf – or if Legolas himself harbored doubts about the plan but refused to admit it.

Together, they walked out of the small cave, which was actually more of a large rock overhang than an actual cave. On the way they passed the strategically placed bloodstains currently drying on the rocks.

As they stepped into the sunlight, Legolas halted abruptly and reached into his pack, pulling out a flask. Aragorn, expecting water, looked puzzled as the Elf opened it, releasing a strong, pungent odor into the air.

“What is that?” the boy asked, wrinkling his nose.

“This,” Legolas announced, holding up the flask, “is wild garlic. You should use it to cover your scent from now on. It may help obscure our trail.”

Aragorn blinked, disbelieving. After a few moments had gone by, he accepted the offered flask, albeit hesitantly.

“When did you make this infusion?” he questioned, sounding skeptical. His guardian’s ideas kept growing more and more…innovative.

“While you were sleeping,” Legolas replied. “There was a lot of wild garlic growing nearby. Even if our ruse fails, this will make it much harder to follow your tracks. The odor is pungent, and particularly offensive to the beasts’ senses.”

For a moment, the boy just stared at Legolas, as if hoping the Elf would change his mind when faced with his clear disapproval. Alas, it was a fruitless endeavor.

Finally, with a heavy, resigned sigh, Aragorn unscrewed the top and, without much thought, poured a generous amount onto his head. The pungent smell immediately engulfed him, forcing a grimace as the odor assaulted his senses.

“Wait!” Legolas exclaimed, too late. “I only meant for you to use it beneath your armpits and neck, where your scent is strongest, not your hair! And certainly not that much.”

Aragorn glared at him, his hair now dripping with the pungent mixture. “You could not have told me this earlier?”

Legolas raised an eyebrow. Something akin to a smirk seemed to tug at his lips, and for just a fraction of a moment, there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“My apologies. I assumed it to be self-evident.”

The boy, currently drowning in his own odor and half-expecting wild rabbits to come gnawing at him, was not nearly as amused. “Great, now I resemble a walking clove of garlic,” he muttered.

Legolas, satisfied, nodded approvingly. “It grows all around here. You will fit right in.”

Aragorn reluctantly began rubbing the mixture under his armpits and on other areas where human scent apparently was strongest, as the Elf had said. Considering that he had already gotten the worst part over with, a little more made no great difference.

Once finished, he held the flask out to Legolas. “Your turn.”

The Elf shook his head, not making any effort to reach for the offered item. “I have no need for it,” he declared, though there was a slight hesitation in his tone.

“Why not?” Aragorn complained. “Why am I the only one who has to cover my trail? An Elf leaving the scene is just as suspicious.”

“The Firstborn carry a much fainter scent than you humans, as long as we are not injured. I will barely be noticeable, even to the Gaurhoth,” Legolas protested defensively.

“Barely,” the boy repeated, not buying the reasoning. “Yet I thought we would do our utmost to trick them. And we have nothing to lose but everything to gain if you cloak yourself in this…infusion as well.”

Now it was the Elf’s turn to stare at his charge, obviously not amused at having his previous words thrown back in his face.

It was only through sheer stubbornness and willpower that Aragorn managed to keep himself from flinching and withdrawing his gaze. Then, Legolas’s demeanor seemed to shift, his shoulders subconsciously slumping in defeat.

It took a moment for Aragorn to realize that he had just successfully outargued the Elf, defeating him with his own logic. Not willing to ruin his progress, he had to put a lot of effort into keeping himself from visibly gloating.

Wordlessly, he handed Legolas the flask.

For a fleeting moment, a grimace flashed across the Elf’s face.

A few hours later, when the sun was already hanging low in the sky, they finally reached the Limlight. It was a fairly shallow river, so that Aragorn did not feel too uncomfortable bathing in it to rid himself of the worst of the odor.

Yet, he still had been quick with it, not in the mood to spend any more time in the water than necessary.

Now, he was sitting on the riverbank, resting his weary feet and waiting for the Elf, who was currently busying himself with furiously scrubbing at his arms.

Aragorn could not help the amusement which slowly continued to creep up on him as Legolas then proceeded to dunk his head under the water.

Who knew that the elven warrior could be so fussy?

“That has to be the fifth time you have washed your head!”, Aragorn pointed out cheekily. “I doubt it is going to get any cleaner. You did not rub the infusion into your hair. I bet it does not even smell.”

Legolas did not pay him any heed as he continued with his ministrations.

“You should count yourself lucky, child, that your senses are so dull. For you are wrong—the putrid scent lingers,” he replied dryly. “You should wash yourself again as well, for I am not looking forward to traveling with a companion who bears more resemblance to a walking clove of garlic than a boy.”

“Oh, I apologize. Should I take out the soap bar in my gear and make a proper bath out of this occasion, then?” Aragorn said innocently.

He simply could not bring himself to take the Elf seriously in his annoyance, not when he was fretting so much over such a small inconvenience.

The people in Aragorn’s company generally did not smell too good, a result of long periods of time in the wilderness and irregular access to water. Field garlic paled in comparison to a large group of men huddled together in a tent during a frigid winter’s night for warmth.

Unexpectedly, Legolas whipped around, his movement so fast that Aragorn’s eyes barely registered it.

“You have soap?” he asked, his tone unmistakably hopeful.

Aragorn stared at the Elf. He had not even considered that Legolas might not detect the sarcasm laced in his words, but it really appeared that his guardian was this desperate to rid himself of the perceived stench.

As the Elf slowly began to scowl, realizing he had been made fun of, Aragorn could not help himself.

He snickered.

When faced with Legolas’s continuing blank stare, his giggles grew louder until finally, he threw his head back in laughter. The situation was truly too strange. In fact, the whole day had been.

“Y-you really believed that..!”, he barely managed to choke out between fits of laughter. “You should have seen your face!”

The Elf’s scowl deepened, but there was a glint in his eyes that might have been amusement, leading Aragorn to believe he might not actually be as irritated as he appeared.

Legolas crossed his arms, standing waist-deep in the river, impatiently waiting for Aragorn to compose himself.

Then, once it became clear that this was going to take a while, he went back to his ministrations, grooming his hair yet another time.

Soon, the boy’s belly began to hurt from the strain, and yet, every time he glanced back toward the visibly annoyed, sodden Elf in the river, preening himself like a particularly vain bird, his guffaws started anew.

And despite the slight twinge in his chest, it truly felt so good.

He had not been able to muster a smile since that terrible day in Lothlórien and had not laughed for much longer—not since everything had gone downhill, marked by the day his company had first been intercepted by a group of Uruk-hai and subsequently split up.

At this train of thought, the brief period of happiness came to a sudden end.

Painfully reminded of all the people who had died, Aragorn’s amusement vanished as quickly as it had appeared. In its place, guilt started to rear its ugly head.

These days, sudden mood swings were not uncommon for him.

It had been this way ever since the moment he had lost his mother, and it had only gotten worse over the course of the last few days, to the point that he despised silence, as it made his thoughts appear louder, all-encompassing, so that sometimes he felt as if he could never be truly happy and carefree again.

He could never go back to the boy he had been before this journey, and he could not help but wish that his parents had never set out for Lothlórien in the first place.

And it was only right—how could he deserve to be merry when it had been only days since he had lost his father? When he had found the people he had grown up with, whom he had considered near kin, slaughtered and left for the crows? He was a truly horrible son.

They had not deserved to die, especially in such a cruel manner.

Then, he realized his selfishness in grieving merely his own loss, for he was not the only one suffering. Any members of his company who had survived the slaughter would be grieving their losses as well, terribly.

None of them had been buried. Aragorn had not even been able to do this much for them.

His company also had every reason to believe their chieftain’s entire family dead, a perceived failure which would surely come as a great blow to them.

Feeling whiplashed by the sudden shift in emotion, Aragorn blinked repeatedly as his eyes quickly grew wet against his will. He would give anything to tell his comrades that he had survived, to know their fate as well—how many had died and who was still alive.

Yet, before the first threatening tears could fall, he was abruptly shocked by a sudden splash of cold water that hit him squarely in the face.

Sputtering, he jumped up, his sorrow not forgotten but pushed back for the moment, as he stared at the expressionless Elf in the river.

The obvious perpetrator of this slight appeared unfazed, his expression betraying nothing but a faintly raised eyebrow.

“What was that for?!” Aragorn called out, affronted.

The Elf tilted his head slightly to the side, his demeanor shifting to one of deceptive innocence, a stark contrast to his otherwise rather monotone drawl.

“I do not know what you speak of. What angered you so?”

“You splashed me!” Aragorn said, disbelieving. He shook his head, trying to flick the wet locks out of his face, making him appear a little like a long-furred dog caught in the rain. “I had only just dried...!”

“Did I?” Legolas questioned. “My apologies. I was not aware. It must have been an accident.”

For a short moment, Aragorn just stared. Never before had someone dared to lie to his face with such a stoic expression when the truth was so obvious.

Then, he got an idea. At first, he imagined jumping into the river feet first, creating a huge wave of water and sufficiently drenching Legolas in return, but then he abandoned that plan for a much better one.

After all, his guardian was already in the Limlight, washing himself for what seemed like an hour at this point—what was a little more water to him?

Yet, Aragorn knew of a weapon that would definitely strike fear into Legolas's heart, making it a fitting tool for revenge.

Said Elf's expression promptly shifted from blank to wary as he watched his charge.

“Aragorn, what are you doing?” he said, his tone alarmed, realization dawning on him.

“I do not know. What am I doing?” replied Aragorn innocently, stalking toward Legolas, garlic flask in hand.

They had not used the entirety of its contents before, so the threat of pouring it out over the Elf's head was very real.

As he entered the river, hellbent on the sweet taste of vengeance, a devilish grin stretched across his cheeks.

Legolas, who had been warily watching his movements until then, scrambled backward, abandoning his seemingly endless grooming in favor of flight.

“You do not want to do this,” he attempted, walking backward, away from his charge as he approached.

Aragorn grinned. “Oh, I think I do.”

And then he pounced.

He started sprinting forward—at least as well as he could in a river that nearly reached his chest—threateningly waving the open flask around. If he could just pour a tiny amount over the Elf's beloved long strands of hair...

…they would probably spend the rest of the day and night next to this river, but in Aragorn’s mind, that was a worthy exchange.

In response, Legolas jumped up as well, the time for diplomacy clearly over. He ran toward the other shore, probably hoping to lose Aragorn's tail more easily on land, fleeing barefoot, clad only in his undergarments.

But before that, he did not miss the opportunity to splash his charge one final time, leaving Aragorn sputtering and temporarily hindered as he had to blink the water out of his eyes.

The game was on.

Once Aragorn had cleared his eyes, he swiftly resumed the chase. Legolas had gained some distance, but the boy was determined not to let the Elf’s slights stand.

Therefore, the pursuit continued—over land, then water, and land again. Each time Aragorn thought he was gaining on the Elf, the distance promptly increased, so that he never truly came close enough to make his threat come true.

It was no great wonder, for it was clear to Aragorn that Legolas could easily outpace him.

But he did not.

As if the initial mischievous act of splashing him had not been enough evidence, this confirmed it—the Elf was being playful. It was a thought that Aragorn found hard to wrap his head around.

Legolas had always seemed so serious, reserved, and stoic, so in the back of his mind, Aragorn couldn't help but wonder what had changed.

If anything had changed at all. There was also the possibility that this was a rare exception and that everything would soon return to how it had been before, a prospect which Aragorn dreaded.

He missed the feeling of having a friend.

Eventually, once Aragorn was sweating and truly out of breath, yet unwilling to give up, it was Legolas who called for a truce. Purposely increasing the distance until he had a safe reserve, the Elf finally turned around and came to a halt on the opposite side of the river.

“Let us concede for today. Pour out that ghastly substance; we shall not have need of it again.”

Aragorn squinted. “Why should I?” he responded, unwilling to admit defeat just yet, even though he clearly had been on the losing side.

“You may request a favor of your choice from me in exchange,” Legolas offered.

Surprised at the Elf’s willingness to negotiate, Aragorn immediately accepted. He did not know yet what he would make of it, but he figured it was going to be useful—and if only to force Legolas to take a break during their wanderings when his own feet could not carry him anymore.

Perhaps he could even convince the other to carry him…

“Agreed,” Aragorn replied and poured out the meager contents of the flask on the ground in front of him, much to the Elf’s visible relief.

Then, in a gesture of a peace offering, he walked up to Legolas and offered his hand for a firm shake, as he had seen the adult rangers do whenever they agreed on a promise.

Immediately after doing so, he felt a little silly. Legolas obviously did not like to be touched, and who knew if Elves even had such traditions. However, before he could shyly retract his offered hand, the Elf accepted graciously, shaking it firmly.

Aragorn gifted Legolas with a hesitant little smile, although the other could not see it, as he had soon turned around, walking back to their gear, probably with the purpose of drying himself off and putting on his outerwear.

As Aragorn turned to follow, his smile slowly vanished. The short period of play had been a wonderful distraction.

For a moment, he had felt light, able to focus wholeheartedly on chasing down his opponent without any particular thoughts going through his mind.

Yet, once the source of the diversion had vanished, the previous dark feelings slowly but surely began to creep up on him again. Standing there, feeling lost, Aragorn wondered if time could truly heal all ailments, as his grandmother used to preach—or whether he was cursed to live with the guilt and grief forever, until the day of his own demise.

The prospect was a daunting one. He truly could not imagine that he would ever stop missing his parents.

Yet, once again, he found himself drawn out of his musings right as the first tears threatened to fall.

“Aragorn!”

Quickly wiping at his eyes to get rid of the excess wetness, he responded to the call of his name.

“What is it?” he asked, hoping that the slight shakiness in his voice was not too obvious.

Although the Elf’s eyes seemed to flicker towards his charge’s for a brief moment, he gave no indication of having noticed that anything was amiss, something that Aragorn was thankful for. He did not want to explain himself.

“Make sure to dry yourself properly. Once the sun goes down, it will rob the day of its warmth.”

Aragorn stared at Legolas, deadpan. Whose fault was it, that he was now absolutely drenched?

The Elf did not seem to notice or particularly care about the irony of his words. “Afterwards, let us go hunting. We do not have much daylight left, but we should make the most of it.”

At the mention of food, Aragorn heard his stomach growl. He had not eaten the entire day, but he had gotten used to ignoring the hunger, and his appetite had been greatly diminished ever since Lothlórien.

He was a bit surprised at the Elf’s implication that they were to hunt together—usually, Legolas went off on his own, leaving Aragorn to stay back at their campsite.

And so, he hastily accepted the proposal before Legolas could change his mind.

He was eager for any distraction he could get, he wanted to spend more time with the Elf, and now he was really hungry.

Perhaps he could even put his recently enhanced skills with the bow to use and impress Legolas in the process…

Their quest for dinner had ended up more foraging than hunt, in the end, as they had already wasted a great deal of daylight, and probably scared of any game in the near vicinity with their play.

The few fish in the Limlight were fast and small and had not been worth the effort it would have taken to catch them.

Not that Aragorn minded this, particularly. He might not have gotten the opportunity to particularly impress Legolas with his skill of picking berries, nettles and mushrooms, but they already had a rather meat-based diet, and killing animals still made him uneasy, even if it was out of necessity.

Yet, now that he was sitting around their little campfire - long extinguished, as Legolas had only permitted it for the length it took to cook their stew —  he had long changed his mind.

Legolas had assured him that the mushrooms were not poisonous, yet, as Aragorn bit down on another, particularly big and slimy one, he could not help feeling like starving might have been the better alternative.

Alas, the boy knew better than to waste food, so he continued eating, all the while desperately hoping that he would not come to throw it up later, making his efforts go to waste.

If Legolas also thought that their meal was kind of terrible, he did not show it. It must have been due to pride, for Aragorn could not imagine that the other thought it tasted acceptable or good.

Or was taste an Elf’s one sense was under- instead of overdeveloped?

In an effort to distract himself while eating, he decided to attempt a conversation.

It was something he had tried repeatedly over the course of their travels, yet the usual curt replies had quickly scared him off, as they had made him feel as if he had been annoying the other.

Considering the day they had, with Legolas actively engaging in play, he felt somewhat motivated to try again, hoping that the other was still feeling uncharacteristically social.

"So, why are we traveling to this Fangorn Forest?" Aragorn asked, breaking the silence.

Legolas's eyes flickered up briefly. Graciously, he replied with a full sentence, unknowingly bolstering Aragorn’s confidence. "I told you before—it is an infamously dangerous forest. Before the rise of the Dark One, even the Orcs feared entering it. If that still holds true, we will be able to hide out there.”

"You said so before, aye, but is Mirkwood not also a dangerous forest? Why this one? And if it is so terrible, will we be safe there?" Aragorn pressed on, not satisfied with the reasoning and happy to keep Legolas talking—anything to avoid the oppressive silence, interrupted only occasionally by the sounds of his own chewing.

Legolas seemed to hesitate, which was not a particularly good omen. "There is no guarantee of our safety there," he admitted then. “The reason the Orcs hesitated to enter it is the forest’s inhabitants—the last of the kindred of the Onodrim. I believe they are referred to as ‘Ents’ in your tongue, or shepherds of the trees.”

When the Elf noticed no recognition in Aragorn’s eyes, he elaborated further.

“They resemble trees, but they are much more than that. They were granted Fëa by Ilúvatar, the All-Powerful. Their purpose is to guard the forests they inhabit from Dwarves and other creatures who wish to cause the forest harm. They are incredibly powerful and take their task seriously. A long time ago, it was my kin that taught them to speak, but millenia have passed since then. I cannot say with certainty whether they will regard us as friends or foes.”

“…You mean to say that you are leading us towards a forest of murderous, feral trees for safety,” Aragorn summarized incredulously.

Remarkably, Legolas seemed to actually feel sheepish at this response. The boy had the strange inkling that, were he anyone else, the Elf might have blushed a little.

“They are not inherently evil beings. I believe that they will cause us no harm,” Legolas replied defensively. “Also, would you rather I lead you into a forest of venomous, giant spiders or one with potentially dangerous trees?”

Aragorn did not feel like answering that question. His reflexive grimace surely provided enough insight into his feelings on the matter, though he was still not completely appeased.

Satisfied, the Elf leaned back. “You are surprisingly snarky for a human your height and age,” he noted, his demeanor shifting from abashed to slightly amused. “I wonder if you are the exception or if that is the norm for your kind.”

For a moment, Aragorn was quiet.

Then, he muttered softly, “I think I got it from my mother.”

Legolas offered no reply to that statement.

However, Aragorn could feel the other’s attentive gaze resting on him. The boy had the sense that he was being offered a choice on whether he wanted to elaborate.

Eventually, he did.

“She was a very kind and gentle person towards me and the other children, but when she talked to the other men, she could have a sharp tongue.”, he said, trying to remember how Arathorn had used to describe his wife.

“They underestimated and patronized her much at first, according to my father, when he first introduced her—both because she was a young woman and looked rather petite. But when challenged, she was authoritative and gave quick-witted responses. She was very confident and quickly earned their respect, even though she never was a warrior.”

Legolas had been listening attentively to his charge’s explanation. A somewhat soft expression had settled on his face, making him appear younger than usual, and his blue eyes were filled with something akin to understanding.

“My naneth—my mother—was supposedly similar in temperament, though I cannot confirm it myself, for I never got to know her. I would like to think that Gilraen and she would have gotten along splendidly, and that combined, they would have been a force to be reckoned with, had they been allowed to meet.”

Aragorn’s head whipped up at the realization that Legolas had willingly shared personal information—today truly was an unusual day, and he could not help but hope that whatever had changed would last.

Now, he was brimming with curiosity—he wanted to know more about the Elf’s family, why he had not known his mother, and perhaps bond over the exchange of such tales.

Yet, it was clear to him upon glancing at Legolas’s face that he did not wish to talk about his own story any further.

Therefore, Aragorn resisted the urge to pry. Instead, he simply nodded, trying to envision what that would have looked like.

Gilraen had held a great love for anything Elvish, greatly admiring their arts and language. She would indeed have appreciated the company of Legolas’s mother, Aragorn thought to himself.

For a brief moment, there was silence. Both of them had finished eating during their talk, yet Aragorn made no attempt to stand up, not particularly eager to settle in for the night.

It was not the case that he was not tired, rather, sleeping had recently become something he dreaded. Just before falling asleep, with nothing to occupy his mind, the haunting thoughts grew strongest, with no distractions to protect him.

Even in his dreams, he found no solace, often waking in the middle of the night to nightmares that left him sweating and gasping for air—gruesome images of the dead flashing before his eyes, intermixed with terrifying werewolves snapping at him with their gaping maws, huge figures of murderous Orcs, and a large, fiery red eye, lidless and rimmed with flame, ever watchful and piercing through the darkness.

Aragorn shuddered, remembering how he had awoken the previous night from a terrible dream of being caught by the werewolves, only to be confronted by their real and terrifying howls echoing through the night.

He was quite sure that Legolas had long noticed how fitful his rests tended to be, but the Elf had not said anything so far.

Aragorn was conflicted about this, on one hand, he was thankful, not feeling particularly inclined to talk about it, but on the other, he could not help but deep down yearn for comfort.

“You can get yourself ready for sleep. You need not aid me with cleaning up the campsite—make sure to get sufficient rest, for we will have to catch up on the time we wasted today by the river,” Legolas said then, confirming Aragorn’s source of dread.

“We?!”, the boy muttered under his breath, disbelieving.

Yet, he nodded and stood up. Regardless of his misgivings, he did not forget to thank the Elf, proving that he indeed had manners.

Once he had settled in, curling up beneath his thin blanket and looking up at the starry night sky, sleep seemed to elude him, as expected.

Eventually, even the noises of Legolas tending to their campsite and cleaning up their sparse gear, shoveling dirt over the remains of their firepit, ceased—and with it, his last source of distraction—as the Elf settled into his usual position for the night, leaning with his back against a nearby tree, one leg propped up, fingers on his bow, and keeping watch.

Aragorn could not help but feel jealous of his guardian’s Elven constitution. He had observed the Elf sleep occasionally before, but it was such a rare occurrence that he doubted if Legolas really needed it, or whether it was just a luxury to him.

His own body craved rest. His eyelids would flutter closed repeatedly and exhaustion made his limbs feel heavy. Yet, he dared not close his eyes. He turned in his blanket repeatedly, as if merely the lack of a fitting position was ruining his chance at rest.

His restlessness did not go unnoticed. Eventually, it was Legolas who spoke up.

“Aragorn. You must sleep. We have another long day ahead of us tomorrow,” he advised gently, his voice barely audible even in the quiet of the night.

It took no small amount of willpower for Aragorn to resist the urge to shout in frustration or give a biting retort, for he knew that his guardian meant well—but could he not see how desperately he craved to do just that?

When he responded, his reply came out small instead. “I cannot,” he whined. “But I am trying…”

Aragorn could barely make out the outline of Legolas in the dark as the Elf nodded. He seemed to understand then that his well-meant advice was unhelpful and unwelcome and remained silent afterward.

Yet, his words had sparked an idea in Aragorn, one he immediately tried to discard, too embarrassed at the prospect of being judged or considered weak.

But as the moon rose high in the sky, marking the time as midnight, the child's resolve finally cracked.

“Legolas,” he whispered.

Once he was certain he had caught the Elf’s attention, noticeable by the way Legolas’s otherwise still form angled his head toward him, he continued, a little more confidently.

He noticed a small item clasped in Legolas's hands, a strange sort of phial he had been cradling. Aragorn had wondered before about its sudden appearance and the Elf’s focus on it once before during the course of the past few days.

However, at this moment, he set his curiosity aside in favor of mustering the confidence to voice his request.

“Today, you told me that you would grant me a favor in exchange for ridding us of the infusion you had created,” he eventually said, half-asking, half-stating, with a hint of shyness.

“Indeed, I did,” Legolas confirmed, a slight tinge of surprise audible in his voice. “However, I did not think that you would come up with something this swiftly. What is on your mind?”

“I-…” Aragorn began, but his voice trailed off with nervousness. “You must promise not to make fun of me,” he demanded.

There was no denying the curiosity in the Elf’s voice now, yet there was no hesitation as he gave his agreement. “I would not dare to,” he claimed, sounding serious.

“Could you sing to me of the Valië Elbereth Gilthoniel?”

This time, the Elf’s astonishment was clear. He did not reply immediately. When he finally spoke, his tone was carefully measured. “Are you certain?”

Aragorn regretted ever having said anything. Feeling his cheeks start to burn with mortification, he quickly got defensive: “You promised not to judge!”

“You misunderstand me, maethor bîn[1]. There is nothing wrong with your request,” Legolas reassured calmly, not letting himself be provoked by his charge’s accusing tone.

Then, he hesitated. “I merely… wonder why you chose this hymn, as I would assume it to carry painful memories for you.”

Aragorn pushed himself up on his elbows, anger forgotten as he realized the implication.

Legolas seemed to think that because it had been the hymn Gilraen had sung during her last moments, it was now irrevocably associated for him with her death.

“No, it does not. She used to hum this melody often and sang it every time night fell. She thought it fitting for sleep because it is a hymn about the creator of the stars,” Aragorn explained, reassured by the realization that Legolas had meant no harm and a valid reason to be puzzled by his request.

He refused to mention that it had essentially been a lullaby for him, because he was a grown boy, and grown boys did not get lullabies sung to them by their mothers.

“I think… when she started singing it, back in the clearing, it was her way of telling me that she was going to sleep,” Aragorn pondered, his voice soft. “She often referred to death as the ‘great rest’. I do not believe that she was scared for herself then—only for what would become of father, me, and the others without her.”

‘At least she died believing that father and I would be reunited and that we would receive the wise elven lady’s counsel,’ he thought to himself. ‘If she had known then what would happen instead, she would not have been able to pass on peacefully…’

Legolas seemed to be lost in his own ponderings as well, as for a brief while, he was still and quiet, his dark silhouette nearly indistinguishable to that of the tree behind him.

Just as Aragorn had begun to accept that the other had forgotten his original request, settling back down into his blanket – and he was certainly not going to ask again, as once had already been embarrassing enough – the Elf tilted his head back slightly, and started to sing.

His voice was warm and melodious, immediately filling the night air with a serene beauty.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel

silivren penna míriel

o menel aglar elenath!

Na-chaered palan-díriel

o galadhremmin ennorath,

Fanuilos, le linnathon

nef aear, sí nef aearon!

A Elbereth Gilthoniel

o menel palan-díriel,

le nallon sí

di'nguruthos!

A tiro nin, Fanuilos!

Aragorn felt a deep and welcome sense of peace wash over him, as the haunting beauty of the melody and the gentle rise and fall of Legolas's voice seemed to soothe the troubled corners of his mind.

Each verse was comfortingly familiar, reminding him of his mother's tender voice, until he could almost feel the gentle touch of her hand stroking his wavy hair as she lulled him to sleep.

A Elbereth, erin vereth,

cuil banin na vedui.

Na lû thand o ndûath

le thiliath erin fuin.

Menel-vîr, le linnathon,

tirith anor a galad.

Na guren bain cuil lín,

a tiro nin, Fanuilos!

His eyelids grew heavy as the soothing song worked its magic, lulling him closer to the edge of sleep. The images of werewolves, Orcs, and the fiery red eye that had haunted his dreams began to fade, replaced by the gentle glow of stars.

And as the melody lingered in the air, with it came a sense of warmth and safety that Aragorn had not felt in a long time.

“You have a very beautiful voice. Reminds me of my mother.”, the boy mumbled, thinking to himself that the perceived embarrassment had been worth it, if he really could fall asleep now.

Then, only a heartbeat later, he shot up.

“N-not to say it is the same—she is a woman after all and you are a man. Obviously, your voice is much deeper,” Aragorn quickly corrected himself, stuttering and worrying that he had offended Legolas with his comparison.

The Elf paused. “...I am not a man either,” he pointed out.

Aragorn grimaced. Before he could formulate another sentence in his sleep-addled mind and possibly stick his foot in his mouth again, Legolas spoke up, effectively shushing the boy.

This time, his voice carried a note of amusement, but it was still gentle.

“There is nothing wrong with your comparison. It is an honor to be likened to Gilraen. Nor should one ever be ashamed of their source of comfort in dark times. Now, cease your needless worrying, and rest.”

Nef aear, nef menel,

guren sí 'waen,

a guren lín govaded.

A tiro nin, Fanuilos,

a linnathon nef aear.

Aur enni lacha,

na vedui vi dû.

As Legolas's voice, unwavering and serene, continued once more to fill the night, wrapping Aragorn in a cocoon of tranquility, the boy's tense muscles began to relax once more, his breathing slowing.

Finally, he surrendered to the lullaby's embrace, the familiar words guiding him into a peaceful slumber.

A few dozen miles away, on the other side of the Anduin, no such peace was to be found.

Instead, the night was filled with a primal tension, as huge, shadowy beasts prowled the woods surrounding the river.

They moved with a chilling purpose, far beyond that of the mere animals they resembled.

These were the Gaurhoth, Sauron's fearsome werewolves, hunting with an intelligence and malice that set them apart from ordinary predators.

Their eyes glowed with a malevolent fire as they stalked through the underbrush, their senses honed on a singular goal. Only occasionally, when a particularly unlucky rabbit or deer happened across their path, would they indulge in a moment of savage slaughter, their attacks merciless and terrifyingly efficient.

But tonight, they were driven by more than the simple hunger of the hunt.

They were angry.

Furious, even, for none of them liked to lose the trail of their prey. Their growls rumbled through the forest like distant thunder, a chorus of rage and frustration.

Amidst this pack of dark hunters, one beast stood out. Larger, black as the deepest night, and more scarred than the others, it radiated an air of authority. Its eyes burned with a cruel intelligence as it prowled at the head of the group.

Suddenly, a subordinate beast emerged from the shadows, its eyes gleaming with excitement. It approached the leader, its movements a blend of caution and urgency.

With a low, guttural growl, it announced its discovery.

“I found the trail. Upstream.” it snarled, saliva dripping from its fangs. “The scent is faint, nearly washed away by the rainfalls. The boy smells weak...vulnerable. Of fear. Of exhaustion. Delicious.”

The leader's ears perked up, and a sinister smile seemed to curl its lips. It turned its gaze toward the direction indicated, its nostrils flaring as it strained to catch the faint, lingering scent of their quarry.

“Good,” the leader growled, its voice a deep rumble that sent shivers of excitement through the pack. “You will lead us.”

And then, to the gathered wolves behind it, some of them already frothing at the jaws, it proclaimed:

“We will hunt him down. He will not escape us again. We will kill him and deliver his remains to the feet of our master’s throne.”

With a victorious howl that echoed through the forest, the pack sprang into motion, their movements fluid and deadly. The trees seemed to close in around them as they surged forward, their eyes locked onto the invisible trail.

The night grew darker, the forest more sinister as the Gaurhoth closed in on their target.

Their hearts pounded with the thrill of the chase, their minds consumed by the promise of blood.

They relished the thought of tearing into the boy's flesh, of hearing his screams echo through the night. The pack moved as one, their breaths coming in low, guttural pants, their eyes gleaming with the anticipation of the kill.

As they closed the distance, the leader's mind raced with the possibilities. Would the boy run? Would he fight? What about his elven companion?

It did not matter.

In the end, he would fall. The Gaurhoth would see to that.

The hunt was on, and there would be no mercy for the prey.

[1] Sindarin: „little warrior“

Chapter Text

Aragorn was skeptical.

Some might even accuse him of being frightened, but that was simply not true. He was merely…skeptical.

After all, the forest they were about to enter bore an uncanny resemblance to Mirkwood, a place that had left him with no fond memories.

The air was thick and oppressive, and even a few steps in, he could already sense that light would be scarce beneath the dense canopy. While it lacked the overt darkness and malice of Mirkwood, it nevertheless felt more foreboding and ominous than any other forest he had encountered.

Furthermore, the knowledge that this wood was inhabited by conscious trees, possibly harboring ill will toward them, did little to steady his nerves.

Yet, there was no turning back—they had endured too much to reach this place, and Legolas seemed to place great faith in the forest, believing it would offer them refuge.

So, Aragorn wisely held his tongue.

The land behind them felt no safer, anyway.

It was a vast expanse of barren, darkened ground, devoid of trees or life for miles. Though they had passed through it, Aragorn had felt acutely vulnerable without the protective guard of trees, and he was certain that Legolas, judging by the Elf's quickened pace, had felt the same unease. Therefore, when they had finally reached the borders of the forest, it had initially been a relief.

What remained of it, that was.

For a massive wildfire had clearly ravaged much of these woods, consuming everything in its path and leaving behind this desolate plain of ash and charred remnants where towering trees had once stood.

It truly was a wonder, considering the massive size of the destruction, that anything of the forest had survived. Its original domain must have been halved, at least.

Initially, Aragorn had assumed the cause to be natural. He knew that although uncommon, forest fires could occur, especially during the warm season and after long periods without rain.

However, Legolas had seemed certain that the true source was much more sinister — that the fire had been set deliberately, possibly specifically to target the Onodrim, the tree-herding Ents.

Since that realization, the Elf had fallen silent, but Aragorn could still sense the anger and sorrow radiating from him. Although Legolas had claimed to never have set foot in this forest, only having heard of it in the tales of his kin, it was clear that such cruel destruction caused him great grief.

Afterwards, the boy had longed to cheer up the Elf but struggled to think of any way to do so, even after feverishly racking his brain for ideas.

It felt deeply unfair — Legolas had been a great source of comfort to him in recent days, and he would have liked to be that, for the other, in return.

Though Legolas maintained his stoic demeanor for the most part, occasionally revealing a gentle or playful side, the Elf had unfailingly sung Aragorn to sleep every night since that first time by the Limlight.

Aragorn had not asked for it anymore, yet Legolas had voluntarily taken on the task, switching between the hymn to Elbereth and other soothing melodies which were new to Aragorn. Since then, his sleep had steadily improved, even if it was still not easy to come by or completely free of nightmares.

Recently, he had also grown increasingly aware that, without Legolas, he would have perished long ago. Rationally, he had known all along that the Elf had saved his life multiple times without hesitation, putting himself in harm’s way by doing so.

But then, Aragorn had been so caught up in his own situation that he had not pondered much on this.

Nowadays, the thought that Legolas might eventually grow weary of the burden and leave him behind was terrifying.

In the end, he had stayed silent as they crossed the dead plains, his thoughts wandering.

This had not changed once they had finally entered the forest, although now the quiet had an even stronger, underlying tenseness to it.

As they ventured deeper, the air grew cooler, and the smell of char and ash gradually gave way to the earthy scent of moss and decaying leaves.

Soon, only sparse light filtered through the canopy in dappled patches, casting fleeting shadows on the ground. Towering trees, some with their bark blackened and scarred by the fire, stood like sentinels against the sky.

But also, new growth sprouted tentatively from the forest floor, a sign of resilience and hope amidst the destruction.

Aragorn marveled at the contrast. In one direction lay the desolate wasteland, a testament to the fire's fury. In the other, an ancient forest stood wounded but not defeated, fighting to reclaim its former glory.

He wondered if the Elf had also noticed, if it provided him with comfort. If it did, there was no indication of it on Legolas’s cold, impassive features.

As the forest grew denser, their journey became more arduous. At first, Aragorn's small stature seemed an advantage, allowing him to slip more easily through the narrow gaps between the trees. But this benefit was short-lived.

Soon, he found himself clambering over massive root systems and grasping gnarled branches to maintain his balance. The effort left him panting, his skin marked by scratches from thorny underbrush.

It was especially unpleasant when his hand, seeking support against the rough bark of a pine tree, came away coated in sticky resin, the clinging residue lingering long after the initial touch.

Meanwhile, Legolas, elegant as ever, moved through the forest with effortless grace.

He navigated obstacles with ease, leaping lightly over roots and ducking under low-hanging branches as if he were part of the forest itself. His movements were fluid and natural, making Aragorn feel all the more clumsy and cumbersome in comparison.

The further they went, the more the forest seemed to close in around them. The canopy grew even thicker, finally blocking out much of the sunlight and casting the forest floor in a dim, greenish light. Strange sounds echoed through the trees – the rustling of leaves, the distant call of unseen birds, and the occasional creak of wood shifting in the wind.

Despite the onset of fatigue, Aragorn pressed on, determined not to slow them down, to prove that he could be a reliable companion, not merely a burden.

As they continued deeper into the heart of Fangorn, the forest seemed to take on an almost mystical quality.

Every now and then, Aragorn thought he caught glimpses of movement out of the corner of his eye, but whenever he turned to look, there was nothing there.

Then, finally, the silence was broken, interrupting the growing unease in Aragorn’s mind in the process.

Surprisingly, it was Legolas who spoke first.

“Maethor bîn.”, he called out softly, and it took Aragorn a moment until he realized that the Elf was calling out for him.

Aragorn gave a small, breathless grunt in response to show that he was listening, all the while wondering if Legolas had perhaps hit his head on a branch without his notice, which might explain why the Elf seemed to have abruptly forgotten his name.

“You should think of another name for me to call you in the future. Your current one draws too much attention. The Dark One’s spies are never far, and we do not know when they are listening.”

Aragorn blinked in surprise. He quickened his pace to catch up with Legolas, nearly stumbling over an exposed root in the process.

Once he was finally walking side by side with the Elf, he questioningly looked up towards the other. “Why now? You fear that the Onid-…Onodrim might answer to Sauron?”

Legolas shook his head. For the duration of a heartbeat, it seemed as the Elf would leave it at that, but then he elaborated, without Aragorn having to pester him to do so first:

“I cannot tell. A long time ago, the prospect would have been preposterous. They are creatures of the Valië Yavanna, tasked with protecting the life of their forests. I find it…difficult to imagine that they would betray their creator such.”

Then his brows furrowed, and his lips tightened, until they were near a straight line.

“Yet, times have changed. It is a great wonder that anything was left of them, considering the destruction we passed on our way. It is possible that they struck a deal with the white Istar, traitor to his kind. In exchange for their survival, they might have pledged their allegiance.”

Thoroughly unsettled by this prospect, Aragorn felt himself pale. Considering all the troubles they had gone through in order to reach this place and possibly escape Sauron’s reach, it would be terribly unlucky if they now willingly walked into his servants’ domain.

“As I said, I consider it unlikely.”, Legolas repeated, who seemed to have noticed his charge’s reaction.

“Regardless, you should get used to another name. If all goes well, we will hide out here for a few seasons, until the attention of Sauron has waned. When I accompany you to Rohan, you shall not give your real name under any circumstances. The risk that it draws the attention of someone who bears you ill will is too great.”

Aragorn nodded. He had not thought of this issue prior, but Legolas’s words made sense. The thought of what name he might give himself also served to distract him from his worried mind.

The first name that came to mind was ‘Arathorn’. Obviously, this would not do, but when he searched for another name, he struggled to think of one – choosing any of the other rangers’ names felt inexplicably wrong.

“Could you choose a Sindarin name for me?”, he asked then, the words appearing to stumble out of his mouth before he could order them to do so.

Legolas seemed as taken aback as Aragorn felt by this request.

After a brief moment of hesitation, he inquired, tone doubtful: “I do not believe that to be wise. That would draw attention as well. You should choose a name of mannish origin.”

“That is not true!”, the boy promptly protested.

“Many among my company have names inspired by the language, even if not all of them speak it. It is a tradition to honor our ancestors, my mother told me, because our people used to be friends with the Elves. Even those among us who are not actually Dúnedain by blood, sometimes have elven names. I do not believe that it will stand out.”

“Is that so?”, Legolas wondered aloud. “I will consider it, then.”

Aragorn nodded, somewhat satisfied. He was a little surprised at his own insistence as well, admittedly. However, it was only fitting in his opinion that he took on a name he liked, if he was to live under its cover for years.

In his mind, Sindarin was a beautiful language, one his mother and father both had adored. Indeed, a name of this origin only felt right.

The boy wondered what the men living in the realm of Rohan tended to call themselves, how they behaved. Would they welcome him, or view him as an outsider, just another mouth to feed?

Determined to prove his worth, he vowed to learn as many skills from Legolas as possible before that day came. He did not wish to be a hindrance any longer, the feeling weighed heavily on him.

Suddenly, something made Aragorn pause, effectively distracting him from his thoughts about the future.

He had been bracing himself for another struggle through dense thickets and over exposed roots — this time making sure to look before touching any tree trunk — when an uncanny sense of familiarity washed over him.

He stared, astonished.

There, on the bark of the tree before him, was a cut from which sticky resin was oozing out. At first, he thought it a strange coincidence that this had happened twice in a row, and both times with a pine, no less.

Yet, upon closer inspection, he noticed a small, barely visible image of a handprint left in the residue.

How was that possible? They had made significant progress since he had made his first and only mistake of sticking his fingers into tree sap. Or at least, that was what Aragorn had thought.

Unnerved, the boy turned to the Elf, who had once again effortlessly taken the lead.

“Legolas!” he called, the unsettled undertone in his voice clearly audible, causing the other to immediately halt in his tracks.

“What is it?”

Once more, Aragorn felt overcome by a strange sense of repetition as he sped up to catch up with his guardian, careful not to trip and fall in the process.

“I think we are walking in circles!” he panted once he had successfully done so.

It was true—now that he was actively looking for signs, he recognized multiple trees that seemed familiar, discernible by unique roots, the structure of their branches, or the color of their bark.

The Elf, true to his nature, remained calm as ever. If he was disturbed by the notion, he did not show it. Instead, he seemed almost... impressed?

“I did not think you would be able to pick up on this. You are more attentive than I expected,” he agreed. His words sounded like praise, and if not for the current situation, Aragorn would have basked in that.

“You are mistaken, though—we are indeed moving forward. It is the trees that are shifting around us.”

Aragorn promptly felt goosebumps rise along his skin, a simultaneous shiver running down his spine. He immediately glanced back at the pine—it was still there, unassuming in its stillness and suddenly all the more frightening for it.

“Y-you mean... the trees are following us? Why?” he squeaked, barely daring to glance back at his guardian, concerned that the pine would vanish once he took his eyes off it.

He finally had to look forward, nearly stumbling as his breeches caught on the thorns of a passing bush. He was saved from falling face-first into it by Legolas, who swiftly grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him up.

“Not quite. They are moving ahead of us. I suspect they are purposely herding us somewhere. For what reason, I cannot say — we will have to find out,” the Elf corrected, speaking as if it were an everyday occurrence for him, as if he had not just warned his charge a short while ago that the Onodrim might be allied with their foes.

Even though Aragorn knew that Legolas had not met any Ents before, it seemed that living past a millennium made one cease to be surprised by most things.

“Do you believe that they view us as the enemies?”, Aragorn whispered quietly, subtly walking closer to Legolas. He did not know how well these trees could hear — if they could, at all.

“It is possible. They might be as wary of us as we are of them. It would be understandable, considering the calamity the forces of evil brought over them.”

“Can you not tell them that we come in peace?”, the boy asked, hopeful that this was a simple misunderstanding, which could be resolved.

Legolas shook his head. “I can feel the ancient presences of those surrounding us, yet I do not sense much awareness in them. I believe that our guards are Huorns. They will listen to the Onodrim, and to them alone.”

After a heartbeat of contemplation, during which the Elf seemed to hesitate over something, he clasped Aragorn’s shoulder with one hand in a gesture of reassurance.

“I can sense your anxiety, and I understand it. Indeed, it is wise to be wary of the situation, but right now, there is naught we can do but wait and see.”

Aragorn swallowed and nodded, willing himself to be brave. It was a little easier with the steadying calmness of Legolas by his side, and for a moment, he imagined that he could soak up the Elf’s strength through the warm touch of his hand. Then, Legolas withdrew, taking the lead once again, but this time making sure Aragorn could follow closely behind.

When the boy turned to glance at the pine behind him one last time, it was gone, leaving behind a small, barely noticeable gap within the otherwise dense vegetation.

For the rest of their walk, Aragorn took great care not to touch any other tree.

Eventually, the journey became even more straining as the ground noticeably grew steeper, forcing the pair to climb hills while continuing to fight against the challenging environment.

At some point, Aragorn wondered how close they were to the massive mountain range that he had seen towering into the sky behind Fangorn, back when they had been traversing the fire-razed plains. He could not see it now, hidden behind trees as it was, but he thought the sudden incline might indicate that they were close.

Perhaps they could use this knowledge to find their way out, if they had to escape…

Then, Legolas came to a halt. Aragorn looked ahead, puzzled as to the cause of their stop.

In front of them was a considerably large clearing, and in the midst of it stood a beech.

Its trunk was much thicker than any tree of its kind that Aragorn had seen before. He thought it must be ancient, maybe even older than Legolas.

It must have seen better days, however. Much of its bark, especially on the side facing them, was black and burnt, flaking off in parts, so that the living, healthy light brown wood beneath could be seen in spots. Fortunately for it, the traces of fire only reached a certain height – the tree was tall, and its bough had been spared, leaving its leaves green and healthy.

Aragorn did not know whether to feel glad about it at this moment. It was clear this tree had the ability to move, as it had evidently escaped a fire at some point. None of the surrounding vegetation showed any signs of being affected by the blaze.

He swallowed hard. What was the beech waiting for? What did it want?

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement, so swift it seemed like nothing more than a shadow. When he turned his head, Aragorn’s eyes widened in alarm.

The way behind them had been completely sealed off by an impenetrable wall of trees. Even the sides had closed in without his notice, leaving no clear escape except to venture forward into the ominous clearing.

Reflexively, he stepped closer to Legolas, frantically tugging at his sleeve. “L-Legolas, t-the trees, they…,” he stuttered, stumbling over his words.

Then, a deep, rolling sound interrupted his hastened attempt at a warning, combined with the creaking and cracking of wood.

Swinging around once more towards the origin of the noise, Aragorn could not help but let out an embarrassing high-pitched noise of fright.

The tree in front of them had lifted, and where there had been one trunk originally, now there were two, resembling thick legs.

What was most unnerving, though, were the clear set of orange-tinted eyes peeking out of what had originally looked like big knotholes. Another short branch served as a crooked nose, and even the slit of a mouth was now visible.

When the mouth moved, producing more of the deep, thunderous grumbling sounds, the last fragments of Aragorn’s composure finally cracked. Instinctively, he jumped and found himself hiding behind Legolas, gripping the back of the Elf’s dark green cloak.

The attempt at hiding was a ludicrous one, of course. It had just been a natural reaction, to flee out of sight of the thing scaring him and seek protection behind the most steadfast person nearby.

Only after a few short moments, in which the loud, thunderous noises did not stop, almost covering the sound of his own frantic heartbeat, did Aragorn realize that these were not, in fact, mere sounds.

They were words – and in Westron, no less. Originally hard to make out, they became quite clear once the boy chose to listen actively.

“Such daring little Orcs. Burárum. Very daring indeed, for under any other circumstances, you would have been squished to mush long ago, as soon as you entered this forest of ours, the forest of Fangorn. Alas, we have a task for you. So that you may live, perhaps, if you do it well. Otherwise, you shall die, for what your black-handed kind did to us, our beloved brothers and sisters, and those we were tasked to protect. Hroom, hum. First, though, we must know, and I command you to speak truthfully, why you are here. Long have we made it clear that none of you are welcome here, and that we will defend that which is ours, up to the last branch and twig.”

Already halfway through the long-winded, slowly paced speech of the Ent, Aragorn had dared to peek out from behind Legolas, who had stayed calm and given no indication that he was bothered by the circumstance that his charge was currently using him as an improvised shield.

Aragorn’s thoughts were racing. ‘They believe us to be Orcs! And they clearly hate them, so it follows that we should be allies, right?’

Legolas seemed to think along similar lines.

“I am honored to make your acquaintance. I am Legolas, from the Woodland Realm once known as Greenwood the Great,” he introduced himself, voice graceful and melodic, giving no indication that he felt intimidated by the very clear threat of being slaughtered by a band of vengeful trees.

“I have longed to visit your splendid abodes for many centuries and meet with your kind, of which I have heard great tales. I only wish that it had been under different circumstances that this wish of mine came true.”

Then, Legolas gave a slight shake of his head, an indication for Aragorn to move so that he could be better seen.

The boy hesitated but, deciding to trust that his guardian knew what he was doing, stepped out, positioning himself next to the taller figure.

“Alas, there seems to be a misunderstanding. Neither of us belongs to Sauron’s black servants. I am an Elf, descendant of those who once taught your kind speech and song. My young companion is called Estel[1] -…”

Aragorn looked up at this, unable to contain his surprise at the name Legolas had apparently chosen in the meantime. He knew the meaning of the word from the few lessons in Sindarin the other had given him during their journey.

Did the Elf also believe in the prophecy, the same way his parents had? It was difficult to believe, and yet, he also could not imagine that Legolas would make such a choice without proper reason…

“- a human child and someone I have sworn to protect in the same manner that you do your forest. Fate has brought us together today. We came here in the hopes that you would grant us temporary residence here for a few seasons until I can reunite my charge with his kin.”

The child noted that Legolas had not mentioned their pursuers, possibly on purpose, fearing that the Onodrim would get rid of them if they thought their presence dangerous.

Aragorn bit his lip to prevent himself from blurting anything out. The thought of hiding such a thing from these beings, even if they were scary, did not sit right with him.

The tall Ent squinted. Then he took one, two, three steps closer, and with each step, the earth seemed to vibrate slightly beneath Aragorn’s feet, although he was not sure whether that was just his imagination.

It was difficult not to step back instinctively, but Legolas stayed still and unmoving. Therefore, Aragorn did not move either. There was not much room to back up, anyways.

“That may be. Perhaps it is true, perhaps not,” the tree said, after a long moment of mustering.

“Yet from my perspective, you look like Orcs. Hroom, hum. I know that the Elves have vanished, they are not here anymore-…”

Aragorn cast a worried glance toward Legolas. When he only saw a disgusted frown flicker over the Elf’s face at the beech's assertion that they resembled Orcs, he almost had to stifle a snicker. Were it not for the current life-or-death situation, he would have felt rather gleeful at the way it bruised the proud being’s ego, to be compared such.

“We felt them leave, felt as the Golden Woods withered and starved, the earth-ground not enough to sustain them. We heard their cries, but we could not help them, for they are root-anchored, bound in place, and so they waited for their end. No, the Elves have left Middle-earth, for they would have heard those cries and saved them otherwise. Therefore, to me, you look like the black-spawn, allies to the flint-hearted white-wizard. And for that, you should die. Wither like our friends of the Golden Woods, become one with the earth and nourish the soil, so that others might grow.”

Aragorn felt a pang of sympathy, despite the repeated threat in the other’s speech. The Ents description of Lothlórien was incredibly sad. He had never realized that trees could feel this deeply. Thinking back to the many fallen or visibly dead trees in the Elven woods, he could only imagine the amount of suffering.

He thought that it must be horrible, to know your end is coming but be unable to move, to flee or fight.

Yet, at the same time he could not help but wonder how much time had passed by the end of the trees long monologue. They talked incredibly slowly, and their strange manner of speaking made it difficult to keep following along. If not for the fact that he was raised to be polite, and let others finish their sentences – and the fact that he did not want to be squished into mush for his insolence – he might have interrupted.

If Legolas was also annoyed by the long-winded speech, he did not show it. Other than the brief flicker of disgust Aragorn had witnessed, he seemed calm and patient. But then again, Aragorn reflected, if one lived forever, they had all the time in the world to listen.

Then, another rumbling sound could be heard, this time originating from somewhere else. When Aragorn glanced in the direction, he could see that it came from another Ent, which clearly resembled a rowan. It was smaller than the beech, albeit still tall, at least several yards. Furthermore, its voice was a little higher than that of the beech.

“Beechbone—look at this one, with hair the color of the golden sun. Have you ever seen black-spawn with such fair hair? I have not. Perhaps they speak truthfully, and he is indeed who he claims to be. It would be a long-awaited boon if he were one of the Firstborn. They could aid us, as they did in ages past when this entire land was a vast tree-covered forest, and a nut-bearing squirrel could carry a nut from tree to tree, from the Elf-lands to the great sea-…”

Aragorn had to suppress a yawn. The travel and the continuous tension had left him tired, and the Ents frequent pauses when speaking did not aid him in remaining attentive.

“-I was not even a green-leafed sapling then, but memories are long-lasting and deep-rooted. When I was but a tiny seed within a red-fleshed fruit, I could feel the age-old reverence of my ancestors for the Firstborn through their branches. They remembered the Firstborn’s deep-rooted respect for nature, their kindness and their gentle demeanor. The Rowan who gave me life is gone now, fallen to a great calamity, a blazing, reddish-hot fire created by clawed fingers, but I remember, and so do many of the others.”

The Beech, aptly named Beechbone, seemed to ponder this for a moment.

“Hroom, hoom. You speak truth, they do not appear or feel like the root-ripping, earth-defiling, iron-clad foul-creatures. Yet, the death-bringer in white also has fair hair, and he is the worst of them all. Hm, hrm. Were it not for the noble-hearted nature of the most wise grey-clad Pilgrim, all of the forest would have burned to the ground, dyed in bright-red flame, leaving only ash in its wake. We would have perished, and Fangorn would be no more than a faint memory, lost to time, until nothing remained.”

It took Aragorn a moment to grasp the information the Ent had just revealed. His determination to stay quiet and not interrupt finally crumbled.

“Do you know Gandalf?” he burst out, the excitement in his voice clearly audible.

But the surprise was not his alone. At that very moment, another stunned voice echoed the sentiment.

“Mithrandir is here?”

Legolas and Aragorn whipped around, their widened eyes locking in shared astonishment.

[1] Sindarin: “Hope“

Chapter Text

Out of the corner of his vision, Aragorn noticed that the Ents visibly mirrored the surprise both he and his guardian experienced in this moment. He had not realized before that tree-like beings could display such emotions, but then again, this day had been full of unexpected revelations.

The Ents exchanged slow, creaking glances.

“How do you know of him?” Legolas demanded.

Caught off guard by the interrogating tone, Aragorn crossed his arms defensively. “He traveled with us occasionally, sometimes for a season or two. I like him a lot, everyone does. He creates fun-looking fireballs sometimes, to amuse us.”

Legolas muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, ‘After all these centuries, he still has not changed his petty tricks’. Though the words seemed harsh, they were softened by the unmistakable fondness in his tone.

This, in turn, created in Aragorn the mental image of a much younger-looking Legolas, with rounded cheeks and big eyes, watching starry-eyed as Gandalf conjured fireballs in the likeness of mighty dragons and funny, chubby-looking rabbits.

It was a pleasant thought.

“How come you never mentioned him before?” Legolas asked, his confusion evident, though his eyes had visibly brightened at the mention of the wizard.

Then, they promptly dimmed again as the Elf turned away, gazing into the distance, lost in memories he alone could see.

“…It gladdens me to know he is alive and well. I have not seen him in decades—I believed he must have fled or been imprisoned by dark forces. I am sure that the traitor Saruman and the Dark One would do everything in their power to capture him. He is too great a threat to them, and I cannot believe they could ever sway him to their cause.”

Aragorn frowned, sensing much left unsaid in Legolas’s explanation. The Elf had nearly sounded choked up.

The boy endeavored to imagine what it must be like, not only to be the sole survivor of one's kin but also to live in uncertainty about the fate of friends, fearing they might be captured and suffering in darkness.

Aragorn himself had witnessed the deaths of many, but at least, he thought grimly, until recently he had always known what became of those in his company.

Today he could relate to Legolas’s plight, for he knew not how many of his father’s band of rangers had survived, and what had become of those who had – where they were, if they were looking for him, or whether they thought him dead, too.

“Gandalf made us swear not to mention him to anyone outside of the other Rangers. He said it would place us in great peril,” Aragorn replied, feeling a pang of guilt, realizing that in his excitement, he had just broken that vow without a second thought.

However, it was probably alright, he swiftly reassured himself, considering that Legolas was trustworthy, and the Ents already knew of the wizard and seemed to regard him as an ally.

“Actually… I believe that he was the one who convinced my parents to travel to Lothlórien. I do not know the details, but before we departed, they spoke often in secret, with only the eldest and wisest of our men privy to their discussions.”

At this, Legolas's head whipped around, his ice-blue eyes fixating on Aragorn’s face. His expression was one of visible shock, though Aragorn could not fathom why.

“It was his wish? Are you certain of this?” the Elf demanded, his voice sharp with sudden urgency.

Aragorn averted his gaze, unease settling over him like a heavy cloak. He sensed that some crucial piece of the puzzle eluded him. Hesitantly, he nodded.

Legolas’s face softened then, perhaps realizing that his behavior was unsettling his charge. Yet, he remained persistent.

“Why was he not with you, then?” he queried, his voice noticeably gentler but still probing.

“I do not know,” Aragorn confessed. “He departed from us shortly after our journey began, claiming that he had pressing matters to attend to. I believe that my father and mother understood his meaning, but…”

His voice trailed off, a lump forming in his throat as the weight of his parents’ fate pressed down upon him, rendering him unable to speak further.

A furrow formed between Legolas’s brows, but before he could speak, another noise shattered the brief silence. It was a deep rumbling sound, prompting both guardian and charge to whirl around in alarm.

In their shared revelation, they had momentarily forgotten the presence of the Onodrim nearby – even though Legolas would likely refuse to admit to such a novice mistake.

Fortunately, the Ents appeared equally bewildered and much less hostile for it. Or at least, Beechbone did – the Rowan looked almost…smug? It was difficult to discern expressions on their large, wooden faces, towering high above Aragorn’s head.

The beech's ancient voice rumbled forth, deep and resonant, like the sound of roots shifting in the earth. “Hroom, hoom, this changes matters indeed,” it intoned slowly, its wooden visage creaking as it spoke.

“We have heard whispers carried by the wind and tidings from the grey-clad Pilgrim. He goes by names that are many and always changing. Olórin, Gandalf the Wise, Mithrandir, we have heard it all – yet he always proved to be a friend to us, and so do we consider him. Though he may not have leaf or branch or root, yet he is entwined with the fate of these lands as surely as any of our kin.”

There was a brief pause as Beechbone seemed to deliberate over his next words with the slow, deliberate thoughtfulness so typical of his kind.

Aragorn scarcely dared to breathe, his impatience mounting as he hung on every word the beech uttered. The mere mention of Gandalf had noticeably altered the Ent’s demeanor, and Aragorn could only hope that this shift would remain steadfast.

Then, the rumbling began anew.

“He spoke of a journey he had embarked upon, with a company that included a young boy. A boy, he said, who might grow to play a most important role in the fight for the future of Middle-earth.”

Beechbone’s branches swayed gently, as if considering its next words with the weight of centuries.

“The Pilgrim spoke of hope kindled in dark times, a light to challenge the gathering shadows. If you are indeed this boy, then perhaps our purpose aligns with yours. Tell us, what is your name?” The Ent ended with a question, and it was the first time Aragorn found himself addressed directly.

Although he knew this was good news, the boy’s shoulders subconsciously slumped. Until now, he had naively thought that Gandalf had been unaware of the so-called prophecy, the future Gilraen’s mother Ivorwen had foreseen, in which he supposedly brought hope and unity to the free Men.

Considering what the Ent had just revealed, it seemed that instead, the reason Gandalf had approached and befriended him had been because the man had actively sought him out.

Not because he had necessarily liked Aragorn, but because he had considered him important.

The boy did not know what to do, how to achieve what all these people expected from him. How was he supposed to defeat a foe, who was apparently so powerful that even Arathorn could do nothing but hide from his gaze and slaughter his servants occasionally from the shadows?

He was drawn out of his thoughts by the sensation of being watched. When he looked up, he saw Legolas, who had apparently noticed his distraction and had been consequently scrutinizing him.

Only then did Aragorn remember that he was supposed to answer a question.

Yet, before he could muster a reply, Legolas stepped forth toward the beech, effectively shielding Aragorn from its field of vision.

He inclined his head respectfully. “This child is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and he bears the lineage of Isildur, who severed the One Ring from the hand of the Enemy, granting us all millennia of temporary peace. We seek temporary refuge and aid, for dark forces seek to grasp him ere he can grow to be a threat.”

So much for the use of Aragorn’s new alias.

The boy stepped out again, unwilling to remain hidden behind the Elf’s shadow.

As soon as he had done so, the beech's eyes, deep and slow to blink, seemed to peer into his very soul. “Hroom, hoom, Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” it murmured, as if tasting the name on its ancient tongue. “We shall not harm you, young one. You may have a part to play in the great song of this world, a song we have heard in the whispers of the leaves and the murmurs of the streams.”

The rowan, its branches still swaying with a certain smugness, added, “The grey wanderer’s words carry weight, even among the oldest of us. If he sees promise in you, then we shall heed his counsel.”

The beech creaked and swayed, its deep voice resonating through the clearing. “Then remain here you shall, for as long as you need. Know this, young Aragorn and you, apparently noble Elf —Fangorn watches over you now. May the forest shield you as steadfastly as we have guarded it through the long ages.”

Legolas gave a short bow of gratitude, which Aragorn quickly imitated.

“You have our thanks,” the Elf declared solemnly. “I do have a question, however. When you mistook us for Orcs, you mentioned an ultimatum, a task for which our lives would be spared. What is it you wish us to do? Do you still desire us to undertake it?”

“Hroom, hum,” the Ent rumbled thoughtfully, its deep voice resonating through the forest.

“Indeed, it is fortunate for you, young ones. Had we not a task that required the skill of your kind, we would have crushed you upon your first step into the bounds of Fangorn. We do not welcome outsiders lightly, for too much harm they have brought upon us, wielding iron-forged, tree-felling tools, glinting in the sunlight, or bringing with them dead branches alight with flames.”

Most fortunate indeed. Aragorn blanched at the renewed realization of how narrowly they had escaped death. One glance at the trunk-like legs of the Onodrim was enough to convince him of the severity of their threats.

“Hoom, we have watched you from the moment you entered our domain. Outsiders have often meant danger, but perhaps you may prove otherwise. There is a blight upon some of our kin, a sickness that spreads and weakens. Your smaller hands may succeed where our great strength cannot.”

Legolas inclined his head again, this time in understanding. “We shall do all within our power to aid you. Show us this afflicted, and we will see what can be done.”

The beech’s eyes, deep and ancient, regarded them with a newfound mixture of hope and caution.

“Very well, follow me. The task may not be simple, but if you succeed, you will have earned our trust. Not merely as the friends of the Grey Pilgrim, but as friends of the Ents.”

Beechbone’s deep eyes seemed to assess them one final time, as if weighing their resolve and worthiness. The ancient beech swayed slightly, as though communing with the surrounding trees, before nodding with slow, deliberate intent. The decision had been made.

With a low creak, Beechbone began to move, his heavy, ponderous steps shaking the earth beneath them. The ground trembled slightly with each stride, a reminder of the immense power contained within the Ent's ancient frame. The other trees seemed to part before him, creating a path as they ventured even deeper into the forest, leaving the clearing behind.

Aragorn felt a strange sense of purpose settling within him. The forest, it seemed, had accepted their presence, if only for the time being.

The trees closed in around them once more, but instead of feeling trapped, this time he felt guided. Beechbone led the way, with Legolas following closely behind, appearing unconcerned by the movements around him.

Perhaps he had long sensed the many Ents in their vicinity. An Elf’s connection to their surroundings still remained a mystery to Aragorn, after all.

In contrast, his own young eyes darted about, taking in every detail.

As he glanced behind, he saw more Ents unrooting themselves to follow. They were of many different kinds, and although they kept silent, Aragorn marveled at their variety.

Now that the tree shepherds were no longer angry, they suddenly appeared far less monstrous to him. Instead, they had become a source of fascination, beings he had never seen before and had not even known existed until recently.

One Ent resembling a birch especially stood out, its bright white bark and slender form contrasting sharply with that of the other Onodrim. It seemed a wonder, considering its lanky and thin limbs, that it could stand upright so tall and confidently, and yet it moved with surprising speed.

It did not take long before Beechbone halted again. When he thought about it, that made sense to Aragorn, considering that Legolas and he had originally been led into the heart of the forest for a specific purpose, one that would soon be revealed.

They reached another clearing, larger than the one before. The rays of the slowly setting sun reached this place, unobstructed by branches, casting a golden light upon the scene.

For the first time, Aragorn could clearly see the fast-moving trees, which he had previously only recognized as shadows in his periphery. Legolas had called them Huorns, he recalled.

In contrast to the Ents, the Huorns showed no facial expressions, even when unrooted. They appeared entirely like ordinary trees, save for their long root systems sticking out of the earth, acting like limbs.

Aragorn squeaked when one of them appeared seemingly out of nowhere, a shadow which sought to block Legolas and him off. A protective, long arm-like root extended from it, effectively forming a barrier that hindered them from going any further.

It was soon admonished by the still unnamed rowan, which had been walking behind the duo of Elf and human child.

“Scram! You are not needed. Do you not see that they are in our company, that we are bringing them here? I said, scram!”

As swiftly as the nameless Huorn had appeared, it retreated back to its original position on the edge of the clearing. It had no eyes, and yet, Aragorn still felt watched by its presence. This only heightened his curiosity. What could be so important to the Ents that they were guarding here?

Soon, he would have his answer.

In front of them, Beechbone stepped aside, its ancient eyes looking down, almost mournfully.

Aragorn did not know what he had expected, but the sight before him was unlike anything he could have imagined.

For stretched out in front of him was a field of very young, barely sprouting trees.

About a dozen small, green buds were peeking out from the earth, their tender shoots and delicate leaves trembling in the soft breeze. The ground around them was rich and dark, obviously recently watered, cradling fragile saplings that were scattered in a seemingly haphazard manner.

Before either Aragorn or Legolas could inquire as to the meaning of this, Beechbone began to speak again, his rumbling voice swiftly drowning out all other noise in the vicinity.

“Behold, the remains of our kin, most-cherished and long-remembered. They are no mere seedlings, but instead new life, grown from the old. Among them lies Treebeard, eldest, wisest, and bravest of us all, the very namesake of this forest. It was he who first stirred us from slumber, who revealed our strength and the role we must play in our own defense. The flames claimed him, and many others, a loss we feel in every root and branch.”

“The flames that consumed our forest were not of natural origin,” the Rowan cut in then from behind, his voice a slow, rumbling growl.

“They were brought by the dark ones, the fire-wielding, land-scarring servants of the Enemy. We fought, we resisted, but the fire spread too quickly. Treebeard led us in our defense, but even he could not withstand the inferno. Hroom, yet in our darkest hour, the Grey Pilgrim came to our aid. With his help, hroom, we saved green-wood branches from a few, and planted them. Their old bodies may be gone, but their spirits live on, borne anew in these saplings.”

As Aragorn glanced back towards the young trees, he felt overcome by a sense of awe. Now that he understood their significance, each one of the saplings appeared as a testament to the resilience of the Ents. They stood tall and proud, their branches reaching skyward in defiance of the flames that had sought to consume them.

“Though their bodies are new, their souls are ancient,” Beechbone repeated, his voice a deep, resonant hum. “They carry the memories and wisdom of those who came before, and in time, they shall grow to be as strong and wise as their predecessors.”

Legolas had used the meantime to approach the saplings. Aragorn spied movement in the treelines at this motion, but no Huorn sought to block the Elf off this time.

Unhindered, his guardian crouched down in front of the sapling referred to as Treebeard.

Soon, he let out a gentle hum, standing up again and turning towards Beechbone, who had watched in silence.

“I assume it is this affliction you seek our aid with?” Legolas inquired, though his tone made it sound more like a statement than a question.

Aragorn curiously walked closer, but not before looking around apprehensively, half-expecting to be barred entry by an overly protective tree again. Yet, nothing happened, and once he stood next to Legolas, he finally realized what the Elf was referring to as well.

For many of the trees, including the apparently courageous Treebeard, were beset with grey-black insects, clustered densely along their branches and trunks, siphoning away the life-giving sap, leaving behind a sticky residue that glistened unpleasantly in the light of the setting sun. The aphids seemed to cover the young saplings like a living shroud, their presence a dark blight against the vibrant green.

Small, honeydew droplets, a byproduct of the aphids' feeding, dotted the leaves and ground below, attracting a sooty mold that further marred the fragile foliage.

“These pests,” Legolas murmured, “are sapping the vitality from your saplings. They must be removed, lest they weaken the young trees beyond recovery.”

Beechbone's deep eyes seemed to darken further. “Hroom, we have tried, but our own efforts have proven futile, yes, futile indeed. We are not as nimble-fingered, as quick-handed as your kind. Our attempts to remove them have caused more harm, more damage, than good. We can hear them cry out in pain, for they are weakening. They are young and tender, vulnerable and delicate, not yet strong enough to sustain themselves. What would for a grown tree be a mere burden, for them is a struggle between life and death.”

Legolas nodded thoughtfully.

“Aragorn and I shall do what we can to aid you. I know of ways to deal with these creatures. Together, we shall see these saplings flourish once more.”

Beechbone hummed in satisfaction, a deep vibration that resonated through the earth.

“May the wisdom of Kementári[1], nurturer-of-all-green-life, guide your hands,” he intoned. “For as the forest thrives, so does the world.”

With these words, Beechbone and the still unnamed Rowan began to move toward the edge of the clearing, likely intending to give Elf and boy some space to commence their work. Before they could do so, however, Aragorn shyly called out:

“Wait!”

The Ents halted, momentarily surprised.

But the boy’s eyes were fixed on the Rowan, who had first spoken in defense of both Legolas and him, back when they had been judged as enemies.

“May I ask, what should we call you? I know that your friend is Beechbone, but what is your name?”

The Onodrim seemed taken aback for a moment, but when the Rowan responded, a light seemed to twinkle in its green, brown-flecked eyes.

“As for my true name, it is long and would twist your tongue. Yet, you may call me Quickbeam, or Bregalad, as the Elves would say.”

Aragorn nodded. “Thank you, Quickbeam, and thank you both for standing up for us and taking us in.”

The Ents exchanged a glance. Finally, Quickbeam let out a pleased hum, which sounded more like a deep rumble from within his wooden form.

“Hrum. You are very welcome, young one. Very welcome indeed,” he replied.

Then, the Onodrim continued on their way, this time without looking back.

When Aragorn turned to receive his instructions, he was caught off guard by the glimmer in Legolas’s eyes—a subtle blend of pride and fondness.

Though he did not understand what he had done to merit such a look, it warmed him inside.

Unfortunately, the moment was fleeting. The glimmer in Legolas's eyes soon faded, replaced by a neutral expression as he prepared to give his orders.

“I shall prepare a tincture to help repel these pests in the future. In the meantime, you shall pick off the aphids, so that I can apply the fluid afterward-…”

“With my hands?!” Aragorn burst out, rudely interrupting his guardian.

Legolas merely arched an eyebrow in response, a hint of amusement playing on his lips.

“Indeed, although you could also make use of a cloth to wipe them off, I suppose. Why? Do you mean to tell me that the brave warrior Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the line of Isildur, is afraid of mere insects?”

The boy did not appreciate the accusation, nor the mirth in the Elf’s voice.

It was not that the insects scared him, he merely thought that the aphids looked rather disgusting with their tiny dark bodies swarming the trees and sucking their sap.

The sight brought up an old childhood memory of when he had fallen into a nest of ants. They had stung him terribly, and it had taken a while to get rid of every little creature inside his clothes. Only a bath in the cold river had made him feel clean again.

Eldanir, Elgarain's younger brother, had found great amusement at his expense back then. His laughter had always been contagious, so Aragorn had not even been able to stay angry and had soon started to join in as well.

The boy had always been a cheerful child, only a few years older than Aragorn. He had looked up to his older sister greatly. He would surely miss her terribly, just as Aragorn ached over the loss of his own parents.

He wondered how Eldanir was faring now. Did he already know of his sister’s death?

After all, Aragorn had been the only child in the company traveling to Lothlórien, the others had stayed behind with the women and the elderly.

Where and how far away they had journeyed, the boy did not know, for only the adults had been privy to that information. His separation from the company had never been part of the plan, hence there had been no reason for him to know.

Aragorn frowned, lost in thought, but he was soon drawn out by Legolas’ voice.

“No protests? I am glad for it. After you are done, you can put your hunter’s skills to the test.”

He perked up. “My hunter’s skills?” he repeated, questioningly.

“Indeed. It may be late in the season, but you can search for ladybugs and lacewings and release them near the trees. They are natural predators to the pests, and perhaps we can persuade them to stay with the promise of easy meals.”

Aragorn blinked, not particularly impressed by the task, though the idea of hunting for these insects sounded more appealing than his original assignment of cleaning the trees.

Still, he could not resist one more attempt at bargaining for a different chore.

“What is the tincture made of? Maybe I can make it in your stead?” he asked hopefully.

Legolas paused, his silence drawing out before he finally grimaced—a rare and telling expression.

“Garlic,” he replied simply.

With that, he set off, leaving a cackling Aragorn behind.

His attempt at negotiating was soon forgotten.

In this very moment, a few dozen miles away, the atmosphere was much, much darker.

For wherever the Gaurhoth roamed, terror followed in their wake.

And now, their fury was palpable.

It was a rare instance, that any unfortunate soul crossed the paths of these beasts in their rage and lived to tell the tale.

They were gathered within a cave, their many large and furred bodies too numerous to fit entirely within the den, leaving the less important ones outside to search for traces.

Inside, snarls echoed through the dim chamber. The scent of blood — mostly old — awakened their instinctive thirst for flesh, for pain, for death. But it was not the mere presence of blood that incited their wrath.

No, it was the scent of their prey's blood, mingled with that of another predator — a rival, one unworthy of the kill.

“What is this?!” the leader bellowed, its black silhouette nearly merging with the cave's shadows, save for its glowing amber eyes piercing through the dark.

Its gaze was fixed on a seemingly insignificant wooden trinket, presented by a subordinate.

The latter averted its eyes, cautious not to provoke a challenge.

“A pendant, of the kind humans adorn themselves with. It reeks of the boy’s scent, Master.”

The subordinate barely finished speaking before it leapt back, narrowly avoiding the leader's snapping jaws.

Cowering, it lowered itself, tail tucked tightly, ears pinned flat against its head.

“I can see that,” the leader hissed, a venomous edge to its voice, “but why is it here?”

This time, the subordinate dared not answer. Yet another, a grey-furred one, which had until now been sniffing the bloodied, torn cloth scattered across the hardened ground, stepped forward, driven by either bravery or folly.

“Killed. A bear got to him first. Everything here reeks of it. The prey’s blood is no coincidence.”

“And what of the Elf? Did he abandon the boy, was he too weak?” the leader growled, unconvinced. “They seek to deceive us.”

Right then, a clamor erupted outside—a feral mix of howling, snarling, and growling.

The latter sounds were unfamiliar, not belonging to their pack.

The leader darted towards the source of the disturbance, exiting the cave, a black shadow too swift for mortal eyes, the other wolves close behind.

Outside the cave, they were immediately overwhelmed by foul odors, their sensitive snouts twitching in offense.

One source of the stench was the surrounding vegetation, the other, the cause of all their anger, stood right in front of him.

A bear, huge but emaciated, stood defensively, growling with a half-rotten deer carcass clamped in its jaws. Its ribs jutted sharply beneath its mangy fur, a testament to its struggle against starvation.

The wolves looked upon the bear with disdain. In their eyes, the bear was pathetic, a creature so weak it could not even manage to feed itself.

Too weak to be deserving of life.

The Gaurhoth snarled, their collective growls forming a menacing chorus, while the bear, desperate and aggressive, mistakenly sought to defend its meager catch.

Seeing an outlet for its pent-up wrath, and susceptible to any perceived challenge of its superior might, the leader launched forward with a deep growl, its teeth bared.

Immediately, as if given a command, the pack followed in a frenzy, their bodies moving as one. They attacked with merciless precision, cruelly tearing and biting and ripping into the bear's flesh.

Their victim defended itself fiercely and bravely, not backing down even in the face of certain defeat — not that it would have been able to escape anyways, for its fate had already been decided.

Eventually, the bear's growls turned into pained roars, then weakened whimpers as it fell under the onslaught. Blood sprayed across the forest floor, staining the ground a dark, muddy red.

As the creature lay downed, its body twitching in the throes of death, a smaller subordinate wolf leapt forward, poised to deliver the fatal strike. Its teeth glistened beneath the light of the setting sun, which bathed the sky in an orange-red hue, all too reminiscent of the bloodbath below.

Yet, moments before it reached its target, it was grabbed in a swift, brutal motion by the neck, lifted off the ground in a display of great strength.

With a savage snarl, the leader hurled the smaller wolf against a tree, the impact cracking through the night. The subordinate whimpered, slumping to the ground, defeated and submissive.

The leader's bellow was low and menacing, resonating through the clearing.

“I alone deliver the final blow.”

With that, its jaws clamped down on the bear's throat, teeth sinking deep. The unfortunate creature gave one final shudder before lying still, its life extinguished.

The black silhouette released its grip, standing over the lifeless carcass with a fierce, victorious howl. The pack watched, their bloodlust momentarily sated, as their leader asserted its dominance with brutal finality.

But it was this previously unquenched bloodlust that had spelled their doom.

For if they had not killed the other creature in such a cruel, needlessly savage display, maybe they would have still found the traces of those they had been ordered to track.

Alas, now it was all gone, covered by the fresh odor of death.

[1] A Valië and one of the eight Aratar (the greatest of the Valar). She is responsible for “all growing things”. The Ents were created at her behest. Kementári is of Quendian origin, meaning “Queen of the Earth”. (You might know her as Yavanna)

Chapter Text

As the days in Fangorn passed, the young trees gradually began to recover, bolstered by Legolas’s careful ministrations and his young companion’s tireless efforts.

It did not take long until the pests had all but vanished. Soon after, where the branches had once been blighted and weighed down by clusters of grey-black aphids, new shoots of tender green leaves emerged, reaching skyward with renewed vigor. Their leaves, once curled and yellowed, regained their natural hue—a vibrant green that spoke of life and health.

The sticky residue of honeydew, which had coated the leaves and branches in a dark, sooty mold, began to diminish. Finally freed from their tiny tormentors, the trees no longer wept the sap that had drawn ants in droves.

Even the bark, once marred by the relentless feeding of the aphids, showed signs of healing. The wounds began to close, smooth calluses forming over the damaged areas, promising future strength and resilience. The sap flowed freely once more, a sign of the young trees' recovery and the return of their innate vitality.

And with their recovery, the Onodrim truly warmed to the presence of their forest’s newest inhabitants—as they had promised.

Legolas relished in his new surroundings, which seemed to him a small, but precious sanctuary amidst a darkened world. The trees were alive, they whispered to him, and they bore no defilement like those in Lothlórien or Mirkwood. Attributable to the guardianship of the Ents, they had remained remarkably pure, their presence alone a source of comfort to an Elf’s soul.

He spent a great amount of time in their boughs, conversing with the Onodrim, whose ancient souls made him feel akin to an Elfling, younger than he had in centuries. They welcomed him, curious themselves about the young Wood-Elf within their midst, taking great joy in his tales and songs, whether they were of sorrow or joy.

Sometimes Aragorn joined in, and though he was not of Elven origin, he quickly adapted to life in the forest. The Ents treated him much like they would their own young shoots growing in their precious clearing—sometimes too much so, for Legolas’s taste.

For it was on one occasion that the Elf returned from a successful hunt, in the process of stocking up on food before the approach of winter, only to find his young charge half a hand’s width taller than he had been at the beginning of the day.

At the sight of Legolas’s narrowed eyes, the boy seemed a bit sheepish, yet initially refused to reveal what had happened.

Only upon further questioning did Aragorn admit that Fladrif—a typically reclusive Ent, whose name in Westron translated to Skin-bark and who resembled a birch in stature—and Quickbeam had taken it upon themselves to offer him a sip of their Ent-draughts. While they had meant well, wishing for the child to grow and strengthen like one of their young sprouts, Legolas did not find amusement in this discovery.

Without delay, Legolas shifted his focus from stalking game to tracking down the responsible Onodrim. When he eventually located them—evidently having hidden themselves on the far side of the forest to escape the Elf’s ire—he delivered a stern and lengthy reprimand. He chastised them for their reckless decision to give enchanted waters to a mortal child, the consequences of which they could not fully comprehend.

The irony of his statement would strike him much later, in the privacy of his thoughts. Fortunately, no one knew about the flask filled with the waters of the Gûlduin among his belongings, and Legolas had no intention of sharing this information.

As the Ents admitted their guilt, their branches soon drooped in shame, their leafy heads lowering under his stern gaze. Eventually, Legolas granted them mercy, permitting them to leave—after they vowed to never repeat their mistake.

Initially, it seemed as if the Ents had accepted his rebuke. However, in a playful act of retribution, Quickbeam soon bestowed upon Legolas a new nickname, likely of Quenya origin.

The name quickly spread among the other Onodrim, who, once they learned of the incident, began to use it with great amusement. Whenever they addressed him by this name, their deep, rumbling laughter echoed through the forest, much to Legolas’s displeasure.

While the Elf regrettably did not speak ancient language of his ancestors, save for a few words, he had a strong inkling that it meant something along the lines of ‘fierce-she-bear-guarding-her-cub’. His protective demeanor appeared to have left a lasting impression with the Onodrim.

Fortunately, despite his noticeable growth, Aragorn remained healthy and blissfully unaware of his guardian’s newfound plight. Though Legolas's disapproval was evident, the boy clearly took great delight in his newfound height and when it became apparent that Legolas intended to prevent any further growth spurts through Ent-draughts, Aragorn’s disappointment was unmistakable.

Ever since that day, Legolas and the Onodrim had been forced to work closely together to prevent the determined boy from stealing yet another sip when unattended.

Thankfully, they were successful, for Legolas took no pleasure in the mental image of a strong-willed, occasionally frustratingly stubborn child surpassing him in height.

At least for now, he still had the option of tossing the boy into the nearest river should he prove too much to handle—a small but significant advantage Legolas had no intention of losing anytime soon.

It was at the very end of autumn, just before the temperatures would plunge even during the daylight hours, that their brief respite in their newfound sanctuary would be cruelly interrupted.

Legolas was perched high in the boughs of an ancient oak, alongside Aragorn. He had been instructing his charge in the art of climbing trees with agility and efficiency, hoping also to cure the boy of his irrational fear of heights in the process, through the mechanism of gentle exposure.

Despite his initial nervosity, the human boy had managed admirably, surpassing the Elf's expectations of the race of Men as he often did, so much so that Legolas was almost tempted to brush aside the boy’s dark, wavy hair to check for the telltale pointy ears of his own kind.

They paused just short of the tree’s summit, resting quietly and soaking in the harmonious sounds of the forest around them. The peaceful melody of nature was a balm to their spirits, when all too abruptly, the tranquil sounds faded away, replaced by a heavy silence.

Suddenly, the only sound that persisted was the whispering of leaves, growing in intensity as if the very trees trembled in tense anticipation.

A wave of inexplicable dread and terror washed over Legolas, gripping him fiercely, though he could not immediately discern its source.

Through the oak beneath him, neither Huorn nor Onod, but a simple tree, Legolas felt the echo of that same tension reverberating through its bark. The impressions flooded his mind, nearly overwhelming him in the process with their intensity.

‘Foul-creatures-beasts-dark-taint-danger-black-riders-hunting-fear-death-decay-down-down-DOWN’

Overcome by the tree's deafening sensations, the Wood-Elf instinctively looked upward. Through the canopy of red, yellow, and brown leaves, he finally glimpsed the source of their terror, and his blood turned to ice.

Black figures, cloaked in shadow, rode atop dreadful winged beasts, their dark forms a stark and menacing contrast against the pale blue sky.

The Nine Riders.

The moment he recognized them, Legolas’s body moved of its own accord. They had to descend—quickly. If they were spotted, it would mean their doom.

Without a second thought, he grabbed Aragorn, sparing no thought for the boy’s protest, and leaped from the tree. There was no time for a graceful descent.

They landed heavily by elven standards, although Legolas took great care to ensure that the impact was cushioned by a roll, swiftly pulling off his green cloak and throwing it over them both as soon as they came to a halt on the damp forest floor.

They huddled together, concealed beneath the cloak, just as a bone-chilling screech pierced the air above them. The sound was high-pitched and warped, slicing through the stillness and freezing the blood in the veins of anyone who heard it.

Guardian and charge clamped their hands over their ears, grimacing in pain. The screeching echoed, fading out only after what felt like an eternity, until a tense silence reigned once more.

It took even longer until the oppressive atmosphere eventually lifted, and the distant sounds of the forest began to return, tentative at first, as though unsure the danger had truly passed.

Only when Legolas too was certain that the wraiths had gone, did he remove the cloak. The relief was palpable, but the tension lingered.

Aragorn’s voice was small and trembling when he finally spoke. “W-what were they?”

“Ringwraiths,” Legolas answered grimly. “Heading for Rohan.”

'Looking for you,', he refrained from adding, but the look of dread on Aragorn’s face made it clear that the implication was not lost on the boy.

The remainder of the day passed in a heavy, oppressive silence.

It was in the depths of winter, when the first flakes of snow began to fall, that the Ents at last granted permission for Elf and boy to kindle a fire beneath their boughs—on the condition that only dead wood be used.

Until that moment, Legolas and Aragorn had always been required to leave the bounds of Fangorn whenever they needed to cook or warm themselves by a campsite, despite the danger it posed for them to leave the forest’s watchful boughs. But now, it seemed they had finally earned enough of the forest’s trust.

Or perhaps even the Onodrim could not bear to watch the child shiver in the merciless cold.

When Legolas finally set about lighting the first campfire within Fangorn’s borders, the site carefully prepared beforehand under the Ents’ watchful eyes to ensure no stray ember could escape and cause harm, Aragorn’s impatience had long reached its peak.

The boy sat upright in his bedroll, leaning with his back against a tree. He was wrapped tightly in both their blankets, his eyes fixed on Legolas as he struck flint and steel. The prospect of a source of warmth was almost too much to bear, and he had little attention for anything else.

Yet, the memory of the great blaze that had nearly consumed them all still lingered deep in the forest’s heart, and Fangorn’s memory was long and unyielding.

So it was that, as the flint sparked and the first flicker of flame caught the waiting wood, Aragorn suddenly found himself sprawled on the ground, his back smarting from the rough impact as he now gazed up at the moon and stars.

Where once there had been naked boughs, laden with layers of snow, there was now open sky. The tree that had been supporting him from behind had fled at the first sign of fire, despite its initial show of bravery, and many others had followed suit, leaving behind a great clearing in the midst of the dense woods.

Though initially grumpy at the sight of Legolas’s resulting amused expression, Aragorn soon forgot his irritation as the warm light of the fire began to grow. Before long, he slid closer, eager to warm his cold, numb fingers by the comforting glow.

Indeed, the seasons passed with unexpected swiftness, seeming to slip by in the blink of an eye.

Yet, something had shifted. It was no longer like the days Legolas had spent wandering the shadowed paths of Mirkwood, when time had dragged on excruciatingly slow. Those days had once blurred together, indistinguishable from one another, and nearly three decades had passed with nothing of note to mark their passing.

Elves were blessed with a memory that was both detailed and enduring, yet even so, Legolas found that he could scarcely recall anything from that period of his life. It all seemed shrouded in a haze of endless walking—always walking, with no destination in sight. There had been no purpose, instead the act itself had been the purpose, a futile attempt to distract himself from the deep-seated hopelessness that had taken root in his heart.

But even the longest and harshest of winters eventually yield to the encroachment of spring. Such is the cycle of life, a truth the Elf would do well to remember in the days to come.

For Legolas, spring had arrived in the form of a new responsibility—a young boy, entrusted to his care, who was gradually becoming more than just a duty, but someone he genuinely cared for.

And so it was, as nature began to stir from winter's grasp, with the first tender shoots of green cautiously emerging in Fangorn, that Legolas made a quiet decision. He packed away the phial he had found in the Golden Woods, intending to put it out of mind for good.

For many nights, he had taken it out, cradling it in his hands, finding solace in the peaceful energy it emanated. It had been a source of comfort since the day he discovered it, hidden away in an intricately carved wooden box beneath the earth.

There was no specific reason for his decision to halt this practice, no sudden revelation. The phial’s presence had never felt malevolent, its light was and remained pure, innocent, and good.

Rather, it was a simple choice—Legolas did not want to rely on the phial for his peace of mind, however harmless it seemed. He had realized that he did not wish to live in the past any longer, no matter how comforting it was to momentarily relive the memories that had once brought him joy.

Instead, he chose to look forward to the future he began to believe in once more.

So, the phial was stowed away, and for a long time, Legolas ceased to dwell on its existence. It would not be forgotten, for Elves do not forget easily, but rather set aside, while Legolas remained unaware of the role it would one day play in the distant future.

In the height of summer, when the heat was at its peak—though still cooler than in the days before Sauron’s shadow began to darken Middle-earth—Aragorn successfully felled his first hare.

It was a precise strike, the arrow piercing the animal’s heart and sparing it unnecessary pain. Indeed, it was a shot that would have surely made the bow’s original owner proud, were Elgarain there to see it.

Instead, it was Legolas who witnessed this accomplishment, as well as the emotions that played out on his charge’s face immediately after. Initially, Aragorn cheered—rightfully so, for this was an impressive feat—but shortly after, sadness intermingled with his initial enthusiasm.

The boy quickly quieted, uttering a prayer under his breath before setting to work on preparing the carcass for transport, imitating what he had learned by watching the work of the men in his company, as well as that of his guardian.

Legolas felt overcome by a strange mixture of fondness and pride at this display, not unlike what he had felt when Aragorn had inquired the Ents, whom he had clearly been terrified of at first, after their names.

Aragorn was merely a child, and a mortal one at that. Because of this, Legolas had never expected much of him in terms of empathy, and yet, the boy continued to defy all his expectations without realizing or intending to do so.

He could not help but wonder if Aragorn was exceptional among his kind, or if the Elves of Mirkwood, in their isolated forest, had simply misunderstood the race of Men.

Perhaps, Legolas reflected, it was a bit of both.

Long before the rise of Sauron, Legolas and his kind had occasionally used to watch groups of human men from the nearby Dale, mostly consisting of their nobility, set out on their horses, accompanied by ferocious hounds. Together, they had hunted for trophies, their laughter and bellows audible even from afar.

They had treated the hunt as a game, rather than a necessity for survival, something that had made the onlooking Wood-Elves shake their heads in disdain. Rarely had they seemed to care about dispatching their prey in the most efficient manner, and seldom considered whether it would suffer if not done properly.

And sometimes, the humans had taken more than nature could sustain, breaking precious, although unspoken, rules, such as refraining from hunting does from late spring until the approach of summer, when they often had fawns waiting for them, who would starve to death without their mother’s milk.

Back then, it had been the Elves who had to clean up after the Men, making up for their carelessness. Whether that meant dispatching a half-starved fawn in an act of mercy, or raising one by hand, Legolas had done both before.

In this moment, the Elf could only hope that the people in Helm’s Deep would not misjudge Aragorn’s empathy for weakness and seek to weed it out. It was tough and thankless to hold onto virtues such as kindness and honor in this world. Yet, until now, his charge had clearly managed to do so successfully, in spite of the hardships he had endured.

As the Elf approached the boy, who was kneeling in the dirt and struggling to correctly field-dress his catch, Aragorn looked up, confusion etched on his face.

Legolas crouched down next to him, gently taking the knife out of his charge’s hands. “Here—watch carefully. We shall ensure that nothing of use goes to waste.”

Aragorn nodded, a crease forming between his brows as he watched intently, once more showing his dedication to learning the skills of surviving in the wilderness.

“It was a truly excellent shot. Keep honing your skills, and perhaps, one day, you will be a worthy opponent for me in the hunt.”, Legolas added shortly after, as he successfully made the incision necessary to remove the organs.

He was rewarded with a smile—a precious gift, for the sight had become increasingly rare following Lothlórien.

In response, Legolas felt a slight curl playing at his own lips.

Aragorn grew swiftly.

So much so, that at first, Legolas suspected the child might have somehow gained access to the forbidden Ent-draughts. Yet, despite his careful supervision, he found no evidence to support this theory.

Eventually and reluctantly, Legolas had to acknowledge that perhaps mortal children simply grew at a much faster pace. Although he was aware of this fact in theory, witnessing it firsthand was entirely different. For an Elf who had spent millennia among his kin who were essentially unchanging, and alongside ancient trees that took many decades, even centuries, to reach their full height, the rapid transformation of a mortal child was both a strange and fascinating experience.

It was a stark reminder of the swift passage of time in the world of Men, a concept foreign to one so accustomed to the slow, steady rhythms of Elven and arboreal life.

It was possible that Aragorn’s newfound stability, his relatively consistent nourishment, and the physical activity and strength training he engaged in daily, contributed to his swift development. The boy’s days in Fangorn were filled with archery practice and sword fighting. Though swordplay was not Legolas’s preferred method of combat—his heart lay with the bow and his twin knives—he knew enough to instruct the boy in the basics. If Aragorn developed a more fluid, graceful style than was typical among Men, it was no loss.

Yet, the martial arts were not all that filled Aragorn’s time. Legolas continued to teach him Sindarin, along with the songs and tales of the Elves, passed down through countless generations of the Firstborn, both in writing and in speech.

Many of these tales were familiar to Aragorn, having been taught by his mother and occasionally by his father. But some stories were new, or had been told differently, and so the boy learned of the creation of the world and all that followed, from the perspective of the Firstborn.

The Ents, too, played their part in Aragorn’s education. The Onodrim were quick to develop affection for the boy—at least as much as their kind could, for they perceived and experienced the world much differently than other races of Middle-earth. They imparted to him, perhaps unintentionally, one of their most sacred virtues—patience.

This was a valuable lesson, for like any child, Aragorn occasionally succumbed to fits of frustration, particularly with his training in archery and swordplay, where he often found himself dissatisfied with his progress. His frustration was only exacerbated by the fact that he had no one to measure himself against save for Legolas, whom he could not hope to surpass.

Through the Ents, Aragorn also developed a profound respect and awareness of nature, a sense deeply ingrained in every Wood-Elf of Mirkwood, but one which Legolas could never have conveyed as the Onodrim did simply by their very existence. In his free time, the boy began to show an interest in plants and their properties, an exploration that seemed to grow naturally from the teachings he received from his newfound mentors.

Yet, even in this area, Aragorn sometimes found himself dissatisfied, for the specific study of plants and their healing properties was one of the few fields in which Legolas was not intimately versed. The Elven warrior had learned how to dress wounds and treat fractures—skills necessary for battle—but the broader knowledge of herbal lore had never been crucial for him. The Elves resistance to poisons and immunity to illnesses meant that such expertise was not a necessity, leaving Legolas unable to impart as much wisdom as he would have liked.

Alas, despite all the time that passed, Legolas and Aragorn refrained from discussing the future or the possibility of Aragorn leaving for Rohan. It remained a silent shadow over their thoughts, ever-present but unspoken, one that loomed closer with each passing day.

They had seen no enemies save for that single encounter with the Nine Riders overhead, and the Ents reported no significant threats beyond the occasional passing Orc patrol. As the days in Fangorn stretched on, the justification for their continued stay grew increasingly tenuous, while the inevitability of the choices they would soon have to face weighed heavily upon them.

Perhaps they were both being somewhat childish, hoping that by not speaking of it, the matter would not force itself upon them, that no decisions would need to be made, and no actions taken. All the while they were both aware, deep down, that the time for such choices would come, whether they wished it or not.

In truth, Legolas may have silently harbored the hope that Aragorn would choose to remain.

But these fragile hopes were abruptly and cruelly shattered one evening in autumn.

The temperatures had begun to drop again, especially during the nighttime hours, prompting them to rekindle campfires at night to ward off the chill.

Aragorn had seemed particularly deep in thought, a state that had become increasingly common for him in recent times. Legolas had grown accustomed to giving the boy space to ponder, so it took him by surprise when Aragorn finally spoke.

“What do you think of the prophecy?” the child asked softly, the flickering flames casting shifting shadows across his tanned face.

Legolas's expression remained unchanged, outwardly neutral, though he was indeed taken aback by the question.

However, instead of questioning Aragorn’s sudden curiosity, he paused to consider his response carefully.

“I was not there when it was made, nor do I know the exact words or the one who foresaw it,” Legolas began cautiously. He raised a hand to forestall Aragorn’s protest or explanation, and the boy fell silent.

“Alas... it seems that Mithrandir placed his faith in it. Though he lacks the gift of foresight, his wisdom is beyond measure. Moreover, he has always possessed an uncanny ability to sense those destined to have a role in the fate of Middle-earth.”

However, Legolas conveniently omitted the fact that he himself had once been rather convinced that the prophecy had led Aragorn’s kin into a disastrous trap—perhaps even by design. Now, with the knowledge of Mithrandir’s involvement, his feelings were far more conflicted. While a shadow of doubt lingered, Legolas could not bring himself to believe that the Grey Pilgrim would betray Aragorn, his family, and the Rangers all for the purpose of serving Sauron’s dark will.

And yet, a treacherous whisper persisted in his mind…

Saruman the White, has long succumbed to the lure of power. Who was to say that Mithrandir, too, could not fall prey to temptation or the threat of torture?

No, Legolas rebuked himself. Mithrandir must have truly believed that the journey to Lothlórien was crucial, a key to gaining the upper hand against the Dark Lord.

But where did that leave them now? Lothlórien had stood empty, its Elves long since departed, as Legolas had feared. How had they been meant to receive the counsel of the Lady of the Golden Woods?

The unsettling thought that they might have missed something—or worse, that those who had been meant to receive them had fallen to the same dark forces that had claimed Arathorn—was not one he welcomed. Part of him longed to return, to scour the Golden Wood for any clues they might have overlooked.

But he could not. They had only just escaped danger, there was no way back for Aragorn without exposing him to great peril.

“If Mithrandir places his faith in you, and believes you have a role to play in the fight for Middle-earth…then I, too, would believe in it,” Legolas murmured after a prolonged silence, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the night when he finally spoke.

He spoke truthfully. There was a reason that, when asked to name Aragorn, the first word that had come to Legolas’s mind had been hope. After all, if this mortal child could inspire a glimmer of hope within an Elf who had witnessed millennia and spent decades full of sorrow, who was to say he would not one day grow to achieve the same for Middle-earth?

As he observed the boy’s frowning face from across the campfire, Legolas quietly invited Aragorn to share what had prompted this line of questioning.

When Aragorn did speak again, his voice was very, very quiet. So much so, that even an Elf’s enhanced hearing struggled to pick up the words.

“I want to play my part, to help fight against evil. Yet I do not know how. The Dark Lord is so powerful, with entire armies at his command. So many warriors have fallen to him before. My parents, too. What can I possibly change?”

Legolas’s righted himself in surprise, his entire attention now focused on Aragorn.

He had not fully grasped the weight of this burden that had been placed upon the boy’s shoulders—the burden of a destiny whispered of in prophecy. How long had Aragorn wrestled with this doubt in silence?

“I cannot tell you what the future holds,” Legolas replied, after yet another brief moment of contemplation, his voice unusually gentle.

“For I am not a seer myself. Yet, I know this — prophecies, they show only a possible path, a thread in the vast tapestry of fate. But fate is never set in stone, and even the Valar do not know with certainty what will come to pass. If you choose to fight one day, I will stand beside you. If you decide to remain here and live your life as you will, I shall support you in that as well.”

The last words lingered in the air, tinged with a hint of selfishness that Legolas could not deny.

Perhaps, if the prophecy was indeed the last hope for Middle-earth, he should have spoken with more conviction, urged the boy to embrace the destiny laid out before him. Yet, as he looked at Aragorn, he saw not a future warrior or a fated king, but a child—his charge—a boy whom he had come to care for, whose happiness and safety he yearned to protect.

There was a time when a younger, more idealistic Legolas might have urged Aragorn onto the path of danger and sacrifice, believing it to be the only way to combat the growing darkness. But this Legolas, who had witnessed the toll of endless loss and suffering, could not bring himself to push the boy into that perilous journey.

Thus, Legolas remained silent, hoping that whatever choice Aragorn made, it would be born of his own will and not shaped by the expectations of others.

“I think I need to go to Helm’s Deep,” Aragorn said quietly. “I do not know yet what I must do—but among the other men, those who have resisted Sauron for decades... perhaps there I can find my path. If I am to lead them one day, as my parents believed, then I must first live among them.”

The final words were spoken with a trace of uncertainty, and the boy looked up at Legolas, a question in his eyes, as if seeking the Elf’s counsel or perhaps hoping for some gentle protest.

But Legolas could not offer it. He had made a vow that fateful day in the Golden Woods, a vow that he would not impose his own desires upon Aragorn’s choices. Instead, he would support the boy in whatever path he chose, despite his own misgivings.

Even so, the Elf’s heart grew heavy, and he found himself swallowing hard before he could speak.

“So it shall be,” he said at last, his voice steady despite the weight he felt. “We will set out when spring returns, when the days grow longer and the sun warms the earth once more.”

Aragorn’s grey eyes searched his face for a moment longer, then, as if reassured by the Elf’s words, he looked away and gave a small nod. The decision was made.

Chapter Text

“Will you truly not come with me?” Aragorn’s voice cut through the silence that lingered between them, heavy with unspoken farewells.

The question stirred a memory in Legolas, one nearly two years old, yet still vivid in his mind.

It had been just before their arrival in Caras Galadhon, in those days when they still believed a reunion with Arathorn was within reach. Aragorn had asked then, with a smaller voice, if the Elf would perhaps like to remain with him and his Rangers.

Back then, the boy had been smaller, malnourished, anxious, and fearful. Now, he stood nearly at Legolas shoulder, his form no longer gaunt but lean and strong. His confidence had grown with his skills, and as he looked out at the silhouette of the fortress in the distance that was to be his home, he seemed every bit the young hero he had been foretold to become one day.

If he harbored any doubts about the future, he kept them well hidden.

The Elf shook his head gently, his gaze not meeting Aragorn’s but instead cast outward, over the vast expanse of Rohan’s rolling plains. From their vantage atop a steep, grassy hill, he surveyed the landscape that stretched endlessly before them—a stark contrast to the forested realms they had long wandered.

Where once there had been the dense, protective canopy of Fangorn, now lay a land of open sky and unbroken horizons, a realm of hills and windswept plains.

In the distance, nestled within a deep gorge, stood the mighty fortress of the Hornburg, the last bastion against the darkness that threatened to engulf the world. The fortress was larger than Legolas had imagined, its stone walls towering high and shielded on one side by the sheer cliffs of the gorge that rose like natural fortifications, protecting it from all but the most determined of foes.

Below, scattered across the valley before the fortress, tiny figures moved about their daily toil. Fields were being tilled, though the dry, unforgiving soil promised little reward for their labor.

Yet still, the people of Helm’s Deep pressed on, determined to wrest sustenance from the barren earth. Herds of cattle and sheep grazed in the sparse pastures, watched over by vigilant herdsmen.

Tall watchtowers dotted the landscape, their sentinels ever watchful, ready to sound the alarm at the first sign of danger, calling the workers back within the safety of the fortress walls. Horse-mounted patrols rode the perimeter, their eyes sharp, ensuring the safety of those who labored under their watchful gaze.

These were a people who had fought tirelessly to secure this last bastion against the dark shadow that loomed ever closer. The Hornburg was their sanctuary, the final refuge of the free peoples of the West.

Here, at the edge of all things, they clung to hope, though it was as fragile as the meager crops they tended.

“I cannot join you, Aragorn,” Legolas said at last. His voice was soft, tinged with a regret that had not been present in the past, as he quietly offered his reasoning.

“You must remain inconspicuous, for if Sauron catches wind of you, he will seek to finish what he started. If an Elf were to accompany you, it would draw undue attention—far more than you already will as a lone boy, a stranger emerging from the wilds. Most within these walls have never laid eyes upon an Elf, and many more know of us only through the tales of their elders.”

He paused, letting the gravity of his words settle. For a moment, it seemed as if Aragorn meant to interrupt, but then decided otherwise, recognizing the truth in Legolas’s words.

“You must walk this path alone, at least for now. Trust in the strength that lies within you, and in the people who dwell here, for they too have fought long and hard against the darkness. Do not use your real name under any circumstances, not even with those you come to consider friends. Make sure to keep the shards of Narsil hidden. Keep to yourself and avoid drawing unnecessary attention. Be wary of those who might bear you ill will.”

Finally, Aragorn spoke, interrupting Legolas’s speech by doing so..

“I know. You told me before. I—I understand. I only wish it were not so.”

Legolas softened, refraining from continuing his monologue. After a brief pause, he instead lifted his arm and placed a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, offering the same gesture of comfort that his own mentors in Mirkwood had once shown him.

“As do I,” he murmured sincerely.

Aragorn smiled, though it wavered with uncertainty. Legolas, however, could not bring himself to return it. Despite his unaffected demeanor, the weight of the moment pressed heavily on him, and even if he tried, the corners of his lips felt too heavy to lift.

At last, he saw no reason to prolong the farewell. Everything important had already been said, the necessary actions taken.

All that remained was to say goodbye.

“Until we meet again,” Legolas finally said, quietly hoping that these were not mere empty words—that they would indeed see each other again in this life, and that he was not sending the boy toward certain death within this fortress of men.

Aragorn nodded, his dark-grey eyes far too solemn for a face so young. “Thank you for taking me in and protecting me. I will never forget you, nor the things you taught me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped back, shaking off the hand on his shoulder.

Then, without another word, the boy turned and began his descent down the grassy hill. He did not look back.

As Aragorn descended the grassy hill, Legolas watched from his vantage point, noting the boy's pace quickening at first, but slowing as soon as he neared the outskirts of the fortress. The clusters of workers tending to the fields – many of them women and older children – stilled their movements as they noticed Aragorn's approach, their faces clouded with uncertainty.

Though Aragorn was but a child, the sight of a stranger emerging from the wild stirred an unease in them. A few women instinctively drew back, puling their children behind them, as if the mere presence of an unknown figure carried with it the weight of unseen dangers.

Perhaps their fear was not entirely unfounded, considering the dark times they lived in, where even the innocent face of a child could be a harbinger of something more sinister, a reminder of the unpredictable and perilous world beyond the safety of their walls.

With his sharp Elven sight, Legolas could see the hesitation in Aragorn’s posture, a brief falter in his stride as the boy took in the wary glances directed his way.

The Elf suspected that Aragorn had expected curiosity, perhaps even wariness, but not the outright fear that now met him. Legolas could almost feel the boy’s uncertainty from where he stood, but he also knew that Aragorn would press on.

Soon, a group of Riders noticed the ensuing commotion. They began to approach, their golden hair catching the pale sunlight as they rode swiftly toward the boy. The Elf tensed, every muscle ready to spring into action if the situation demanded it. His keen gaze followed the leader of the group, a tall Rider with a braided beard, who dismounted first and approached Aragorn with cautious curiosity.

Legolas observed the exchange intently, noting the way the Riders scrutinized Aragorn’s travel-worn clothes and the bow slung across his back. The Elf’s sharp eyes caught the slight tremble in the boy’s hands as one of the Riders spoke, his face demanding and harsh. He could sense the tension rising, the Riders exchanging glances laden with unspoken questions.

The leader’s hand moved toward the hilt of his sword, perhaps more out of instinct than intent, and Legolas leaned forward slightly, ready to intervene, his hand grasping his own bow tightly.

Yet, before the situation could escalate, another figure strode forward, cutting through the tension with a calm, commanding presence. A man with dark brown hair, streaked with gray, approached the group. In responds, the Riders immediately stepped back, showing deference to the newcomer. The Elf noted the quiet authority in the man’s bearing, his eyes sharp and observant.

The man addressed the Riders first, words inaudible from this distance, until they responded with respectful nods before retreating a few paces. He then turned his attention to Aragorn, and even from a distance, Legolas could see the softening of his gaze. The man extended his hand to Aragorn, who hesitated only for a moment before accepting it. The tension in the boy’s shoulders seemed to ease as he was welcomed and guided to the fortress.

Legolas allowed himself a small sigh of relief as the Riders mounted their horses again, their attention now directed elsewhere. His sharp gaze remained fixed on Aragorn and the brown-haired man until they passed through the great gates of Helm’s Deep and disappeared from view.

Even as the boy was led away, Legolas did not immediately turn back. He lingered on the hill, his heart heavy with the weight of the boy’s departure. The last image he had of Aragorn was of him walking beside the man who, with any luck, would serve as a mentor and protector in the days to come.

The Elf stayed where he was for a while longer, ensuring that all remained calm and that no further commotion arose.

Only when he was certain that Aragorn was safe within the walls of Helm’s Deep did he finally turn away, his steps carrying him back toward the distant forests that had always been his refuge.

Many hours later, when night had fallen once more, Legolas lay awake.

This was not an unusual occurrence for the Elf, yet tonight was different. He was not keeping his usual vigilant watch, leaning against the rough bark of a tree or perched high in its ancient boughs, attuned to the subtle whispers of the forest. Instead, he lay flat on the cool earth, his gaze fixed upon the clouded sky above.

Alas, the night was thick with darkness, even for his keen eyes. The faint glow of the smoldering campfire's embers presented the only source of light.

For Elbereth’s stars and the moon were hidden away, shrouded by thick clouds that blocked their soothing glow. Their loss, temporary as it were, made the darkness clouding his thoughts seem all the more oppressive, and the surrounding silence more profound.

His chest ached with an inexplicable sense of loss—a feeling he chided himself for. It was absurd, of course. Aragorn was not dead. On the contrary, the boy now had better prospects for a happy and fulfilled life than he ever had while wandering through the wilds in the company of a solitary Elf.

Surely, a future surrounded by his own kind, with the hope of fellowship and purpose, was far better than the lonely existence they had shared.

And yet, despite this knowledge, Legolas could not help but long for Mirkwood once more. Dark and lonely as it was, the familiar shadows and ancient trees of his homeland offered a strange, melancholy comfort to him. It was not the forest itself he yearned for, but the idea of losing himself within its depths once more, retreating into the quiet solitude where his thoughts could drift aimlessly.

But Legolas knew he could not return to that pathetic existence. He had already spent three decades wandering in such a state—a waste, a dishonor to the sacrifices of his kin who had fallen battling the darkness.

He had to make himself useful, to find a purpose once more, now that he had fulfilled his previous one.

Quietly and sluggishly, the Elf considered the possibilities before him. He could return to the Golden Wood, seeking out any traces of those they might have missed, or perhaps uncovering a message left.

Or he could track down the surviving Rangers of Aragorn’s company, those who had once called the boy their chieftain’s son. If he could find them, he could inform them of Aragorn’s fate, send them to him—it would surely bring the child joy to be reunited with those he had lost.

Alternatively, he could seek out the Grey Pilgrim, and question him on the knowledge he held. Perhaps there was wisdom in the old wizard’s words that could guide him, or at the very least, provide some clarity.

It was possible, he mused, that pursuing any one of these paths would inevitably lead to the others, for all the strands seemed to him intricately intertwined.

Yet, despite these thoughts, it was difficult to summon the will to act. The prospect of choosing a path felt overwhelming, and the weight of his weariness pressed down upon him like a heavy shroud.

Legolas sighed softly, closing his eyes for a moment, though sleep was not his aim. He would have to think on it more carefully with the approach of dawn, when perhaps the world would seem a little brighter, and the weight on his heart a little lighter.

Until then, he would remain lost in the night, a lone figure beneath the clouded sky, burdened by the memories of the past and the uncertainty of the future.

And then, suddenly, a faint rustle reached his ears, a noise slightly distant yet distinct enough to pierce through the quiet of the night.

His eyes snapped open.

Instantly, Legolas was on his feet, every muscle tensed. His hand instinctively reached for his bow, a reflex honed by centuries of fighting as a soldier in his father’s domain. His senses sharpened in an instant, the fog of his earlier thoughts vanishing like mist before the sun.

He berated himself silently for being so lost in self-pity that he had not noticed someone—or something—approaching. His heart quickened, not just with vigilance, but with a strange, almost eager anticipation.

A part of him itched for a fight. It would serve as a most welcome distraction.

Yet, before he could fully assess the situation, a small figure suddenly shot out of the dark, barreling into him, successfully catching him off guard. Legolas stiffened, his hands already on his twin-knives, but then the realization set in—the touch was not hostile, but an embrace.

It was so unexpected that for a moment, Legolas stood frozen, unsure of how to respond. Though he had loved his kin in Mirkwood deeply, they were not a people given to physical gestures of affection, and his father Thranduil perhaps even less so than most.

Thus, in the past half-century, Legolas could recall only one other instance in which he had been embraced—and that had been two years ago.

Glancing down, he was astonished to see that it was indeed Aragorn, his dark head barely reaching Legolas’s chest. The boy clung to him tightly, as if afraid to let go.

Legolas found himself unable to move, the bow in his hand suddenly feeling like a foreign object as disbelief washed over him.

Then, hesitantly, finally, Legolas allowed himself to relax, the tension easing from his body as he let go of the bow and slowly returned the embrace, resting his hand gently on the boy's back. The warmth of Aragorn's presence, the simple, innocent need for connection, banished the shadows that had haunted him moments before.

Then, as the initial shock faded, Legolas’s expression darkened, concern swiftly giving way to rising anger. He grasped Aragorn’s shoulders, gently but firmly pushing him back to get a proper look at the boy before him.

“Why are you here? Did the Men not treat you well? Were you in danger? Were you attacked?” he demanded, his voice sharp with worry as his eyes searched Aragorn’s face for signs of mistreatment.

But Aragorn’s demeanor did not reflect fear, instead, it seemed more… guilty.

He quickly shook his head, grinning sheepishly.

“Nay, they treated me well. I… I have been thinking about what you told me, about fate. That I have a choice in the role I wish to play. For a long time I have felt I owed it to my parents, and everyone who died, to do all I could to fulfill my grandmother’s prophecy.”

Aragorn paused, perhaps expecting interjection, but Legolas remained silent, his gaze steady, waiting for the boy to finish his thoughts.

“But there is so little to guide me. She saw me reclaiming the crown of my forebears, uniting the race of Men, and leading the final charge against the darkness. Yet I do not know when it will come to pass or what steps I must take to ensure it. But I realized…if you cannot come with me, I do not want to go. You are my friend. So, I snuck out as soon as night fell, searching for you.”

Legolas felt torn. Though a part of him rejoiced at Aragorn’s conclusion, he was also filled with the urge to chastise the boy for his recklessness, sneaking out alone in the night, placing himself in great peril. Aragorn had been fortunate not to encounter anyone—or anything—malicious.

Yet, he chose not to express either joy or anger. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and settled on a rebuke, a single eyebrow arched and his voice steady but firm:

“Could you not, perhaps, have reached that conclusion before we embarked on the journey to Helm’s Deep three nights ago?

For a brief moment, the boy’s eyes widened.

Then, Aragorn's grin promptly turned into a slight grimace. He rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment, his gaze falling to the ground. Yet, just as he began to stammer out an apology for the troubles he had caused, something unexpected happened.

He looked up, eyes wide with astonishment.

For above him, Legolas was laughing.

It was the first time in thirty years that the Elf had let out such a sound—pure, unbridled joy that seemed to carry with it the lifting of a great weight. The laugh was as light as the wind that rustles the leaves of the ancient trees within Fangorn, as innocent and beautiful as the first dawn over Middle-earth. It was a sound both melodic and ethereal, like the soft ringing of distant bells or the purest note of a nightingale's song.

It was a sound that had overcome the sorrows of the world, a glimpse of the timeless joy that still lingered deep within, despite all the grief and hardship that had come before.

In that moment, it was as though the cares of the world fell away, leaving only the purity of that laughter echoing through the trees—a reminder of the enduring light within even the darkest of days.

THE END

(…of Arc I)

Chapter Text

“There is no curse in Elvish, Entish, or the tongues of Men bad enough for such treachery.” – Treebeard, The Two Towers

Chapter Text

Aragorn II, son of Arathorn II and Gilraen, heir to the Realms in Exile and last living descendant of Isildur, was not sulking.

Such behavior would be unbecoming, childish even, and at fifteen years of age, Aragorn was far from a child — even if a certain Elf seemed to be of a different mind.

Nor was he, strictly speaking, sneaking out of Fangorn. After all, such an act would be no less juvenile. He was under no command to remain within the ancient forest’s borders, no rule binding him there.

Yet even he could not deny the thrill of defiance in slipping away without a word.

His trusted bow rested across his back, a familiar weight against his shoulders, though he had left his sword behind, as he would have no need of it. A hunt was his stated purpose, a pursuit he had undertaken countless times—yet this time, he had forsaken the unspoken tradition of informing Legolas or one of the Ents of his intentions.

For in this moment, he craved the quiet and the solitude above all else, desiring a moment alone to assure himself of his independence.

He moved with a practiced quiet through the familiar bounds of the forest. Once, these woods had loomed strange and fearsome, but now they were as close to a home as he had ever known. With his father’s rangers, his life had been one of constant wandering, never lingering long enough in any place to call it by such a name.

As he walked, the trees began to thin, the dense canopy giving way to sparser growth. In the distance, Aragorn caught sight of the murky waters of the Entwash, winding its way through the landscape like a dark, lazy serpent.

Though this place still fell within the southernmost reaches of Fangorn, it was a realm where even the Ents and Huorns rarely tread. The scars of battle ran deep here, etched into the land and memory, and the proximity to Isengard, seat of a wizard’s malice, made this territory one they shunned.

Even so, for Aragorn, the closeness of the river made it an ideal spot for a hunt, as animals often came here to drink, drawn by the water’s edge. With this in mind, Aragorn chose a sturdy beech tree, its broad boughs offering both concealment and a clear line of sight to the forest and the riverbank.

His decision made, Aragorn scaled the tree, his movements fluid and confident—a testament to the years of training under Legolas's watchful eye. The prospect of falling no longer troubled him—those fears had been left behind with his childhood.

The bark was cool and rough beneath his hands, the familiar scent of leaves filling his senses. Finding a comfortable perch among the branches, he scanned the area, his keen eyes alert for any signs of movement.

As he adjusted his position, the cool evening breeze rustled the leaves around him, carrying with it the scent of earth and water. The world was quiet, save for the distant murmur of the river and the occasional rustle of small creatures in the underbrush.

Here, in the stillness at the very borders of the forest, Aragorn finally found the solitude he had sought. In that peace, the last flickers of anger within him faded, slowly to be replaced by the burden of guilt.

He had always disliked quarreling with Legolas.

Yet over the past year, such disagreements had become all too common, and Aragorn knew, deep down, that much of the fault lay with him. His temper, quick and unsteady, a symptom of his growing restlessness, had often been the spark that set their disputes aflame.

Legolas, ever patient and composed, did not deserve to bear the weight of his frustration, yet time and again, he became the unwitting target. The Elf seldom lost his calm, his expression remained serene and his voice steady, even when his words took on a firmer edge.

This only served to heighten Aragorn's sense of shame, for each of his own heated outbursts seemed childish in comparison to the Elf’s restraint. Perhaps, he thought, catching a hare or two for their supper might offer a chance to extend a peace offering, to voice the apology he had yet to speak.

And still, despite the weight of his guilt, Aragorn held firm to the cause of their most recent quarrel.

Only the day before, a band of ruffians—likely sent by Isengard—had descended upon Fangorn. They had not been a disciplined force, but their numbers had been troubling, and they had come armed with a thirst for destruction. Such skirmishes had grown more frequent over the years, and each time, the Ents and Legolas had driven them back, ensuring that no survivors returned to Saruman with tales of the strange alliance hidden within the forest.

To their surprise, the wizard had thus far remained silent, sending no significant force to sweep aside Fangorn’s defenders. Legolas had speculated that Saruman’s attention might be drawn elsewhere, preoccupied with other schemes.

Yet even so, the Elf’s vigilance never waned.

This last attack had been particularly fierce. The enemies had brought torches, and with the dry heat of summer still lingering in the air, even a small flame could have wrought untold devastation on the forest once more. The battle had been intense, and though Fangorn had prevailed in the end, it had been a close thing. As ever, Aragorn had wished to fight alongside them, but Legolas had forbidden it, as he always did.

And there, laid bare, was the root of their strife.

Legolas had trained Aragorn in the art of combat, but when it came to actual battle, he was unyielding in his refusal to allow the boy to fight. Instead he sheltered him, kept him away from the dangers of the battlefield, as though Aragorn were still in need of his protection.

Much to the frustration of the man, who knew himself to be capable of standing alongside the Elf and the Ents in defense of their home. After all, the Onodrim had shown him kindness and friendship, and the forest had long become more than a place of refuge.

Even the young Ents, those saplings not yet fully awakened, had begun to stir in recent months. They swayed gently in the wind whenever Aragorn or Legolas approached, their branches moving as if in time with some cheerful song, one that only they could hear.

He had friends here now, and the thought of standing idly by while others risked their lives to defend the forest gnawed at him. Legolas, despite all his wisdom, seemed blind to this truth. The Elf still treated Aragorn as though he were a child, unwilling or perhaps unable to see how much he had changed—both in stature and skill.

In moments like these, when the world around him was quiet, leaving room for thought, Aragorn could attempt to empathize with Legolas’ reluctance. The Elf had been his protector for so long, guarding him from dangers both seen and unseen. To reconcile the frightened, fragile boy he had once been with the young man he had become must be no small feat.

Yet, Aragorn knew that he could not remain sheltered forever. His destiny lay beyond Fangorn, beyond Legolas' watchful care. One day, he would have to face that destiny, and when that time came, he hoped that his Elven companion would finally see him as an equal.

He sighed heavily, leaning back against the thick trunk of the beech tree, its smooth bark cool against his skin. Expecting a long wait before any game appeared, he settled into a more comfortable position, letting his limbs relax.

Unfortunately, he paid no mind to the low-hanging branch behind him.

As he shifted, there was a sharp tearing sound. Aragorn cursed under his breath, his hands flying to the sleeve of his tunic, where his fingers quickly found the large, ragged hole that had formed.

He groaned softly in dismay.

This tunic was one of the few he had left that still fit him well. Though it was worn thin and patched in places, it had remained intact—until now.

Given his tendency to accidentally ruin his clothes, he had to acknowledge that it was only thanks to Legolas's foresight that he had any garments left at all.

Five years earlier, during their brief journey to Rohan before they had turned back, the Elf had scandalized him by stealthily ‘borrowing’ clothing left to dry by the women of Helm’s Deep. Aragorn had protested the dishonorable act, all the more when he tried on the new tunic and found it far too large, clearly meant for a seasoned warrior rather than a boy.

Back then, it had hung down to his knees, making him look like a child swallowed up in his mother’s nightgown. Now, he had grown into it, his height filling out the fabric, though the new tear was an unfortunate addition.

His frustration faded as he grinned to himself, his train of thought taking him elsewhere, even as he inspected the thumb-sized hole.

Legolas, despite his centuries of life, had not taken kindly to the realization that Aragorn had matched him in height in so brief a span of years. For months after Aragorn had first mentioned it, the Elf had carefully avoided standing side by side with him. And when at last they did, Legolas had stubbornly insisted that the ground beneath them was uneven.

For a being so ancient, Aragorn mused to himself, Legolas can be rather stubbornly immature himself, at times.

Given Legolas’s limited experience with humans—before meeting Aragorn, that is—it must have been unsettling for the Elf to see how quickly mortals matured.

While Aragorn had transformed over the years, Legolas remained much the same as when they first met. Perhaps he had gained a little weight since those early days, no longer as unhealthily thin, and there was a touch more softness in his expression. But otherwise, it was as though time itself had stood still for the Elf.

And in a way, it had.

But before Aragorn could dwell further on his ponderings, a flicker of movement in the periphery of his vision caught his attention.

He froze. Slowly, he shifted his gaze toward the source, careful not to make any sudden movements.

There, just at the edge of the trees, a buck stepped out into the open.

Aragorn's breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening in excitement. He had not dared to hope for such a prize—he would have been content with a small hare or even a squirrel. But this... this could sustain them for weeks, if prepared with care.

The buck was skinny, and still its antlers were broad and majestic, casting shadows in the pale light. Its movements were slow, deliberate, each step cautious as it made its way toward the river.

Aragorn could see the way its ears twitched, alert for the slightest sound, its dark eyes scanning the surroundings, constantly wary. The animal sniffed the air, testing for any unfamiliar scent that might signal danger. It hesitated near the water's edge, its hooves sinking lightly into the soft earth. Lowering its head, it paused once more, glancing around the clearing before it dipped its muzzle into the cool waters of the Entwash.

Aragorn remained completely still, his eyes never leaving the buck. He could see the muscles in its neck shift as it drank.

The young man’s hand slowly inched toward his bow, his fingers brushing lightly against the string as he carefully righted himself, painstakingly prepared to strike.

Just then, the buck lifted its head, water dripping from its mouth, ears swiveling toward a distant noise. It stood perfectly still, nostrils flaring as it sensed the change in the air—some subtle shift that Aragorn himself could not detect.

As he drew back the string, feeling the familiar tension settle into his fingers, his eyes fell briefly on the delicate carvings etched into the bow—a graceful image of a deer, a tribute left by its previous owner. He steadied his breath, his world narrowing to the target before him.

Confidence surged through him — merely one clean shot, and the buck would be theirs.

But before he could release the arrow, something startled the buck. The wind shifted ever so slightly, carrying with it a faint sound—or perhaps the scent of a predator—undetectable to Aragorn but enough to send a visible jolt of fear through the animal.

Its head snapped up, muscles coiled, and in an instant, it bolted, a flash of white tail raised in a stark warning as it leapt into the underbrush. The thud of hooves on the forest floor filled Aragorn’s ears, the undergrowth crackling as branches snapped beneath the animal’s flight.

Aragorn exhaled sharply, lowering his bow as the moment slipped away. A soft curse escaped his lips, frustration flaring at the lost chance. He watched the buck’s tail vanish into the dense foliage, its departure swift and sure, its message unmistakable—danger lurked nearby.

For a moment, he remained still, listening intently to the sounds of the forest. The rush of the river, the rustling of leaves in the wind, and the fading echo of the fleeing buck filled the air around him.

Then, slowly, Aragorn eased his tension, slinging the bow back over his shoulder. He had lost his chance, but perhaps it was for the best. Something had spooked the animal. Something that might still be out there. He could not afford to let his guard down.

Worry knotted in Aragorn's chest. What if it was another band of Saruman's filth? Their last encounter had been only a short time ago, yet perhaps the wizard had finally grown tired of their defiance. Could he have sent another force in retaliation, determined to bring Fangorn to ruin once and for all?

He did not have to wait long for an answer.

At first, it came as a distant murmur, but gradually, the sound grew louder—voices carried on the wind.

Yet they were not the harsh, guttural snarls of Orcs or Uruk-hai, those twisted creatures of Saruman’s making. No, these tones were different—human, yet unfamiliar. He could not discern the words, though the cadence marked them as Men, speaking in a language foreign to his ears.

Excitement and nervousness fluttered in his chest. His eyes darted through the trees, scanning for movement, his pulse quickening once again.

Five years had passed since he last laid eyes on any of his kind. Could these strangers be allies or something else? He thought back to the people of Helm's Deep, most of whom spoke Westron.

These men, however, sounded nothing like them.

His suspicions were confirmed moments later when, to his alarm, a group of men emerged from the western side of the river, opposite the direction in which the buck had fled. They moved toward the water’s edge, careless and unhurried, utterly unaware of their surroundings.

From his perch high in the beech tree, Aragorn scrutinized their every move, his eyes sharp and wary.

The men were a rough-looking lot, their skin tanned and weathered from long days under sun and sky. Their hair, darker than that of the Rohirrim, was cropped short, unlike the flowing locks of both the Rohirrim and the Dúnedain. They carried themselves with a different air—unrefined, their speech coarse and jarring to Aragorn’s ears.

Like the buck that had vanished into the thickets, the men eagerly descended the gentle slope leading to the river. They shouted to one another, seemingly thrilled to have found a path to the water. With little hesitation, they bent down to drink, some using their hands, others submerging their faces directly into the current, or hastily filling their flasks.

Aragorn frowned, shaking his head in quiet disapproval. He would never drink from these waters unless necessity demanded it—Legolas had warned him many times. The river here, so near to the shadow of Isengard, carried the faint but unmistakable taint of Saruman’s influence, a sour note that lingered in the air, perceptible only to those with senses sharp enough to catch it. Typically, Elf and Man traveled to the Limlight to refill their flasks, far from this corrupted flow.

For a time, Aragorn was content to observe the strangers from his concealed perch, curiosity tempered by caution.

But then, his gaze settled on something that made his breath catch in his throat—a detail that did not fit amidst their ragged garb.

For among the worn, earth-colored fabric that draped their bodies, one item stood out—a cloak, dark grey and in remarkably good condition, wrapped around the shoulders of one of the men. Its fabric appeared untouched by the wear and tear that marred the rest of their gear, a stark contrast to the tattered garments surrounding it.

Yet what drew Aragorn’s eye most was the clasp fastening it—a silver piece, crafted in the unmistakable outline of a seven-pointed star. Even from this distance, it gleamed faintly in the light of the sun, worn with age but still recognizable, a symbol he knew all too well.

Aragorn's heart skipped a beat. This was the clasp of a Ranger of the North. He was certain of it.

How could he not be? For many years, he had lived among those who bore this very emblem—Rangers like his father. He had slept beside them in cold nights, wrapped in cloaks of the same weave. The rough fabric had shielded him from biting winds and rain, from the unforgiving wilderness—and, at times, from the cruelty of the world itself. His father’s cloak had once rested heavy on his small shoulders, a symbol of the burdens he would one day bear. Still it had also been a source of comfort, a mantle of both duty and love.

Disbelief and excitement warred within him. The urge to leap down from his perch, confront these men, and demand answers was near unbearable, as questions crowded his mind—had these men met his kin? How long ago? Were they nearby?

But then, just as quickly, a new emotion replaced the excitement—wariness.

How had they come into possession of such a precious item? No Ranger would part with their cloak or clasp easily. Had these men taken it by force?

Ignorant to the troubles of their silent observer, the men finished their business at the river and began to move eastward, walking briskly, their pace now refreshed. Aragorn remained still, watching as they moved further away, unnoticed in his hiding place.

Unease rose up within him.

He knew it would be foolish to confront them alone. Yet, if he allowed them to leave now, by the time he returned with Legolas, they might be long gone, perhaps having crossed the river or disappeared into the wilderness.

Was the possibility of finding a hint as to the Ranger’s whereabouts worth the risk?

He had found a kind of peace with Legolas, his strange and steadfast Elven companion, whom he now counted as both mentor and dearest friend. Despite this, it was also true that he had never stopped longing for the company of his own kind. The thought of reconnecting with that lost part of his life, of bringing them together—Legolas and his kin, side by side—was an irresistible prospect, one that stirred a quiet hope within him.

And so, he made his choice.

With quiet, practiced precision, Aragorn leapt down from the tree, landing softly on the forest floor. His heart thudded with a mix of anticipation and unease. He could only hope that, when Legolas discovered his actions, the Elf would not curse him too harshly for his recklessness.

Now behind the group of men – with them still unaware of his presence, he did his best to appear non-threatening, holding up his hands as he bravely called out:

“Hold a moment, friends!”

The reaction was swift. The men ahead of him spun around, clearly startled by the sudden appearance of a stranger who, to them, seemed to have emerged from the very air itself. Their faces were hard, suspicion etched into every feature.

Despite Aragorn’s raised hands, meant to signal peaceful intentions, many of them gripped their weapons tighter—crude axes, long spears, and makeshift blades—ready for confrontation. Without hesitation, they began to advance toward him.

Aragorn stood tall, forcing himself to remain calm, though every muscle in his body tensed, bracing for the possibility of a fight. He willed himself to stay rooted, even as they drew closer.

Once more, he called out, hoping that at least some among them understood the common tongue, “I mean you no harm. Let us speak, if you are willing!”

The men continued to close in without a word, their silent advance tightening the knot of unease in Aragorn’s chest. Just as he began to consider fleeing before they could fully surround him, they abruptly halted, stopping about a man’s height away. One figure stepped forward from the group.

It was the man clad in the grey cloak.

The prolonged silence was finally broken as he spoke, his voice thick with an accent Aragorn could not place. His Westron was halting, but understandable.

“What… do you want?”

Though relieved to have finally gotten a response, Aragorn could not shake the growing unease that prickled beneath his skin.

There was an eerie quality to these men, something he could not quite pinpoint. Their eyes were hard, which was not unusual for those hardened by a life of constant battle and survival in a world teeming with enemies.

But there was more—something in their gaze that unsettled him deeply. The leader’s eyes were dark, like most of the others, but Aragorn thought he caught a strange yellow gleam within them, lending a predatory sharpness that sent a chill down his spine. Below the silver clasp, a simple necklace was visible, adorned with the teeth of beasts and fragments of bone, enhancing the man's already feral appearance.

As he examined them more closely, another detail puzzled him. Though their skin was tanned, it was not of a warm, sun-browned hue. Instead, it had a greyish cast, lending them a sickly appearance. It was as if the life had been drained from their skin, their pallor more reminiscent of malnourished men than those hardened by the sun.

Their frames, too, seemed oddly thin, shorter than what Aragorn was used to, and wiry in a way that suggested starvation or lingering illness. It was likely true—after all, even the Rangers, skilled hunters as they were, had struggled to keep themselves well-fed while traveling in large numbers.

Aragorn remained cautious, his instincts on high alert, even as a pang of empathy flickered within him for what he perceived as their plight. The sight of their ragged condition stirred something in him—he had been fortunate, rarely knowing the bite of true hunger, with those in his life always ensuring his wellbeing.

“I could not help but notice the cloak you wear,” Aragorn began, deciding to take the risk and get straight to the point. There was no room for pleasantries here, especially when it seemed only one of the men was willing—or able—to speak, and even he barely so.

“Might I inquire where you came by it?”

The man’s mouth widened into a twisted smile, revealing a flash of sharp teeth.

“Your friends?”

It took only a heartbeat for Aragorn to realize the truth might lead him into dangerous waters. He swallowed his discomfort, forcing out a response he despised even as it left his lips.

“Nay. We have... unfinished business. Of the unpleasant kind. I wish to find them.”

Aragorn held the man’s gaze unflinchingly, hoping to project honesty. The silence between them stretched, and the leader’s dark eyes seemed to pierce through him, assessing, weighing.

Whether Aragorn was believed or not, he could not be sure. The man’s expression remained inscrutable, yet after a brief pause, it shifted slightly, and his next words filled Aragorn with a surge of barely containable excitement.

“I will show you. On map.”

With that, he barked an order to the man next to him, a string of words Aragorn could not understand. The subordinate moved quickly, rummaging through his pack until he pulled out a piece of parchment.

Aragorn suppressed a surge of excitement. In the seven long years since he had been separated from the Rangers, never had he come this close to a promising lead. He stepped forward eagerly, anticipation quickening his pulse, as he expected to find familiar routes and markings on the map—hints that could finally lead him back to his kin.

The men made no move to stop him.

But as Aragorn leaned closer, he froze. The parchment was blank. No markings, no lines, no writing—just an empty expanse of parchment.

Confusion flashed across his face. He opened his mouth, an inquiry forming on his lips, but before he could speak, something caught his attention.

The man in the grey cloak—his gaze was no longer fixed on Aragorn. His eyes had shifted, focusing on something behind him.

A chill of wariness shot through Aragorn’s spine. Trusting his instincts, he threw himself to the side — not a moment too soon.

For the dull thud of an axe butt whistled through the air, aimed precisely where his head had been just seconds before. The strike had been silent and swift, intended either to incapacitate or perhaps to kill.

Aragorn cursed under his breath, his fingers tightening around the bow in his hand. His sword, the weapon he truly needed, was back at the camp with Legolas. The bow was useless at such close range, and he knew it.

With no other choice, he swung the bow in a wide arc, catching his attacker across the jaw. The man staggered back, but now another quickly took his place, a crude spear thrusting toward Aragorn’s chest. He twisted to avoid it, feeling the sharp edge of the spearhead graze his side, warm blood gushing out.

He could barely feel the pain.

Heart pounding, he spun on his heel, using the momentum to slam the bow into the next opponent. Yet, deep down, he knew his efforts were futile—his instincts screamed that he was surrounded, outnumbered and outmatched, with only seconds remaining before they overwhelmed him.

He needed to flee. He could not win this fight.

But the chance never came.

A sudden, brutal blow to his side sent him staggering, the force of it driving the air from his lungs. Before he could recover, another strike crashed into his back, forcing him to his knees. Aragorn gritted his teeth, struggling to stay upright as his vision blurred.

One of the men closed in, brandishing a crude, club-like weapon. Aragorn raised his arm in a desperate attempt to block, but the force of the blow was too much. The impact drove him to the ground, hard and final.

The cold, unyielding earth met him as he fell.

Aragorn tried to roll away, scrambling to evade another strike, but—

…A sharp, searing pain exploded at the base of his skull, and stars burst across his vision. His ears rang violently, muffling the sounds around him. Through the thick haze of pain, he could barely make out the leader’s voice, barking orders to the others, though the words slipped past his understanding.

Darkness pressed in, and his grip on consciousness wavered, until finally, everything went black.

Meanwhile, deep in the heart of Fangorn, Legolas tended to the saplings—now grown into young trees—that he and Aragorn had nurtured over the years. The task was simple, almost meditative, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

A growing unease gnawed at him. Aragorn had been gone for hours now, and none of the Onodrim Legolas had spoken to had seen him.

Despite the concern tugging at his heart, he hesitated. After their recent disagreements, Aragorn had made it clear that he felt patronized by the Elf’s constant watchfulness. Legolas knew that searching for the boy too soon would only worsen the tension between them.

Aragorn had taken his bow, a sign that he had likely gone hunting, perhaps seeking solitude and purpose after their quarrels. There was no reason to worry, the Elf told himself. The boy had grown strong and capable.

Yet, despite these assurances, a gnawing unease lingered, refusing to be dismissed entirely. Legolas tried to set the matter aside, but the quiet tension remained, like a shadow he could not shake.

Chapter Text

When Aragorn awoke, he was engulfed in pain, sharper and more intense than anything he could recall from recent years.

His mind fared little better, struggling to piece together the events that had led him to this moment. For a brief, disorienting instant, his thoughts flashed to the Anduin—the time he had nearly drowned in its cold, relentless waters.

But this was different.

There was no burning in his lungs, no icy chill in his bones. The pain was far more precise, each throb of his skull sending fresh waves of agony through his head. His side too, ached with a stabbing sensation, flaring with every shallow breath. As for his limbs—his arms and legs—they felt unnaturally heavy, stiff and numb, beset with a slight tingling sensation as though he was being pricked with needles.

Yet, just as he had been after nearly drowning, he was drenched. His long dark hair clung to his face, wet strands dripping onto the mud beneath him. Aragorn blinked, trying to clear the water from his eyes, but with the relentless pounding inside his head, it remained difficult to focus.

What had befallen him? Where was he? His memories were clouded and indistinct—voices, the swift swing of an axe, the sickening sensation of falling. Beyond that, all was a tangled blur, a haze that eluded his grasp.

Forcing himself to move, Aragorn attempted to shift his body, and even the smallest motion sent jolts of fresh pain coursing through him. His limbs remained frustratingly unresponsive, as if they were not his own. Dizziness threatened to pull him back into the void, but he fought it, struggling to stay awake.

Then, a voice pierced the haze, and he realized that he was not alone. Someone stood over him, watching impassively as he lay bound and vulnerable on the cold, muddy earth.

Slowly, as Aragorn’s disoriented mind began to clear, the images returned—he remembered the men from the southern border of Fangorn.

The man looming over him was holding a flask, now emptied, the contents likely used to revive him.

Blearily, Aragorn lifted his gaze, struggling to make sense of his surroundings. The man’s casual use of water suggested they were still near the river, though the Entwash itself remained out of sight and earshot. Instead, his blurred vision picked out the shapes of scattered young trees, their trunks rising amidst thick underbrush and patches of tall grass. Overhead, the sky had deepened into a dusky blue, the last remnants of daylight fading fast.

In the corner of his vision, he caught the flicker of orange light—likely from a campfire—and the faint smell of smoke lingered in the cool evening air.

“Time for wake,” the man said, his voice thick with mockery despite the broken Westron. “Leader wants to speak to you. No sleeping the day away.”

The man called out in his own language to someone out of Aragorn’s field of vision. Mustering what strength he could, Aragorn finally sat up, muscles straining as he repositioned himself into a slightly less vulnerable stance.

In the distance, through the growing twilight, he could just make out the tree line of Fangorn. They had not moved as far as he had feared, remaining close to the place where they had captured him.

A flicker of hope stirred within him—perhaps Legolas or the Ents would notice his absence, perhaps they would come.

But that hope was fragile, like a faint flame beset by a storm. It was quickly overshadowed by a flood of anger, despair, and worst of all, guilt.

How could he have been so reckless, risking himself so thoughtlessly? Legolas had no reason to search for him anytime soon, not after their recent argument. If the Elf did come, it would be an act of duty, placing himself in danger once more to save Aragorn.

Again. In seven years, this had not changed.

Aragorn strained against the ropes binding his wrists behind his back, testing their give, but it was useless. They were tied tight, too tight—cutting off the blood flow, leaving his hands numb and tingling. His legs were similarly bound, leaving him with no room to maneuver.

He cursed himself bitterly. What did it matter how skilled he had become with the sword when it was his foolishness that had led him to this plight?

Aragorn’s thoughts were abruptly cut short as he was wrenched back to the present. His hair was seized roughly, and his head yanked back, forcing him to meet the gaze of a new figure, kneeling before him.

The silver star clasp that fastened the man's cloak gleamed no more in the absence of sunlight. Cold, dark eyes stared down at Aragorn, and the man's grin, half-hidden in shadow, seemed all the more sinister in the deepening dusk. Behind him, the rest of his men clustered around a campfire, their faces illuminated by its flickering light. Some had turned to watch, their expressions twisted with sadistic amusement at the scene unfolding before them.

“Bad liar, you are. I could see truth in your eyes – so open. So…your friends?”

Aragorn bit his lip, refusing to answer. Such a fool, he chastised himself once more. How could he have been raised by people as wise as his parents and Legolas, only to make such reckless mistakes?

A sharp, painful tug at his hair yanked him from his thoughts. Clearly, the man did not take kindly to being ignored.

“You. Look at me,” the leader snarled, his voice laced with irritation. Aragorn flinched as droplets of spit hit his face, but still he held his silence.

Then, just as quickly, the display of anger faded, replaced by that same unsettling grin. “They killed more than half of us, you know? We killed one. My cloak now.”

Aragorn forced himself to hold the man's gaze, fighting the urge to recoil visibly at the reveal. He had suspected as much, but hearing it spoken aloud struck him harder than h had anticipated. Until the last moment, he had clung to a faint, foolish hope—that perhaps there was another explanation, that somehow no more blood had been spilled.

“The Rangers do not slaughter needlessly, nor without mercy,” Aragorn finally retorted, deciding to give up on any pretense. His voice was low and fierce, and full of conviction. “You must have done something terrible for them to strike.”

To his surprise, the man did not react in rage, nor did he seem particularly troubled by the reminder of his companions' deaths. Instead, he laughed—a harsh, unsettling sound that made the hairs on Aragorn’s neck stand on end.

“Perhaps,” the man admitted with a grin. “We saw one of them, alone in the woods, on the hunt. Good meat on his bones, not skinny. Hunter becomes hunted. Did not know his group was close. They came, he was not even fully cut up.”

Aragorn's gaze remained fixed on the man before him, yet his mind seemed far away. The words had reached him, but surely, they did not mean what he thought they did.

Nay, I must have misunderstood.

His reason wrestled against the growing horror, trying to push away the meaning that was slowly taking shape in the back of his mind.

But then, his eyes shifted downward, almost instinctively, to the necklace the leader wore. He had noticed it before, but now, in the dim light of the campfire, he truly saw it. The pieces strung together were not the fangs and bones of beasts and prey, as he had thought initially.

No. These were something else entirely.

Too small. Too delicate. Fragments that looked unsettlingly like pieces of fingers, or some like a man’s canines.

They looked human.

A wave of cold dread washed over him, the realization settling like a stone in his gut.

Aragorn’s breath hitched, his throat tightening as nausea rose within him.

The leader’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement, as though he could sense the revulsion coursing through Aragorn’s veins, as though he reveled in it. He leaned in, his voice low, almost a whisper. Aragorn wanted to pull away, but the other was still clutching his hair, close to the roots, so that his victim could not move.

“Good meat,” the man said, his tone dripping with vile satisfaction. “Always best when fresh. We play, then we feast.”

Aragorn could only stare, his horror unspoken, but etched clearly on his face.

And then, amidst the swirling tide of revulsion and disbelief, came a sharp sensation that cut through the fog of confusion and denial, one that had been missing until now.

Fear.

Cold and unrelenting, it seized him at last.

“Had to leave the body behind. But now, we have you. Very lucky, my people are hungry. Very hungry. But first, you will answer questions.”

Legolas paced restlessly, his sharp eyes flicking toward the dimming horizon.

The sky was beginning to grow dark with the onset of dusk, and grey clouds blotted out the last traces of light. Perhaps it would rain before long.

Was Aragorn truly so angry with him as to vanish for hours without a word? The thought gnawed at him, but deep within, the Elf knew it could not be so.

What, then, was the alternative?

Just as he tried to quiet his mind, to quell the rising flood of unease, the familiar sound of heavy, deliberate steps reached his ears. It was a rhythm he had long come to associate with the approach of an Onod. The steps were hurried—uncharacteristically swift for an Ent.

Legolas halted, a quiet tension settling over him as he waited. Soon enough, Quickbeam emerged from the dense foliage, his expression solemn, the great limbs of his form swaying slightly as he came to a stop.

Quickbeam's deep voice rumbled like the groaning of ancient trees. 

“Hoom…We have word from the trees at the southern edges. They felt him—your charge, moving toward the river. Down the way that leads to the dark one’s lair, near the borders of Fangorn. But hrum-hoom... they did not feel him return. Hasty Men passed soon after, quick and loud as they are.”

He paused. “Burárum… there was a stench on them, the trees spoke of a foulness clinging to the air, the taint of the Dark One… evileyed they were, unnatural…”

Legolas’s heart sank like a stone into the depths of a cold, bottomless river.

With a harsh bark of command, the leader gestured toward the fire, and one of the men standing nearby obeyed at once.

Aragorn’s heart sank further as he watched the other reach into the flames and retrieve a long, glinting object—a crude wooden rod with a metal tip, heated until it glowed with a fierce red-orange light. Once an axe head, or perhaps the tip of a spear, it had clearly been repurposed for a far more sinister use. Waves of heat shimmered in the air around it, distorting the space between the fire and the weapon as the man handed it to his chief.

The leader grasped the glowing rod with grim purpose, holding it just above Aragorn’s exposed arm, where the fabric of his tunic had been torn away. The searing metal hovered mere inches from his skin, the heat unbearable even at that distance. Aragorn felt sweat bead upon his brow, whether from the oppressive warmth or the fear now surging through him like a storm, he could not tell.

His breath quickened, heart pounding in his chest. Instinctively, he pulled his arm back, though he half-expected a brutal reprimand. To his surprise, his captor allowed the movement, watching him with cold, calculating eyes.

"The leg, then?" the leader murmured, his voice dark and low, as he lowered the weapon toward Aragorn’s shin, where the skin was thin and the bone lay close. Immediately, the heat radiated through the cloth of his trousers, threatening to scorch the flesh beneath.

Aragorn clenched his jaw, biting down on his lip to keep silent. He dared not cry out. He knew that if he did, it might shatter the fragile wall of resolve that kept him from begging to be spared. Yet he also knew, with a sinking certainty, that these men would not be swayed by pleading.

There was no mercy in their eyes, only cruelty, a hunger for pain that burned hotter than the brand they wielded.

"Tell me—where are the others?" the leader asked, his voice deceptively calm. "You cannot live alone."

The heat grew more intense, and sweat dripped down Aragorn’s brow, mingling with the water that had been dumped on him before. Despite his silence, his mind was racing.´He had never known the touch of torture, but he had heard dark tales of it—whispered stories of unspeakable suffering, of men broken by pain. Tales that had seemed distant, unreal, until now.

From the shadows beyond the firelight, another voice joined the cruel chorus. It was rough, smoky, and its tone sent a fresh wave of dread through Aragorn. Though the speaker remained hidden, the malice in his words was unmistakable.

"Any wenches?" the voice rasped with sickening glee. "Mother? Sister?"

Aragorn’s stomach twisted, a sickening wave of revulsion momentarily overpowering the pain and fear that already gripped him. He dared not think too deeply on why they were asking after women, on the vile intent threaded through their words. Each passing second seemed to stretch into an eternity, and the weight of his silence pressed down on him as the jeers and taunts from the men continued, circling him like wolves scenting blood.

And then, suddenly, there was a flash of white-hot pain.

His body reacted instinctively once more, his leg kicking out in a desperate attempt to escape the searing agony that coursed through his shin. Aragorn tried to twist away, to throw himself to the side, but this time, rough hands were on him in an instant—gripping his shoulders, seizing his hair, and pressing him hard into the dirt.

The strength of the men holding him was unyielding, merciless, forcing him to remain still even as every fiber of his being screamed to flee.

Soon, the sharp, acrid stench of burnt flesh and charred fabric filled the air, stinging Aragorn's nostrils. Each breath was a struggle, the searing pain and rising nausea nearly overwhelming him. His vision swam, darkness creeping at the edges, and for a fleeting moment, the thought of slipping into unconsciousness seemed a welcome relief from the torment.

But Aragorn fought against it. If he passed out now, he might never wake again. Gritting his teeth, he clung desperately to awareness, forcing himself to endure the agony coursing through his body.

A low, ragged groan escaped him, involuntary and raw, but still, he did not scream.

The man holding the iron sneered, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.

“Not so brave now, are you?” he hissed. He leaned closer, his breath foul and hot, the weight of his malice pressing in as he pulled the iron from Aragorn's skin, granting the young man only the briefest respite from the searing agony that coursed through his body like fire.

Aragorn dared not look at the burn, refusing to see the damage done to his own body. The stench of scorched flesh was already overwhelming, assaulting his senses, making his stomach churn. It was enough to feel the blistering heat still radiating from his leg, the pain relentless. Once more, nausea threatened to rise in his throat, but he swallowed it down, not willing to throw up on himself.

“Answer, boy.” The man’s voice was sharp, laced with menace, and Aragorn knew he was running out of time.

He clenched his teeth once more.

Aragorn would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him beg. But then, the iron began to move again, slowly and deliberately, its heat traveling upwards. He did not need to look to know where it was headed—towards the vulnerable soft skin of his inner thigh, where the pain would be unbearable. The heat radiated through the fabric, already making his flesh tingle in painful anticipation.

Aragorn’s heart thundered in his chest, the rush of blood in his ears now nearly drowning out the relentless pounding in his skull.

Every instinct screamed at him to speak, to say anything that would make it stop.

A lie could save him. If he fabricated a story, told them what they wanted to hear, perhaps they would relent. The thought flashed through his mind—but just as quickly, he cast it aside. If they discovered his deception, the punishment would be far worse than what they had threatened so far. After all, he had already paid dearly for the last lie…

Then, for a fleeting, shameful moment, another thought crossed his mind—he could tell them the truth. He could betray Fangorn, speak of the Elf and the Ents. The Ents would be of no use to these men-eaters, and Legolas... Legolas was a skilled warrior, swift and cunning. He could defend himself—Aragorn had seen that firsthand.

The temptation was brief, and as quickly as it arose, he cast it aside.

Yet the very thought twisted in his gut, leaving him sick with himself for even allowing it to surface. Legolas would never betray him—of that Aragorn was certain. The Elf’s loyalty was as steadfast as the stars that returned each night to the sky, as sure as the sun rising over the eastern hills at dawn. It was a truth as firm and unyielding as the roots of the trees, anchoring the earth beneath his feet.

Clinging to that knowledge, Aragorn steeled his resolve, letting his silence become his shield. No matter what they did, no matter the pain, he would not betray those he loved.

For a brief moment, his tormentor seemed almost impressed. He let out a low, whistling sound, his cruel grin growing calculating.

“You are lucky, boy, that your friends killed leader before me. He liked to play—most with boys.” The man leaned away, as if to get a better look at the image in front of him. Yet, the heat of the iron remained where it was, radiating ominously between them.

“I do not. I make it quick. This is not fun for me. Tell us what we need to know. No more pain.”

Aragorn's lips twisted into a bitter smile. Then, for the first time in a while, he spoke, though it was not what the other had wanted to hear.

“Hard as you claim this is…”Aragorn bit out, his voice hoarse, “you seem to take no small pleasure in it.”

The man’s confident grin faltered, the amusement in his eyes quickly giving way to something far colder, more dangerous. The glowing iron hovered inches from Aragorn’s leg, as if the man were weighing what he would do next.

Then, without warning, the man moved.

But not toward Aragorn’s leg.

Instead, with a swift and deliberate motion, the searing iron pressed against Aragorn’s chest. His tunic hissed as it burned, the fabric smoldering instantly.

Agony flared with the suddenness of a lightning strike, sharp and blinding.

In an instant, Aragorn tried to curl inward, his body writhing in a desperate attempt to escape the agony. But it was no use, as the rough hands gripping his legs and shoulders held him firm once again, forcing him to endure the relentless torment.

The sound of the burning cloth tearing under the heat filled his ears, the pain like molten fire spreading through his skin, searing deeper with every agonizing second. It consumed him, stripping away any semblance of control.

And then, despite all his efforts to resist, a scream ripped from his throat, raw and involuntary, echoing through the night like the cry of a wounded animal.

Once his resolve had shattered, he could no longer hold back the screams that followed.

Legolas stared at the object in his hands.

He was eyeing it as though willing it to change through his scrutiny alone, to offer some explanation for its presence.

It did not.

The bow he held was finely crafted, a beautiful weapon that had seen many years of service. Though it had weathered time and use, it had been carefully tended, its wood still smooth, the carving of a deer etched into its inside as clear as ever.

But its owner was missing.

Legolas’ heart clenched.

He had found Aragorn’s bow abandoned, alone in the grass, surrounded by signs of recent activity—trampled grass, footprints, and other unsettling evidence.

The Elf was unsettled, his mind offering answers he did not wish to accept. Where was the boy? What had happened here? The absence of visible traces of blood provided a small comfort, yet it did little to calm the storm of unease rising within him.

He could not afford to let his emotions cloud his judgment. His warrior instincts took over, and without fully thinking, he began tracking the footprints through the underbrush, his sharp eyes following the subtle signs of movement.

Instinctively, his steps quickened, urgency driving him forward. But behind him, the ground trembled slightly, the unmistakable sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps following close behind. Quickbeam.

Legolas stopped abruptly, turning to face the Ent.

“Halt, friend,” he said softly, his voice firm but calm, raising a hand to signal for stillness. The Ent’s immense form towered over him, silent but watchful.

“We may need to be inconspicuous,” Legolas continued, choosing his words carefully. “If Aragorn is captured,”—he hesitated, unwilling to dwell on any darker alternative— "…our appearance could put him in greater danger.”

Quickbeam’s groaning voice was poised to offer a protest, but Legolas raised his hand again, cutting off any objections before they could begin.

“We must be swift and silent,” he explained. “If you could lend me the aid of the Huorns, tell them to heed my commands for a time. They are swift when needed and subtle in their movements, able to wrap themselves in shadows—qualities you, my friend, do not possess. We cannot risk drawing attention to ourselves.”

Quickbeam remained silent, his amber eyes deep with thought as he studied the Elf. The Ent’s reluctance was palpable, despite his calm demeanor. He, too, cared for Aragorn in his own way. Though the boy was not bound to the earth like the trees in his care, the Ent saw him as a sapling of sorts—young, growing, but deeply connected to their world.

Yet there was no time for sentiment. Impatience began to gnaw at Legolas as the Ent continued to waver, for seldom were the Onodrim swift in their decision-making. He parted his lips to press the issue, but then—there it was.

A noise.

Legolas froze, every muscle tensing as his keen ears strained to pick up the sound again. It was faint, almost swallowed by the wind, but unmistakable…

His heart lurched, and the world seemed to narrow around him. Though the scream was distant, raw, and distorted, there was no mistaking it. He recognized that voice.

“Aragorn.“

Finally, the man had let go.

Still, the aftershocks of the torture left Aragorn slumped on the ground. His body trembled uncontrollably, chest heaving with shallow breaths, as every inhale sent a ripple of pain through his battered body.

He had managed to sit up, his limbs weak and shaking, now that the men had released their grip, granting him a brief and bitter reprieve. But the pain lingered, like a fire that would not die. His skin burned with a fierce, relentless heat where the iron had branded him, a deep throbbing ache pulsing through the wound. The rawness gnawed at him, as though the searing metal was still pressed against his skin.

Meanwhile the iron itself, source of his torture, had cooled, no longer serving its sadistic purpose to their captor’s satisfaction. Without a word, the man had thrust it back into the campfire, waiting for the flames to bring it to life again.

Aragorn shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at the scorched flesh on his chest. The wound stung with a sharp, biting pain, the surrounding skin tight and inflamed. The dull, throbbing ache was unrelenting, as if the heat had burrowed deep into his flesh and bone.

The men around him had returned to their cruel laughter, huddling near the campfire, their attention momentarily drawn away from their captive. But the iron rod, thrust back into the flames, began to glow faintly once again—a grim reminder of the agony that awaited him.

Only one man remained close to Aragorn, and it was the one whose presence he least desired: the leader, source of his torment. Wrapped in the grey cloak of a fallen Ranger, the man seemed more a mockery of the noble warrior whose gear he now wore. The silver clasp, once a symbol of honor, now fastened the garment around a man who took pleasure in torturing the dead Ranger's kin.

Aragorn, grim with the thought, could not help but wonder if he might soon meet the cloak’s previous owner in death.

“You think you do well, hmm? Stay silent?" the leader sneered, his voice dripping with menace. "But you are wrong. Silence speaks loud.” His words were like the hiss of a serpent, anger thinly veiled beneath his calm tone, as though each threat carried the promise of more pain.

The man crouched closer, his shadow flickering in the firelight, casting long, twisted shapes across Aragorn's face. “We know now. You have people. Family. Friends.” He spat the words, as if they were a weakness. “If no one, you would tell us—lie to us—or beg.”

Then he leaned in, his breath hot and foul, as if the rot of his soul had infected his very lungs.

“They will scream for your silence. Bleed for your pride.”

Aragorn merely blinked, his vision still clouded, his body wracked with pain. Yet, despite the torment, his mind lingered on a chilling disbelief. This man’s cruelty was unlike anything he had ever known.

For Orcs and the like, there was a strange simplicity to their violence—they were bred for it, twisted by shadow.

But these were Men.

His eyes locked with the leader's cold gaze. How could a man, born under the same sky, carry such darkness in his heart? Had he always been this way, or had Sauron’s poison slowly crept into his veins, corrupting them until he was barely human?

Aragorn's thoughts, clouded by pain and exhaustion, wandered to his own childhood, the guidance of those who had loved and nurtured him. What had these men known? Had they ever been like him, born to families that cared for them, with dreams of brighter futures? Or had their paths always led to this—their hands stained with blood, their souls blackened by hatred?

But Aragorn offered no response to the man's taunts. Why should he? It was plain that this creature took sadistic delight in his torment, eager to wring from him some sign of weakness. Aragorn had no desire to grant him that satisfaction, not anymore. His screams had already brought them enough twisted delight.

Another man appeared at the leader's side, the cursed instrument of pain once again clutched in his filthy hands. Aragorn’s body tensed involuntarily at the sight of it—another round of suffering lay ahead, one more test of endurance he was not sure he had the strength for.

The leader took the tool with a dark gleam in his eyes, his expression hardening. “One more chance, boy. You speak now, or fire takes your flesh. Better you talk, make your end... easier.“

Instinctively, Aragorn closed his eyes, unwilling to gaze upon the glowing metal, dreading the agony that awaited him once more.

But the darkness of his closed eyelids only served to worsen the torment—the uncertainty of where the pain would strike heightened every sensation, and the pounding in his skull grew louder with every passing second. His wounds throbbed, raw and merciless, and the heat of the iron seemed to scorch him even in anticipation.

I must endure this, he told himself grimly, opening his eyes once again. Endure until the end, no matter what comes.

His hope for rescue was no more—his only goal now was to endure the torment and face the death that awaited him. Soon, he would be gone, his fate sealed by men more beast than human.

In the brief moments between breaths, his mind wandered, despite the pain.

What would his grandmother, who had foreseen a great destiny for him, think of this? His parents, who had entrusted him with their hopes for the future, the people who had sacrificed everything to see it fulfilled—what would they say of such an ignoble end?

What would Legolas feel, when he discovered Aragorn's fate?

It was the last thought that stung the most. For a brief moment, the pain in his heart was sharper than the wounds on his body, the shame of his failure twisting inside him like a blade.

Forgive me, Legolas, he thought, despair weighing him down like a stone. I was careless, and you will suffer for it.

Just then, as the leader advanced with the iron, one of the men standing nearby let out a noise of surprise.

It was the same man who had brought the tool of torment, now turning his gaze toward the campfire, his attention snagged by something unseen amidst the rowdy laughter of his comrades.

Aragorn tensed. Something had changed.

The man who had reacted raised his arm, as though pointing to something just beyond the campfire. He barked a question in his foreign, guttural tongue, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

He was pointing at…an oak tree?

In response, the leader paused, distracted, his intentions momentarily forgotten as he turned to follow the man's gaze. His expression shifted from annoyance to confusion, and then to something much closer to alarm.

“That tree,” the leader muttered, his voice now uncertain, a stark contrast to the malice that had dripped from his words only moments before. His gaze, previously filled with cruel intent, was now clouded with confusion and growing dread.

“Was it… there before?”

Aragorn’s eyes widened, and against the sharp pain in his chest, a flicker of hope sparked to life, warming him in a way the fire and torture never could.

He dared not move, dared not show it, but something within him stirred, waiting.

And then, as if the muttered question had been an unintentional command, the tree suddenly shifted, springing to life.

This was no mere tree.

It had no eyes, no arms like the Ents of legend, for it was not fully awake like them—but it was a Huorn, one of the half-awakened trees that carried a wrath in their roots and branches that could only be tempered by their shepherds.

When unleashed, however, that fury made for a terrible and awe-inspiring sight.

Without warning, the ground trembled as a deep, groaning sound echoed through the forest. The roots of the Huorn ripped free from the soil with a violent force, sending sprays of earth, pebbles, and torn grass into the air. Its roots lashed out like great tentacles, and the Men, previously so confident in their power, recoiled in terror, their shouts of fear echoing through the camp. None had ever seen such a thing.

One man, slower than the rest, distracted by his gruesome task of carving a spit for the fire, was too slow to react. He had been busy with his work, oblivious to the danger behind his back, until the roots wrapped around his torso like a coiling serpent.

The force was so great that a sickening crack rang out—the sound of ribs shattering beneath the pressure—cutting through the chaotic din of the camp. The man’s scream tore through the night, but it was cut short as the Huorn flung him with terrifying ease. He sailed through the air, vanishing into the darkness beyond the firelight. Though his body disappeared into the shadows, the silence that followed his fall told all that needed to be known.

He would not rise again.

The camp fell still for a moment, frozen in the wake of the Huorn’s vengeance.

Then, chaos erupted.

Most of the Men scattered in blind panic, while a few brave—or perhaps foolish—souls drew their crude weapons, attempting to hack at the Huorn's wooden limbs.

Their bravery was paid in blood. Two more were caught by the lashing roots, barely able to make a dent in the bark before they were lifted and tossed aside, their lives ended just as swiftly as their companion’s.

Amidst the clamor, the leader’s harsh voice rang out, barking commands in his foreign tongue.

Though Aragorn could not understand the words, their meaning became clear soon enough, as the remaining Men rushed to the fire, thrusting sticks and the ends of their crude weapons into the flames, desperate to ignite the Huorn in a last, frantic effort to fend off the creature that had descended upon them.

In the midst of the ensuing confusion and panic, Aragorn saw his chance.

Despite the burning pain from his wounds and the tight ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, he began to move—slowly, painfully—scooting backward on the ground, hoping the chaos would shield his actions. He knew that if he could reach one of the bodies flung aside by the Huorn, there might be a blade, a knife, anything he could use to free himself. With each strained movement, the flicker of hope within him grew.

For a moment, his plan seemed to work. The Men were too preoccupied, their attention focused on the Huorn’s wrath, and Aragorn, like a shadow in the darkness, went unnoticed as he inched along the ground.

His heart raced as his gaze flicked to the left, where a solitary young tree stood—an odd sight amidst the otherwise mostly barren grasslands, remnants of the great fire that had nearly spelled the end for Fangorn.

‘If I can just reach it…’ he thought, ‘I might hide behind its trunk, shielded from their eyes.’

Determination surged within him, and though his body screamed in protest, the flood of adrenaline dulled his pain, pushing it to the edges of his awareness. He was close—so close—but then a furious shout cut through the din.

“Boy! Stay here!”

His blood ran cold. He turned his head to see the leader, his dark gaze locked on him, advancing with quick, purposeful strides. The man had abandoned his men to the Huorn’s fury, for preventing Aragorn’s escape clearly meant more to this vile creature than saving their lives.

Aragorn’s breath caught, and he quickened his desperate crawl, though he knew in his heart it was in vain. With only a few strides, the leader was upon him, axe raised high. The firelight flickered behind the man, casting his twisted form in a demonic glow, his shadow long and menacing as he loomed over Aragorn.

The crude blade threatened to come down like the strike of an executioner.

But before Aragorn could even attempt to throw himself aside, the sharp whistle of an arrow sliced through the night air, barely audible amidst the clamor of battle.

It struck with deadly precision, burying itself deep into the leader’s neck. His fury was silenced in an instant, his eyes widening in shock. The axe slipped from his grasp, falling to the earth with a dull thud, as his hands reached for the arrow, futilely clawing at it.

A gurgling sound escaped him, wet and ragged, as he choked on his own blood, his body staggering before he fell to his knees, then to the ground.

Aragorn, frozen in disbelief, watched as the man collapsed, twitching once before lying still upon the cold ground, cursed to remain still forevermore.

Only when he was sure the man would not rise again, to continue his torment, did Aragorn’s thoughts pick up again – the arrow had come from behind, swift and silent, and there was only one who would shoot with such deadly precision.

Aragorn’s gaze followed its path, eyes tracing the line back toward the trunk of a young tree that stood out amidst the desolate landscape, that had been his destination in the first place.

And there, emerging from the shadows behind it, was Legolas.

A surge of relief flooded Aragorn, so overwhelming that for a brief moment, the blood, the pain, the danger around him seemed to fade into nothingness.

It felt as though he could finally breathe again, as if he was already safe.

The Elf himself moved like a shadow in the night, his face calm and impassive, though his eyes blazed with a cold, righteous fury. Another arrow was already nocked to his bow, the string drawn taut as he surveyed the chaos before him with a predator's grace—silent, swift, and deadly.

“Stay low and do not move,” Legolas's voice came, sharp yet calm, intended only for Aragorn's ears.

The Elf's gaze flicked toward the camp, ensuring their enemies remained occupied with the wrath of the Huorn. Satisfied, Legolas moved closer, his steps impossibly light, and knelt beside Aragorn. His face remained unreadable, though the care with which he worked spoke volumes.

With one fluid motion, Legolas shouldered his bow and drew his twin knives, the sharp blades gleaming in the faint light. One, two, three swift strokes, and the ropes binding Aragorn's wrists snapped free under the Elf’s skilled hands.

As the restraints gave way, Aragorn’s arms slumped to the ground, the sudden rush of blood to his hands a painful mix of relief and agony. He bit back a groan as the tingling ache spread through his fingers and up into his shoulders, which now no longer strained painfully behind his back.

In the meantime, the Elf turned his attention to the bindings around Aragorn’s legs, but before he could sever the cords, a triumphant shout echoed from the camp.

They both froze, glancing toward the fire. The sound was unmistakable—a cry of victory from one of the men, which was soon followed by a crackling sound-ominous and sharp, like the first snap of wood in a growing fire.

One of the men had succeeded in igniting the Huorn.

Flames licked hungrily at the dry wood, spreading rapidly across its gnarled bark. The Huorn groaned, a deep, mournful sound that seemed to echo through the very earth beneath them. Its twisted branches writhed as though in pain, and with a mighty shudder, the creature surged forward, moving with surprising speed despite the flames consuming it.

The blazing tree tore through the camp, scattering the remaining men in its path.

The fire roared as it devoured the Huorn’s limbs, casting flickering shadows across the clearing. With desperate energy, the burning Huorn rushed into the night, its flaming form growing smaller as it disappeared into the darkness, hopefully making its way toward the river.

But the brief distraction was over. The remaining men turned their attention now to Aragorn and Legolas, their eyes falling upon the lifeless body of their leader, arrow still lodged in his throat. Fury twisted their faces, and with savage cries, two of them hurled their spears toward the Elf and his companion.

Legolas moved with practiced swiftness, his blades catching the firelight as they flashed through the air. With ease, he deflected the incoming spears, sending them clattering harmlessly to the ground. For a brief moment, his gaze flicked to Aragorn—a silent exchange passing between them. In those sharp, steady eyes was a warning, an unspoken command to stay clear of the fray.

But there was more. Beneath the caution lay something softer—reassurance, a promise.

Do not fear. I will keep you safe.

Without further hesitation, the Elf rose to his full height, his twin knives drawn as he advanced upon the remaining foes. One final assessing glance at his injured companion, and he stepped into the fray, slipping into the heart of battle as naturally as a fish moves through water.

Aragorn wasted no time watching the Elf at work, though the cries of the men and the clash of blades soon filled the air. He knew he could trust Legolas to guard him, but he had no desire to remain helpless, bound on the ground, vulnerable like a lamb in the midst of wolves any longer.

Aragorn let out a rare curse, frustration mounting as his shaking fingers struggled to undo the tight knots binding his ankles. His hands, still numb from their binding, lacked their usual dexterity, so that each tug at the ropes seemed to tighten them further.

Outside of his vision, the sounds of battle grew fiercer. The men shouted orders to one another, their harsh voices clashing with the eerie silence of Legolas, whose knives whispered death as he danced between them like a specter.

Desperate, Aragorn glanced around, seeking something to aid him. His eyes fell upon the axe—the same one that had nearly ended his life only moments before—lying abandoned beside the body of the leader. It gleamed faintly in the firelight, and though dull, it would be sharp enough to sever the ropes.

He promptly began dragging himself toward the fallen axe, even as his heart raced with an irrational surge of wariness. It felt as though, at any moment, the lifeless body of the leader might rise again and strike the instant he drew too close.

At last, with trembling fingers, he closed his hand around the hilt of the weapon, clutching it tightly. Grimacing, he maneuvered the blade against the ropes binding his ankles. The dull edge bit slowly into the thick cords, each motion sending tremors through his arms as he hacked at the restraints, forcing himself to ignore the clash of weapons and the shouts of the battle raging before him.

Finally, with a sharp snap, the thick ropes gave way. His legs slumped free, and though a wave of relief washed over him, it was tempered by the throbbing ache of blood rushing back into his numbed limbs.

Using the axe for support, Aragorn dragged himself upright for the first time in hours. His body protested at every movement, pain flaring through his sore limbs and torso like fire. His knees wobbled beneath him, but he refused to give in, forcing himself to stand, even as he leaned heavily on the axe to catch his breath. He was free.

Finally, despite the veil of exhaustion clouding his vision, Aragorn beheld Legolas.

The Elf moved with an inhumane speed that belied the ferocity of his strikes, his twin blades dancing through the air with lethal precision. Three assailants currently bore down upon him, yet Legolas remained unshaken.

One swung a broad axe, but the Elf sidestepped with a swiftness beyond mortal ken, his blade flashing in a deadly arc that cut deep into the man's chest. The enemy crumpled with a strangled cry, his hand futilely clutching the mortal wound as life ebbed from him.

Undeterred, another attacker charged, a spear gleaming menacingly in the firelight. But with a single, fluid motion, Legolas deflected the strike once more, wresting the weapon from the man’s grasp. The blade of the Elf found the man’s throat in the same breath, and he fell, his death swift and silent.

A third enemy approached from the flank, wielding a heavy club. For a moment, it seemed the advantage might be his. Yet, Legolas whirled with a dancer's grace, ducking beneath the brutal swing. A sharp kick to the man’s legs sent him sprawling, balance lost.

Even outnumbered, Legolas moved with a grace that seemed not of this world. Each strike was precise, each motion flowing seamlessly into the next, as if battle were as natural to him as breath. No movement was wasted, no effort betrayed. To Aragorn, it was a vision both wondrous and humbling, a display of skill he might have marveled at for hours—were it not tainted by the bloodshed and its grim necessity.

But then, Aragorn’s gaze caught a movement behind Legolas.

There was a figure, barely stirring. It was one of the defeated men, rising once more. His arm hung at an unnatural angle, broken, yet still he clung to life, driven by a hatred that twisted his face into an ugly grimace.

In his good hand, he clutched a jagged knife, moving toward Legolas.

Panic surged within Aragorn. He opened his mouth to cry out a warning, but only a small, hoarse choked off sound could be heard. His screaming had robbed him off his voice.

And so, Legolas, still deep in the fray, remained oblivious to the threat closing in from behind—so near, far too near.

Aragorn moved without thought, his body guided by instinct alone. The sounds of the battlefield—the clash of steel, the groans of the dying—became distant, muffled as if in a dream. His mind drifted, drawn to a memory long buried.

He saw it again—his mother, Gilraen, standing before him, her face pale with fear. They had been fleeing, an arrow loosed from the shadows, swift and unrelenting. He had been but a child then, too small, too slow. She had seen the threat he could not. His mother had pushed him aside, and the arrow had found her instead.

So swift, so small a thing, and yet it had stolen everything.

The clash of steel jarred him back to the present, but the fear, the helplessness, remained unchanged. He would not lose another—not again. His feet carried him forward, unbidden, toward Legolas, toward the enemy who crept up behind him, knife raised for a killing blow.

Aragorn’s pulse roared in his ears as he swung his axe with all the force he could muster. The man never turned, never saw his end coming. His back was exposed, his focus fixed solely on his target—unaware of the doom that loomed behind him.

With a sickening thud, the axe found its mark. The blade cleaved into the man’s neck, and the dull crunch of bone reverberated through Aragorn’s trembling hands. The force of the blow jarred his arms, yet his mind remained distant, as though he were merely a spectator to his own violence, watching from some far-off place.

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

Then, through the fog of disbelief, Aragorn saw it—a flash of silver, a slender, white blade piercing through the man’s back from the opposite side.

The tip of Legolas’s knife, sharp and lethal, had already struck true.

Legolas had not needed his aid after all. He had known all along. The assassin had never gone unnoticed, the Elf’s strike had been as precise as ever, even as Aragorn’s axe fell.

Over the lifeless shoulder of the man who now lay between them, Aragorn’s eyes met Legolas’s. For an instant, the shock that gripped Aragorn was mirrored in the Elf’s gaze. Yet it was not a shock at the danger, nor at the death itself, but at Aragorn—at what he had done.

For a moment, they stood frozen.

The weight of the body as it slumped forward, pulling Aragorn’s axe from his hands, barely registered, as well as the sensation of the warm blood slick between his fingers as his hand came away from the hilt. The blade remained lodged in the man’s neck as he collapsed.

Beneath Aragorn’s feet, a dark, glistening pool of blood spread across the trampled earth, soaking into the dirt in thick rivulets.

The moment could not last. The remaining foes took no heed of Aragorn’s turmoil, rushing in to exploit what they saw as a lapse. Legolas promptly leapt back into the fray, but not before casting a quick, concerned glance at his charge’s face.

Aragorn stood as if rooted, his gaze fixed on the fallen corpse and the spreading pool of blood—deep, red, and unnervingly still. The reality of his first kill weighed upon him, settling cold and unfamiliar in his stomach.

He stared into the other’s lifeless, dark eyes, and an unsettling sensation gripped him, as if they were looking back, accusing. You killed me, they seemed to say.

A wave of nausea surged up within him. Aragorn stumbled back, his breath quickening. He managed only a few steps before he turned, bending over to retch into the bushes. Yet nothing came out, only dry heaves racked his frame, interrupted by gasps for air.

He remained like this, shaking, trusting Legolas once more to watch his back as he fought to wrestle his body under control, though the metallic scent of blood lingered, heavy and unrelenting.

Yet through his periphery, he caught sight of Legolas cutting down another man with ruthless precision, leaving only one opponent standing. It was this sight that snapped Aragorn back to himself, reminding him why he had come to this place in the first instance.

He forced himself to move, pushing through the fog of shock.

With a burst of effort, Aragorn closed the distance, intervening bodily just as Legolas raised his blade to finish the last man. The enemy had already been disarmed and now cowered on the ground, terror etched across his face.

Legolas halted mid-strike, his keen eyes narrowing as Aragorn stepped between them.

“Wait,” Aragorn rasped, his voice hoarse and weak, the single word scraping from his throat as though it fought to break free.

A shadow flickered across Legolas’s face at the sound, his expression tightening.

Ignoring the pain that shot through him, Aragorn turned to the remaining foe, silently praying that this one spoke Westron. If not, they would have a problem.

“Where… did you come across the Rangers?” he demanded, each word a struggle.

Beside him, Legolas’s head snapped around, blue eyes widening in shock. But Aragorn kept his gaze fixed on the man, paying no attention to the Elf’s surprise. This was his one chance to glean any information about the Dúnedain.

Would he speak, or would everything Aragorn had endured be in vain?

The man’s bloodshot eyes darted between them, but he pressed his lips tight, refusing to answer. His face was pale, and a sickly green tinge colored his skin, yet he said nothing.

For a moment, Aragorn stood at a loss. How could they convince him to speak?

It seemed Legolas had his own ideas.

Without a word, the Elf stepped forward, his expression shifting into something Aragorn had never seen before. A shadow crossed the fair features of Legolas, twisting his beauty with a strange and terrible darkness.

Hatred.

The Elf bent low, close enough that the man flinched back instinctively, but Legolas gripped his shoulder, holding him fast. He moved slowly, deliberately, his eyes fixed on the man. Without a word, Legolas drew the tip of his knife along the man’s arm, just above the elbow, pressing down lightly.

“One cut here,” he murmured, his voice soft as silk, “and the nerve would sever cleanly.” The words were measured, almost too calm, and his gaze remained unwavering. “Your arm would be useless. Dead weight. Still, the pain would linger long after the feeling is gone.”

The man’s breath hitched, his wide eyes following the knife’s glint as it traced along his skin, too petrified to move.

At this, Aragorn’s silent question was answered—the man understood Westron, for a flinch finally betrayed him as Legolas’s words sank in.

But the flicker of fear did not deter Legolas. Instead, he tightened his hold, fingers entwining in the man’s hair as he forced him backward, similarly to what the Men had done to Aragorn, a mere hour ago. His movements were precise, almost methodical, as he shifted his position, pressing the blade to the hollow of the man’s knee, just enough for the cold steel to send a pulse of pain.

“The knee is a fragile thing,” he continued, his tone contemplative, as though discussing a curiosity. “One precise cut, and you would never walk again.”

He let the silence stretch between them, filling the air with a thick tension. The man whimpered, his face pale and his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps, yet still he refused to speak.

Legolas moved slowly, deliberately, drawing the edge of his blade up to the man’s jawline, letting it rest there, close enough that he would feel its cold bite without yet breaking the skin. “Elves are known for our patience, one your kind cannot even begin to comprehend.” he said, his voice a whisper, deadly and soft.

“I could spend hours discovering how much pain one blade can deliver before one begs for mercy. Or you could spare yourself now. Speak, and I may even let you live.”

“Legolas…” Aragorn tried to intervene, but his words caught in a dry cough. This was going too far. What set them apart from the men who had tortured him if they stooped to this? Surely Legolas was only performing—surely he did not mean to follow through on his threats.

But the man’s resolve shattered, and he broke into speech, the words tumbling out in a desperate, stammering rush.

“S-six days… past. Old road—south, you… know? M-met… south of the ruined town, by the river. West… west from here.”

Aragorn perked up, a part of him relieved that he would not have to find out if Legolas truly intended to follow through on his threats. But another, much larger part of him surged with sudden excitement.

The ruined town by the river could only be Tharbad.

Aragorn recalled its name from one of Thalion’s—one of the wiser Rangers—history lessons. Built by the Númenóreans, Tharbad had once been a vital trade hub, a point connecting the two kingdoms of the Dúnedain along the Royal Road. But its decline had been gradual, ending in ruin during Sauron’s reign, when his forces ravaged Eriador. Some of its surviving people had been taken in by the Rangers, even those who bore no Númenórean blood.

Six days. Considering the vastness of Middle-earth, this was close, and now, with a direction to follow…

Aragorn was bruised, burned, and utterly exhausted. Only moments ago, every fiber of him ached for rest, and now, a fierce surge of energy bloomed within, a pull urging him to set off for Tharbad without delay. Something told him—no, insisted—that this was it. The Valar were leading him back to his kin.

“Which direction did they go?” Legolas’s voice came, sharp and skeptical, as though he doubted the man’s truthfulness.

“We fought, then… fled south,” the man stammered. “They chased us, but not long. They were slower… they have old and young ones. More, I not know.”

Legolas finally looked up, though his grip on the man remained firm. His gaze met Aragorn’s, and the faintest softening flickered in his eyes.

Aragorn did not speak—the effort was too great—but the silent plea on his face was clear.

I want to find them. Will you come with me?

There was no question in his heart this time, he and Legolas would not part ways, as they had tried before. Wherever he went, whatever they faced, they would do so together.

Almost imperceptibly, Legolas nodded, and Aragorn felt his heart lighten. A faint, weary smile touched his face—the first in many hours, ever since his ordeal had begun.

Then, Legolas’s attention shifted back to the man, his expression hardening once more.

“As for you…” he began, letting the words hang ominously. The man’s face blanched.

“Said everything! No lie! Please, live!”  he pleaded, his voice cracking. “Do not kill me. Do not hurt!”

Aragorn found it grimly ironic. Without a doubt, this had been one of the men who had sat by the campfire, laughing in sadistic delight as Aragorn had screamed in agony. Now, he was the one begging for mercy.

But enough blood had been spilled. More violence would not erase what had been done. And, as the lone survivor of his group, this man posed little threat.

“Legolas,” Aragorn croaked. “Let him go.”

The Elf did not respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the man. For a tense moment, Aragorn feared Legolas would ignore his plea and finish the prisoner regardless.

But then, the Elf sheathed his blade. A single, thin line of blood marred the man’s throat, a warning as it trickled down in slow rivulets. Legolas released his hold and straightened.

“Go,” he said coldly. “If I see you again, I will kill you.”

The man staggered to his feet, hesitating, his eyes darting between Aragorn and Legolas, as if he half-expected a cruel trick. For a heartbeat, he lingered, mouth agape, caught between fear and disbelief. His gaze swept over the campsite, taking in the aftermath—the strewn bodies, the blood-soaked earth, the destruction left in the wake of their brief but brutal encounter.

And then, without a backward glance, he took off at a stumbling run, his pace quickening until he was sprinting into the trees, heedless of the noise and his lack of supplies. How he planned to survive without food or water, Aragorn could not guess, and he found he did not much care.

He watched the man’s retreat until the figure disappeared into the grasslands, swallowed up by the darkness. Only then did he allow himself to breathe, his body aching from fatigue as he slowly released the tension that had held him taut.

The stench of blood and burnt wood lingered, and with it, the weight of everything that had transpired. He forced his gaze away from the corpses scattered around the camp, refusing to dwell on the memory of bones crunching beneath the force of his axe.

His people. His kin. He pulled up their faces, the soft, proud voices of his elders, and the stories they would tell as they sat around the fire, the warmth of their company woven into each word. Thalion, he thought, proud Thalion with his tales of Númenor’s glory – and also father to Elgarain, and her younger brother Eldanir. The thought brought a pang to his chest, and for a moment, he could almost hear the familiar timbre of the Ranger’s voice, recounting the rich history of a land Aragorn had never seen, yet felt a part of all the same.

Were Thalion and Eldanir still alive? If they were, how had they fared with Elgarain’s death? And who had the cloak belonged to? 

“I think you will like them.”, he whispered, his voice barely carrying in the stillness of the clearing.

The words reminded him of long-past years, back when he had tried to convince Legolas to stay with the Dúnedain. His efforts had been in vain then, yet fate had kept them together.

“The Rangers…” he continued softly, “most of them are kind, in that quiet way that asks for nothing in return. Their loyalty to my father was unwavering.”

He swallowed, but no answer came.

Aragorn turned slowly, intending to speak further, to share another memory, perhaps, or to ask when they would leave. If he had any say in it, he would press to leave at first light, after tending his burns.

“Legolas?”

But the Elf stood motionless, his gaze unfocused, fixed on some distant point beyond the trees and shadows. His eyes, usually so vibrant and watchful, were dull, unfixed, staring into nothingness.

“L-Legolas?”

No answer came. Aragorn took a hesitant step forward, a chill creeping up his spine as worry tightened within him.

His eyes roved over Legolas’s form, searching for a wound or some clue as to his strange stillness.

There was nothing—the Elf appeared unscathed. Not even a strand of his hair was out of place, his warrior braids neat and untouched. Even the dirt of battle seemed to avoid him, leaving his clothes pristine and free from bloodstains.

Yet—Aragorn’s gaze narrowed, confusion mingling with growing unease.

He blinked. Once, twice, unsure if he was imagining what he saw.

Legolas’s form—was it…flickering?

Faintly, as though his outline blurred and softened, barely perceptible.

And then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

Abruptly, with a soft, soundless movement, the Elf slumped forward, like a puppet with its strings cut, threatening to fall into the dark, blood-stained mud below.

Before Aragorn could even attempt to understand what was happening, he lunged forward, pain and exhaustion forgotten, to catch his friend.

“Legolas!”

The shout echoed across the grasslands, but still, there was no reply.

Chapter Text

Legolas was cloaked in darkness.

How he had come to be here, he did not know.

His intent had been to return to Aragorn, to examine and treat the wounds the boy had sustained—no, the injuries inflicted upon him by savage beasts, creatures who had forsaken the Valar and embraced Sauron as their master in their stead.

But when he had looked, there had been nothing, only pitch-blackness, enveloping him. Shadows curled around him like possessive tendrils, cold and unyielding, seeping into his skin, as though the darkness was welcoming him into its depths.

At last, the shadows thinned—not enough to be called light, but sufficient for Elven eyes to pierce through. And with that shift came recognition.

He knew this place.

How could he not? He had dwelled in these woods for centuries, they were as much a part of him as the roots that bound trees to the earth, entwined in his very marrow.

It was then that a soft whicker sounded behind him, breaking the oppressive silence, followed by a warm puff of air that brushed the back of his head, tousling his hair.

Immediately, he knew not only where he was, but also when.

Slowly, he turned, meeting the large, anxious eyes of Nárwen, his loyal steed. The rich red of her coat was darkened with sweat, flanks still heaving from their relentless journey. Ears pinned back, she trembled with exhaustion.

They had ridden from the Golden Wood at a desperate gallop, pausing only when absolutely necessary—so that even Nárwen, named for her fiery spirit, had nearly faltered along the way. Legolas had been forced to stop, to let her rest, lest she collapse. Yet before long, he had pressed onward once more, alone, knowing by then that his journey had been in vain.

No aid would come from Lothlórien. Instead, he had left his home unguarded, himself a warrior lost when his people needed him most.

He reached up, patting Nárwen’s soft muzzle in a gesture meant to comfort, though whom it was for, he could not say. Distantly, Legolas took note of the way his hands trembled as he stroked her, grounding himself against her warm, living presence.

Was this a dream? He could not tell, for the feel of her fur was as real as the earth beneath his feet and the sickening stench of rot that clung to the air.

Taking the mare’s reins, Legolas whispered softly to her. She gave a gentle nicker in response.

Why he led them onward, he could not say, for he already knew what lay ahead, remembering it as clearly as the day it had happened.

Perhaps it was a self-inflicted punishment, a bitter reminder of his largest regret, a failure that would haunt him for decades to come. The question of why he was here lingered at the edges of his mind, dismissed as though it held no significance.

As they ventured deeper into the silent forest, the once-familiar path became unrecognizable, the very air seeming to reject him. Shadows thickened, an unnatural stillness settling over the trees, as if the forest itself recoiled from his presence. Yet when Legolas looked beyond the narrow trail, the woods dissolved into a hazy blur, his eyes refusing to focus—as though no other path remained but forward, after all.

And so they pressed on in silence, until at last, the thinning trees parted to reveal what lay ahead—the hollow mouth of the Elvenking’s halls, yawning like the entrance to a broken tomb. A sick tremor seized Legolas’s chest as the sight of it tore through his memories, ripping open wounds he had long struggled to bury.

For the once-magnificent gates, proud sentinels of his father’s realm, lay splintered across the threshold. Where intricate carvings had used to gleam with Elven craftsmanship, only charred fragments remained, the wood and stone warped by some violent force. It was evident that dark sorcery had cleaved through the entrance, leaving behind a gaping wound.

Now, only darkness filled the doorway, where vines and blossoms had once entwined stone and wood in delicate embrace, blackened tendrils curling upwards like pleading fingers—a final, desperate reach towards the light.

Legolas swallowed the nausea rising in his throat and tightened his grip on Nárwen’s reins. The mare shuddered, nostrils flaring, but at his renewed whispered reassurance, she stilled.

The moment he stepped over the threshold, the darkness thickened, pressing in like a living thing. Splinters of Elven glass littered the floor, catching the last traces of starlight, fragments of lanterns that had once filled these halls with a celestial glow.

Long ago, as the shadow of Dol Guldur crept ever closer, the Woodland Elves had been driven deeper into the forest. Left with no other choice, Thranduil had decreed the construction of this stronghold—an underground refuge where his people could endure, hidden from the growing darkness. But the Firstborn were beings of the wood and sky, creatures of light who had little love for caves, for the weight of stone pressing around them, for the severance from the stars and the distant presence of the Valar.

And so, they had shaped this place, carving beauty from the rock, crafting a grand sanctuary meant to rival the open sky.

Now, that sanctuary lay in ruin, its delicate wonders scattered like fallen stars from a shattered firmament.

With each step, the emptiness grew heavier. Tapestries that had once draped the walls in rich hues of green and silver lay in twisted, charred heaps, their intricate threads burned away. The stories they had carried—tales of triumph, of kinship—were lost, consumed by unnatural flames that left neither ash nor soot.

The first time he had stumbled upon this scene, he had been shocked by the devastation—and by the absence of bodies at the entrance. That detail had sparked a fragile, foolish hope that his people might yet have escaped.

But it was not to be.

That day he had wandered the ruined halls akin to a ghost, as destroyed artworks and defaced carvings littered his path, whispering of malice. Vandalized paintings had hung in jagged remnants, as looted treasures and spilled Elven wines pooled in sticky, glinting stains on the floor. The black rot he had noticed at the entrance had crept insidiously into every corner, suffocating the once-thriving greenery, so that plants that had seen flourishing in vibrant splendor just days before had hung limp and brittle, as if weeks of decay had been compressed into mere hours.

Legolas remembered how his steps had eventually led him to the small cavern that had once served as the animal pens within their underground gardens. It had been a place of quiet sanctuary, where the soft coos of the injured mingled with the rustle of hay and the laughter of those who tended them. Here, they had nursed wounded creatures, sheltering fragile foals and woodland lives not yet strong enough to return to the wild.

It was in this very place that Legolas had once aided in caring for an orphaned elk calf, a creature so stubborn yet noble in bearing that Thranduil himself had taken a liking to it. In time, the king had named it Hirnath[1], and the elk had become his mount.

But when Legolas had stepped into the cavern that day, silence had swallowed him whole, and instead of being met with the sweet scent of hay, he had found himself, smothered beneath the sharp, metallic tang of blood. Every innocent life within, had been mercilessly snuffed out.

Legolas remembered every detail, every sensation, with a clarity that burned like a brand.

It was not merely the scale of the destruction, the sheer devastation wrought in mere days, that haunted him, though that alone had been harrowing. It was the malice woven into every act. The deliberate cruelty. The purposeful defilement. The malevolent delight in not just extinguishing life, but in erasing everything the Firstborn held dear.

This was not destruction for conquest. It was annihilation for the sheer pleasure of unmaking.

Sauron, and his servants harbored a venomous hatred for the Firstborn, a loathing that defied reason, as for them, the beauty the Elves created was an affront, something to be obliterated. After all, Sauron had long craved dominion over the Eldar, just as he craved power and control over all of Middle-earth. Over the ages, he had devised many ways to achieve it, the forging of the Elven rings not least among them. Yet time and again, even as Men and Dwarves succumbed to the lure of darkness, the Elves stood firm.

And so, Sauron had nurtured his hatred, twisting his desire for control into a relentless craving for complete and utter annihilation.

The ruin of Legolas's home was a message, a declaration of that hatred, etched into splintered wood and blackened stone, painted in the blood of the innocent. Thranduil’s people may have been the first to fall, but they would not be the last.

It had been the first time in his long life, that Legolas had stood face to face with hatred so raw, so palpable, it felt alive—a living, writhing thing coiled around the ruins of his home. And for the first time, he had felt his own hatred rise to meet it, a searing, bitter fury that had shook him to his core. It was an emotion foreign to the Eldar, alien to their nature, and yet in that moment, he had felt as though he was absorbing the darkness that was suffocating him.

Now, as he retraced his steps through the remains of his home in the present, he fought to bury those emotions beneath layers of resolve. Legolas had no desire to confront the evidence of calamity again.

And yet, his feet moved forward with a will of their own, carrying him back to the hidden passage he had uncovered that day, after what had felt like an eternity of desperate searching.

His gaze drifted, catching on a scorched tapestry barely clinging to the remnants of the wall. Beneath its charred edges lay the faint outline of a carving he had nearly forgotten. Long concealed behind woven fabric, the destruction had only partially revealed what lay beneath—a faint seam in the stone, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye.

Legolas’s heart quickened.

Reaching out, he traced his fingers along the grooves in the stone until they found the hidden latch. With a soft click, the wall shifted inward, revealing a dark passageway untouched for centuries.

Unbidden, a memory surfaced, one of his mentor, Eryndir, who had once led him here, mischief gleaming in his eyes.

“This,” Eryndir had said, tapping the hidden latch, "is the work of Naugrim[2]. Your father would never admit it now, of course, but it was their counsel he sought when this fortress was hewn from the hill. It appears that even the proudest of Elvenkings must, at times, acknowledge the mastery of their craftsmen in the shaping of stone."

Legolas had been but a youth then, scarcely a century old, his heart brimming with curiosity still unclouded by the rivalries of their peoples. Eryndir’s lips had curved into an amused smile as he had continued, “The Naugrim, ever pragmatic, insisted upon this—an escape route, a second passage to ensure no soul might be trapped within these halls in times of fire, siege, or worse. It would seem even they, for all their obstinacy, possess rare moments of foresight.”

Legolas almost smiled at the memory of Eryndir’s delight in recounting it, but the weight of the present crushed the thought. The tunnel had seemed unnecessary then, an oddity never meant for use. Yet now, he knew better. It had been used once, after all, though it had failed to preserve the lives of his people.

Now the tunnel yawned open before him, just as Eryndir had described. Wide enough for three grown Elves to walk side by side and tall enough for two to stand without stooping, it stretched into the depths of the hill. It smelled of earth and time, a faint mustiness that whispered of its long abandonment.

“Nárwen,” he murmured, his voice barely above a breath. A strange desperation crept into him—a need for companionship, for something living beside him. Yet deep within, a whisper of doubt coiled in his mind, telling him she could not be real, that she was long dead, nothing more than a memory.

And still, at his call, the mare stepped to his side, ears flicking back to catch his voice, dark eyes shimmering in the dim light, steady and familiar. Legolas exhaled, pressing a reassuring hand to her neck before guiding her forward into the tunnel.

Immediately, the passage sloped gently downward, the smooth stone underfoot a silent testament to the undeniable skill of the Dwarves who had carved it. Nárwen’s hooves struck the ground with muted echoes, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. Yet the noble elven mount remained sure-footed, unflinching in spite of the unfamiliar descent.

It was not long before the tunnel began to rise again, and Legolas felt the faintest breath of air against his cheek, carrying with it the acrid stench of smoke, thick with the unmistakable reek of burning leather, hair, and flesh.

At last, the passage opened onto the far side of the hill, spilling them once more into the dense, shadowed wood encircling the halls. Legolas ran a hand over Nárwen’s mane, seeking comfort in her steady presence, but this time, he found none.

The ruin behind them was only the beginning, and he knew what awaited them ahead, even as he continued onwards regardless.

Finally, the forest, shrouded in heavy silence, gave way to a clearing, and Legolas’s breath caught.

He pulled Nárwen to a halt, his hand tightening instinctively on her reins. Before him stretched a scene of unspeakable carnage, a nightmare made real for the second time.

The clearing that stretched out beyond the forest edge bore the unmistakable marks of battle: churned earth, shattered weapons, and dried pools of blood that darkened the ground in wide, uneven stains. Remnants of defiance were everywhere—desperate, futile, doomed.

But it was not the scattered signs of resistance that held his gaze. It was the bodies.

They were piled high, four towering mounds of the fallen, their lifeless forms twisted together in a grotesque parody of unity. As the fires consuming them had only recently begun their work some faces remained visible, still recognizable through the flickering glow.

Faces he had once known.

Eryndir’s among them.

Legolas’s breath came sharp and shallow. Some of them still bore expressions frozen in terror, as if they had seen death approaching but had no strength left to flee. Elves he had once fought beside, laughed with, draped over one another like autumn leaves felled by a merciless storm.

Why the enemy had gone to such lengths to arrange the dead in this way, he could not say. Elven bodies did not linger, in mere days, they would have faded, returning to the earth. Had the enemy been counting their kills, taking stock of their work like hunters tallying their prey? Or had they been searching for someone, sifting through their victims with cold precision?

Perhaps, worst of all, they had simply delighted in the display, taking pleasure in the macabre artistry of their cruelty.

His steps faltered as his eyes traced the devastation, until they came to rest on the center of the clearing. There, amid the piles of bodies, lay two more forms, distinct for the positioning and the fact that they were entirely unburnt. Beside them, a single flag stood planted firmly in the blood-soaked ground, a silent declaration of triumph.

Emblazoned on the flag was a single, lidless eye, wreathed in flame.

And one of the fallen was an elk, its massive body sprawled across the ground, antlers splayed like shattered branches.

It seemed almost absurd that this majestic creature, so often a symbol of Thranduil’s imposing presence, had been reduced to a crumpled husk amidst the carnage. Despite his father’s composed, unyielding exterior, Legolas knew how dearly the king had cared for Hirnath, for the elk had been with Thranduil since calfhood, cherished above all others. That his father had brought him along, even in the desperation of their flight, spoke volumes of their bond.

Now, the great beast lay motionless, its powerful body pierced by arrows, shafts cruelly jutting from its flanks. Beneath that noble form, familiar golden hair fanned across the churned dirt, darkened and matted with blood.

Nearby, Thranduil’s crown—ornamented with red leaves and bright berries that marked the season—lay discarded at the king’s side. The berries, so recently vibrant, were crushed, their juices staining the earth like spilled wine, mingling with the blood-soaked mud.

Legolas froze, his heart clenching as though caught in a vice. His breath came shallow, each breath burning with the embers of smoke, his limbs refusing to move, even as his mind screamed at him to look away, to turn back, to do anything but face what he already knew. Yet he could not tear his gaze away.

He took a step forward, then another, each one heavier than the last. Behind him, Nárwen shifted uneasily, her ears flicking back and forth, unnerved. But he barely noticed. His focus was fixed entirely on the sight ahead—the golden hair, the blood, the stillness.

At last, he stood before them: the great elk, and the figure beneath. Legolas dropped to his knees, trembling as his hand extended, only to falter just short of touching the matted golden strands. His breath caught, and a single broken whisper escaped him, carried away by the lifeless air.

This time, it was different. Unlike the first time he had stood in this place, his voice did not carry an apology or a plea. It held an accusation, one that had festered within him, growing heavier with time, a question to which he not receive an answer until he entered the Halls of Mandos.

“Why did you send me away, Adar?”

Of course, he was met with silence.

Legolas’s breath came in shallow gasps as he forced himself to meet his father’s open, lifeless eyes.

The face before him was pale and still, a haunting echo of the king he had known. And yet, even in death, there was no mistaking the proud defiance frozen in his expression, for Thranduil had met his end as he had lived—unyielding.

Legolas’ voice cracked as anger swelled in his chest, burning away the helpless sorrow that had clung to him for so long.

“You made me think there was a chance to save you, that we might yet prevail. Did you truly believe that? Or did you know we would fall? Did you send me away to seek help you knew would never come?”

His words were bitter, and they cut deeper than any blade. The anger grew, hot and consuming, and he clung to it, because anger was easier than grief. Anger could drown the crushing helplessness of having tried one’s best and still fallen short.

“Why?” His voice rose, trembling. “Why me? What made you think I alone deserved to live? That this is what I wanted?”

Legolas’s fist clenched, the leather of his glove creaking under the strain.

Thranduil had never shown him special treatment, never once softened his expectations for his only son. Even when others whispered that Legolas carried his mother’s grace, her strength, her very spirit, it had done nothing to thaw the cold exterior of the Elvenking.

And yet, it was Legolas whom Thranduil had sought out on that fateful day, when news of the approaching army had reached them. It was Legolas whom he had sent away—on a mission to the Golden Wood, of all places, a land the king had always viewed with disdain.

For Thranduil’s contempt for the Galadhrim and their reliance on the Rings of Power had never been a secret. Nor had his scorn for their seclusion, the way they hid behind their pristine woods while his own people fought tirelessly against the encroaching darkness, year after year, holding the line for the safety of all.

In the end, his distrust had been justified. When Legolas had arrived at Caras Galadhon, he had found it already abandoned. The aid he had sought had never been there to give.

So why? For what reason would a king so proud and defiant entrust his kingdom’s fate to the very Elves he looked down upon? Why send one of his best warriors to seek their aid, knowing how unlikely it was that they would answer?

Unless — he had not intended to rely on them at all. Perhaps the mission had never been about seeking their help but about ensuring his only child was far away from a battle that could not be won.

The thought was like a dagger to Legolas’s chest, twisting with every beat of his heart. For a king so dedicated to his people, so steadfast in his duty, it was a selfish act, one unlike any Thranduil had ever shown before. It was not strategy, nor pride, but something else entirely: a desperate, uncharacteristic decision born of love.

A love that sought to spare what little remained of his family from the fate that awaited the rest.

Legolas’s breath hitched as the weight of it settled over him. It was not love softened by warmth, nor a father’s tender words, but love nonetheless—unyielding, fierce and flawed. And yet it only stoked his anger, because love born of such a choice felt unbearable. It had left him here.

Alone. Alive.

Burdened with the guilt of his own survival.

‘Even so…’ a small voice whispered in the back of his mind, insistent and quiet. ‘It was that very decision that led you to save a small boy in these woods, a boy who would now be dead or worse, had you not been there to intervene.’

Before Legolas could dwell further on the thought, a cold breeze stirred the air, carrying with it a faint, mocking echo of cruel laughter. The sound rippled through the stillness, fading into the shadows, yet it lingered in his mind like a taunt. His body trembled, an unbidden shiver crawling down his spine. For a moment, he felt himself slipping, as if the darkness were reaching out to claim him—just as it had claimed this place—pulling him down into the emptiness.

Then, something shifted at the edge of his vision.

For a fleeting moment, Legolas thought it was a trick of the dim light, but then he saw it—a black-robed figure, standing just beyond the periphery of his sight, unmoving. Around him, the air grew colder.

Legolas leapt to his feet, his movements fluid despite the weight in his chest. His hands sought his weapons by instinct, and in a single, practiced motion, his knives were drawn, raised in defense.

Before him loomed a figure cloaked in black, tall and unnaturally thin. Its form rippled and wavered, as though it was not entirely bound to this world. Even though its face remained shrouded in shadow beneath the folds of its hood, without form or features, Legolas felt its unseen gaze pierce through him, suffocating and cold.

It looked like a wraith, a thing twisted by darkness, and its enmity was a tangible force in the air between them.

It was a curious thing, how Legolas had remembered everything up to this very moment with devastating clarity, yet, until now, he had forgotten this creature. Nay, a memory not forgotten, but buried. As if whatever had led him here in the first place had wanted his focus elsewhere.

“Who are you?” Legolas demanded, feeling the words pass over his lips, though he already knew the answer.

Slowly, the creature lifted its head, its hood slipping back just enough to reveal a pair of blazing red coals—eyes, yet not set within any true face. Atop where a head should have been, a heavy steel crown sat, its dark metal gleaming cold and sharp against the distant flicker of firelight. The stories whispered among the Elves had spoken of such a figure, and now, faced with it, Legolas knew.

“Shadow of Angmar,” he hissed. “Lord of the Nazgûl.”

If the wraith had a mouth, Legolas was certain it would have curled into a cruel grin at his realization.

“My lord has no use for your kind,” the fell wraith declared, his voice laced with sadistic delight. “And so he sent us—to rid himself of his greatest nuisance once and for all. The Great Kingdom of Mirkwood is no more, its king’s blood drenching my blade. Caras Galadhon lies deserted, the Elves of the Golden Wood fleeing in droves for the Grey Havens. Even now, my Riders march westward, soon to lay waste to the realms of Elrond Half-Elven and Lindon, the Fading Shore.”

Legolas’s anger burned white-hot at the admission of Thranduil’s slaying, but the wraith paid no heed to his rage.

“The time of the Firstborn is over.”, he continued instead. “My master has reclaimed what is rightfully his. His dominion shall not be tainted by the remnants of your kind.”

It took a step forward, shadows curling around its form like living tendrils. “But you need not share their fate, Elf-Prince. Swear fealty, and you may yet be spared.”

Initially, Legolas did not move. The words hung in the air between them, thick with mockery, vile in their pretense of mercy. The wraith’s offer was no salvation—only another death, slower, more insidious.

His grip tightened around the hilts of his knives, knuckles turning white from the strain.

“Spared?” he spat, his voice low, shaking with anger barely constrained as his gaze swept over the devastation, towering pyres of the dead, the body of his father lying where it had fallen. “You think I would kneel to the hand that butchered my people? That I would serve the creature who sent you to slaughter my king?”

Legolas raised his chin, his knives steady in his hands. And among the wreckage of his kingdom, surrounded by the dead, he gave his answer:

“I would sooner burn.”

The Witch-king did not falter. Evidently, he had expected nothing else.

“So, it shall be.”

The words had barely left the wraith’s unseen lips when it moved.

With unnatural speed, the Witch-king drew a blade from the folds of its cloak, black as night, wreathed in a sickly shimmer of malevolence.

A heartbeat later, the steel hissed through the air, a strike meant to cut Legolas down where he stood, leaving no time to think.

Instinct alone saved him as his twin knives flashed up, intercepting the blow. Metal met metal with a jarring clang, the force rattling down his arms. For all its spectral nature, the wraith wielded strength beyond anything mortal. The force of the impact sent Legolas skidding back against the scorched ground, his muscles straining beneath the crushing weight of the blade.

A sharp, ringing hum filled the air, vibrating through his bones, a sound not of mere steel, but something fouler, steeped in sorcery, so that the very air around the blade seemed to shudder, thick with a presence that clawed at the edges of thought.

Behind him, Nárwen shrieked, hooves striking the ground in frantic warning, instincts screaming against the unnatural horror before them, her alarmed whinnies cutting through the night—loyalty to her rider warring with the primal terror that told her to flee.

Legolas gritted his teeth, forcing back the tremor threatening his limbs. He had fought Orcs, spiders, creatures of shadow. And yet, this was a malice beyond the creeping darkness of Dol Guldur.

Then, the Witch-king struck again. With brutal force, it wrenched its blade free, sending Legolas stumbling, barely able to catch himself before the next blow came. The wraith fought with an almost careless brutality, wielding its weapon like a heavy-handed instrument of destruction, as if it were more accustomed to a mace than a sword. Yet despite its crude strikes, its speed was monstrous—inhuman, relentless.

Legolas barely twisted away in time as the cursed steel whistled past his ear, close enough that he felt the icy breath of its malice against his skin.

No room to breathe. No time to think.

This was not intended to be a duel. In the Witch-kings mind, this was an execution.

The realization stoked the fire in Legolas’s veins, burning hotter than fear, scorching away hesitation, drowning even grief.

Promptly, he pivoted, knives flashing in a sweeping arc. Seeing an opening, one blade slashed toward the wraith’s side, the other instinctively sought the wraith’s throat—or where a throat should have been. Against beast or Orc, the strikes would have felled their mark.

But his blades met nothing. No flesh. No bone. Only cloth and empty air.

Legolas’s eyes narrowed as the Witch-king’s laughter pierced the air.

“Foolish prince,” it sneered, thick with sadistic amusement. “Did you think your blades could touch me?”

Legolas did not answer. There was no point, for the wraith immediately struck again. Faster. Harder.

A relentless flurry of blows meant to overwhelm, and each relentless strike brimmed with a ferocity that spoke of the Witch-king’s confidence, for unlike his opponent, he had no need to defend, no vulnerabilities to shield.

After all, not even a prince of Mirkwood could slay the deathless.

Only centuries of training kept Legolas from losing his head, as he ducked, wove, twisted away from each blow, forced to keep moving, to dance just beyond the reach of that cursed blade.

All the while, his mind raced

He recalled that wraiths had bodies, that they were not as incorporeal as they seemed. But they existed in the Unseen world.

And that knowledge did him no good.

Perhaps a High Elf — one of the mighty, like Lady Galadriel or Glorfindel, could cross into that realm, could strike where it mattered.

But Legolas could not, and so again and again, he was forced onto the backfoot, each step dictated by the wraith’s relentless assault. Instinct made him lash out whenever an opening presented itself, but every strike was met with no resistance. Again and again.

Worse, the closer he came, the more the Witch-king’s presence pressed against him. A deathly chill seeped through his skin, coiling around his ribs like fingers, making every breath shallower than the last as the stench of evil thickened, suffocating, clinging to him like rot.

‘I cannot fail.’

The thought struck like a lightning bolt, sudden and sharp, as desperation clawed at the edges of his mind. It was a sensation he had not felt in years—this creeping, sinking helplessness.

To fall here, amidst his slain people. To die before delivering justice.

It was unbearable.

But then, another thought followed, unbidden.

‘But I have before, have I not?’

‘No, I must have won. I survived. This is in the past.’

‘How did I win?’

The certainty of time wavered. The past and present blurred at the edges, bleeding together, making it difficult to hold onto a single thought.

And then, it happened—for the first time in many, many years.

Legolas faltered.

The Witch-king’s blade came for him again, a merciless arc of black steel aimed to slice through him, leaving no room to evade. Immediately, Legolas moved to parry, but the angle was wrong, too sharp, too sudden.

Even as his muscles tensed, Legolas could sense that he was unprepared. The moment his remaining knife met steel, the jolt of the impact wrenched through his arm, forcing his wrist to twist violently, a sharp, searing pain lancing up to his shoulder.

His grip failed.

The blade slipped from his fingers and fell, ringing against the scorched earth.

Disbelief struck like a blow to the chest, but there was no time to recover. Once again, the Witch-king was already upon him, pressing the attack with merciless efficiency. Legolas staggered under the onslaught, forced back, step after step, away from his lost weapon, the wraith allowing no pause, no moment to reclaim what had been taken.

And then, finally, with one final, crushing strike, the Witch-king’s blade crashed into him, force ripping through his arm and shoulder. Legolas’s muscles failed him, and so the next blow struck true as well, his vision jolting as he was hurled backward, his body slamming onto the hard-packed earth. A sharp gasp escaped him, air driven from his lungs as pain splintered through his ribs. Dust curled around him, the taste of ash thick on his tongue.

And behind him—heat roared.

Flames licked at the night, the fire so near he could feel its scorching breath against his skin. The slaughter pyre.

Where his kin still burned.

For an instant, nothing existed but the blade descending toward him, a sliver of blackened steel carving through the air. The wraith’s speed was relentless, a force of death given form. And Legolas, weaponless, pinned by the fire at his back, for the first time in his long life, had nowhere to go.

But then, he saw it.

A tear in the wraith’s robes, just above its hip—a thin, frayed gash left behind by his blade.

It was only then, that the realization struck him. For Legolas had begun to believe, like so many before him, that the wraith must be impervious to the weapons of the living.

But no—there had been resistance when he struck before, after all, a fleeting moment where his blade had torn through something.

The cloth.

It was not mere garb, after all. Instead it was the veil that bound the wraith to this world, the very fabric allowing it to interact with the realm of the living. Without it, it was nothing but a shade.

The thought ignited through him like a spark, and with it, the will to move.

Legolas twisted, barely in time. As the Witch-king’s blade came down, grazing past his cheek, the dark steel sliced over the bridge of his nose. Immediately, pain erupted, white-hot and searing. It was unlike any ordinary wound, the air itself seeming to writhe in agony around the cut, a sickly, unnatural burn sinking into his skin.

But Legolas did not hesitate.

The heat at his back roared, scorching, alive with the embers of his fallen kin. And then, determination took hold, as in one single, fluid motion, he threw himself toward the flames.

Limbs screaming in protest, he reached out, his hands closing around the first thing he could grasp, careless of the way the flames burned his skin.

Wood. Slender. Straight. His fingers curled around the searing surface, but there was no time for pain.

He wrenched it free, twisting back just as the Witch-king’s blade slashed toward him again. The acrid scent of scorched leather filled his nose as the tip of the cursed steel sliced through his vambrace—but Legolas was already moving.

A single, half-destroyed, flaming arrow.

Once, it had belonged to an archer of Mirkwood. Perhaps it had flown true in battle before its owner had fallen. Now, it would strike once more.

Legolas did not nock it. After all, there was no need for a bow, nor a string to pull.

He needed only fire.

With a sharp, twisting motion, he drove the flaming arrow straight into the gash in the Witch-king’s robes.

The effect was immediate as the cloth ignited, flames leaping hungrily along the fabric, and for the first time in the battle, the Witch-king recoiled.

A shriek tore through the night, high and grating—a sound not meant for mortal ears, forcing Legolas to flinch backwards ,his hands flying to his head as the wail scraped against his skull, splitting through his mind like jagged glass.

The wraith staggered back, twisting in a grotesque mimicry of agony, the fire devouring the very threads that bound it.

And this time, it was not laughing.

But neither was Legolas.

Even as the wraith struggled to lift its weapon once more—and failed—its grip faltering as its cloak burned steadily away, there was no victory in this. No relief. After all, he had not slain the Witch-king.

Legolas had merely weakened it, for the time-being.

The blood of Thranduil still soaked into the ground.

The stench of ash still hung thick in the air.

And as his own wound continued to bleed sluggishly, the white-hot pain turning into something far worse—a sensation like ice-cold knives slicing into him, over and over—his balance wavered.

His vision blurred.

His body stumbled.

And then, he fell.

[1] Sindarin: ”Lord [of the] people“

[2] Sindarin: “Dwarves“

Chapter Text

As Legolas stirred, his eyelids fluttered open. Yet, this time, it was not the worried snorting of Nárwen that roused him, nor the sensation of the mare’s warm breath tousling his hair.

For a brief moment, he lay still, his thoughts slow and fuzzy, as if drifting through a fog.

Above him, the sun was climbing the horizon, igniting the heavens with hues of crimson, sapphire, and gold. Even so, its radiance remained veiled, the clouds forever striving to smother its light, a grim legacy of the day that had changed all of Middle-earth more than three decades ago.

Below him, the earth was cold and unyielding, strewn with dirt and leaves. Beneath his head alone, something soft cradled him—a curious contrast to the harsh ground. After a moment of consideration, Legolas concluded it to be a cloak. Someone must have placed it beneath his head as a makeshift pillow.

From behind came a low, resonant rumble. Turning his gaze upward, he watched as branches and leaves swayed gently, stirred by the morning breeze. The sight puzzled him, for his last memory had not been beneath the sheltering embrace of trees.

And then the truth dawned, slow but unerring: Quickbeam.

Recognition flickered in his mind as Legolas beheld the towering form of the Ent standing sentinel above him, large, orange-tinted eyes gazing down in quiet concern. A low, rumbling sound resonated from his massive frame, making the earth tremble beneath Legolas.

The Ent was calling out to someone.

A reply soon followed, hoarse and strained, yet also tinged with unmistakable relief.

“Legolas? Has he wakened?”

Yet the speaker did not wait for an answer.

Scarce a moment passed before movement drew Legolas's eye.

Instinct urged him to sit up, to face the boy who, without a doubt, was already worried out of his mind—his tone had betrayed it. However, there was a problem: the moment Legolas tried, he found he could not. His head refused to lift, his upper body remained leaden.

Strangely, it was not the feeling of exhaustion that held him down but something stranger, a sense of disconnect, as if his body and mind were separate entities rather than parts of a whole.

A wave of unease coursed through him, yet swiftly he schooled his expression, unwilling to betray his vulnerability to Aragorn.

And it was just in time, for right then the boy skidded to a halt beside him, his face alight with raw relief as their eyes met. Legolas regarded him in turn, and unbidden, a flicker of anger stirred within.

A dark bruise marred Aragorn’s cheek, its grotesque bloom of purple reaching up to his brow, yet the boy had not been idle. A faint sheen of salve had been applied on the injury, and on his body, beneath torn garments, bandages peeked forth. Legolas’s gaze lingered on the latter, his thoughts turning to Aragorn’s unseen wounds, those horrific burns. Had the boy treated them properly? Had he cleansed them, applied salve to stave off infection, before he had dressed them?

Frustration tightened his chest. Whatever had transpired, it was intolerable that Aragorn had been burdened not only with his own survival but with concern for Legolas as well, when it was the Elf who should have been his shield.

No excuse would suffice. No explanation could absolve him of this failure.

Aragorn, however, seemed untroubled by such thoughts. Without hesitation, he knelt at Legolas’s side, his hands hovering uncertainly before retreating, as though unsure whether to reach out.

“How fare you? Do you feel pain? Are you thirsty? I have water, it is safe, I took it from the camp…”

Concern furrowed his brow as his gaze swept over Legolas’s unmoving form, the question unspoken but plain in his eyes.

Quickly, Legolas sought to distract him.                            

“Water,” he said, his voice steady despite his own disquiet. Fortunately, his tongue, at least, obeyed him.

At once, Aragorn sprang to his feet, eager to make himself useful.

“Of course!” he exclaimed, scrambling with haste that belied his battered state.

And in the instant Aragorn turned to retrieve the flask, two things happened at once.

Legolas’s limbs unlocked, his body freed from whatever unseen hold had gripped it. And at that same moment, a sharp, cold pain seared across his face, reaching from the bridge of his nose to a point beneath his right eye.

The sensation was chillingly familiar, like the kiss of a blade carved from ice.

Or the blade of a Nazgûl.

The injury… from his memory? No, that was impossible. A wound inflicted by such a cursed weapon might have felled a Man, but his Elven resilience had spared him that fate. It had healed, albeit more slowly than an ordinary wound, and had not troubled him in years.

Had Aragorn noticed anything amiss? Surely, he would have spoken.

Slowly, with effort, Legolas raised a hand to his face, but as expected, his fingers met only warm, unbroken skin. There was no wound, no blood, no scar, nothing to mark the battle waged in his vision. And yet, something was wrong. Though he felt the flesh beneath his fingers, the expected sensation never came. His skin was numb.

Legolas lowered his hand, unease settling heavy in his heart. He could not explain what was happening to him.

There was no time to dwell on this however, for Aragorn returned, flask in hand, blissfully unaware of Legolas’s troubles. Once again, he knelt at the Elf’s side, offering the water with an almost unconscious gentleness.

In that moment, yet another unsettling realization struck Legolas: he was not yet certain he could grasp the flask without spilling its contents.

It was a fleeting hesitation, barely more than a pause, yet Aragorn’s sharp eyes caught it. His brow creased, but he said nothing. Instead, with quiet understanding, he lifted the flask to Legolas’s lips, another simple act of thoughtfulness that only deepened the Elf’s sense of humiliation.

Legolas drank swiftly, pulling away as soon as he could manage, but Aragorn was not so easily deterred.

“What happened?” he asked once Legolas was done, his voice edged with trepidation.

Legolas had no answer, for he did not know. He grasped for an explanation, something to reassure his companion without unnecessary concern, but in his distraction, he failed to notice the storm brewing in Aragorn’s expression.

That was why it startled him when Aragorn’s words tumbled forth in a rush.

“I do not know what happened. Suddenly, you fell and your eyes were closed, I have never seen you like that before. I tried to wake you, but you did not react at all and if not for your breath, I would have thought you were…”, Aragorn broke off, swallowing hard but deciding against voicing his thoughts. “…I searched for injuries but found nothing. I felt your forehead, in case of fever, but you were ice cold. Like a corpse, why—”

“Aragorn,” Legolas interrupted gently, seeking to quell the rising panic in the boy’s voice.

But Aragorn pressed on, his distress mounting.

“Tell me, has this ever happened to you before? I thought the Firstborn could not fall ill as Men do. And when you fell, I thought I saw…”

His words faltered, trailing into silence. Instead, his earnest gaze searched Legolas’s face once more, his frown deepening as he found his answer in the Elf’s silence.

For no, Legolas had never suffered such sudden, inexplicable unconsciousness. In all his years, including even wounds and simple cuts, those rare instances of harm, were so few that he could count them on two hands. All of his injuries had healed within days, and none had ever rendered him immobile.

To feel so vulnerable now was an unfamiliar and unwelcome thing.

But where Legolas merely felt uneasy, fear was now writ plain across Aragorn's face, and it was evident that whatever Aragorn was thinking, he was making it worse.

"We must find a healer," Aragorn declared at last, his voice tight, laced with urgency. "Perhaps among my people one yet lives. There was a time we had one among us, with the Rangers... but now..." He hesitated, his teeth worrying his lip.

"...Perhaps she, too, is gone. And even if she lives, her skill lies in treating cuts, bruises, setting broken bones. You have none of those."

His words faltered at the admittance, and with them, his composure crumpled further.

“Or...perhaps we should make for Helm's Deep instead. It is such a large dwelling, they must have a healer there – possibly one who is versed in whatever it is that afflicts you."

The admission seemed to cost him dearly, as though speaking it aloud were a betrayal.

Legolas’ gaze flickered to Aragorn’s, astonished.

The thought of Aragorn abandoning his search for his kin, a pursuit that had led to his capture, torture, and near death at the hands of savages, that was a price the boy was freely offering to pay?

Inexplicably, he swallowed, his throat tightening as warmth unfurled in his chest.

There was nothing beautiful in seeing Aragorn this distraught. And yet, to be cared for, to care for others in return, was a feeling beyond words. He had not realized how much it mattered to him until the fall of Eryn Lasgalen[1], when his purpose was stripped away, leaving only bitterness in its wake.

Even so, he took no pleasure in Aragorn’s distress.

"Aragorn..." Legolas began, his voice soft and uncertain. He hesitated, weighing his words—he had learned that lesson well—but only for a moment before his resolve hardened.

"That is not necessary. Whatever befell me shall not come again. We shall set forth to find your people - as soon as I have examined your wounds and deemed you fit for the journey."

Yet Aragorn did not appear relieved by the Elf’s reassurance. Instead, his gaze grew darker, troubled, and his fists clenched tightly upon his knees.

Then, to Legolas’ dismay, his grey eyes glistened with tears that threatened to spill, though held at bay by determination.

Legolas, who was never gifted with words of comfort even in the best of times, felt utterly at a loss. Yet, soldier of Thranduil that he was, he acted as his instinct bade him - he raised a hand, intending to clasp Aragorn’s shoulder in a gesture of reassurance.

But before he could so much as lay his fingers upon the boy, Aragorn moved with sudden desperation. His arms encircled the Elf, pulling him into a tight embrace.

A dam burst. Hot tears spilled freely, dampening the collar of Legolas’ tunic as Aragorn trembled in his grasp.

"I thought you had left me, too," came the anguished whisper, muffled against the Elf’s neck.

And so, Legolas made a choice most unusual for one of the Firstborn, a race as wise as they were long-lived. He chose to ignore it—the feeling in his gut that told him there was more to these events. After all, the moment of weakness had passed, had it not? What use was there in dwelling on a thing he could not change?

To a certain extent, such thinking was understandable. Unfortunately, the truths we bury have a way of resurfacing—often at the worst possible moment.

Aragorn’s grip did not loosen, even as his trembling eased. Legolas felt the warmth of the boy’s breath against his neck, uneven, still ragged even though his tears had stopped flowing. His arms remained tight, as though afraid that should he let go, Legolas would slip through his fingers like mist.

Slowly, tentatively, Legolas raised a hand, letting it settle between Aragorn’s shoulder blades—firm, steady. He allowed the boy a moment to collect himself.

For long moments, neither spoke. The world stirred around them—the rustle of leaves in the wind, the creak of Quickbeam shifting his weight, the distant chirping of birds greeting the dawn.

At last, Aragorn shifted, though he did not fully let go. A faint blush crept across his cheeks as he sat back, wiping his face with his sleeve. Legolas politely averted his gaze, though inwardly, he was satisfied—at least now, they had both managed to embarrass themselves.

Until Aragorn spoke.

“You cannot promise me that.”

Legolas stiffened. “Promise you what?”

“That it will not happen again.”

The boy’s words were laced with quiet certainty, something bordering on defiance. And Legolas, for all his experience, found himself at a loss, because naturally, Aragorn was right.

Still, he could not allow doubt to take root.

"I am fine," he insisted, voice steady. "I feel no weakness now. We should not delay over an incident that will never repeat itself."

Aragorn studied him, searching for truth in his words. At last, with a slow breath, he nodded—his conscience still troubled, but willing to let it be. For now.

Fortunately, Legolas’ strength had returned. Determined to dispel the lingering somberness, he stood, and thankfully, without issue.

"Tomorrow at dawn, we head west," he declared. "And this time, we will not rest until you are reunited with your kin."

For a moment, Aragorn seemed surprised by Legolas’ willingness to move so quickly. But surprise was swiftly replaced by determination, and then by a renewed spark of excitement.

"Alright!" he agreed, already turning on his heel. "Let us head back home. Quickbeam can carry us." A deep, creaking groan rumbled behind him, something like assent. “…Then you can rest. I will start packing our belongings, and then—"

He was already walking away, his quick mind shifting to the tasks ahead, which was a blessing, as his distress faded, to be replaced by purpose.

However, he barely managed two steps before he was abruptly yanked backward by the back of his tunic, his sentence cutting off.

“Not so fast,” Legolas declared, voice serious. “You think that in all this excitement, I have forgotten about your ordeal?”

“Wait, no, Legolas, I am alright, it barely hurts anymo-"

“Sit down. You are going nowhere until I have taken a look at your wounds.”

Aragorn groaned pitifully in protest, the sound echoing across the grasslands.

And at least for the moment, it almost seemed as though all was well again.

Though Legolas later questioned whether his decision to set out in search of the Rangers the very next day had been too hasty, they went through with it. Not only because he had already given his word, but because Aragorn, despite everything, was holding up well.

Legolas remained vigilant, casting subtle, assessing glances Aragorn’s way whenever the opportunity arose, yet the boy concealed his discomfort with remarkable skill. His steps were steady, his limp barely noticeable, and though his bruises darkened with each passing day, Legolas forced himself to remember that this was simply the nature of humans. Fragile, yet adaptive, mortals bore the weight of hardship in ways unfamiliar to Elves. Such was the price they paid for the Gift of Men.

Before departing, they took the time to bid farewell to the Ents who had sheltered them for so long.

The Onodrim did not mourn, at least not in the way the Children of Ilúvatar[2] did, yet Legolas sensed a wistfulness among them, particularly in how they regarded Aragorn.

They did not expect to see him again.

Aragorn, less guarded in his sorrow, spoke his goodbyes with a heavy heart, waving to Quickbeam and bowing solemnly to Beechbone and the others. Even the saplings, though saplings no longer seemed a fitting word, stood at rapt attention, watching as Aragorn and Legolas took their leave, perhaps for the last time.

The tallest among them, a young Ent already towering twice their height, stood like a guardian among their clearing. It was Treebeard reborn, name giver of the forest of Fangorn. Though still rooted to the earth, as the Entings had yet to shed their roots and walk freely among their kind, it was clear they, too, felt the weight of this parting.

And so, for the first time in five years, Aragorn and Legolas left Fangorn.

The purpose of their journey was not unlike the last, yet it was wholly different.

This time, Aragorn was not leaving to find a new people, but to return to his own. And neither was he intent on bidding farewell to Legolas, but on introducing him.

It was only at night, as Legolas kept watch, that the fresh wounds, those left by the Gwathuirim’s [3]cruelty and all that had followed, became visible, expressing themselves in the form of small, troubled murmurs and the way Aragorn’s brow furrowed in restless dreams.

They were signs Legolas knew all too well, for it reminded him of the many days that had followed Gilraen and Arathorn’s deaths, when a much younger Aragorn had fought against grief he scarcely understood.

Legolas sympathized. More than that, he understood. He himself was grateful Elves had no need for sleep, for if he did, he feared what he might see in his own dreams.

And so, instead, he kept watch, ensuring Aragorn’s safety as he rested.

Occasionally, he sang, soft, steady melodies of the stars and the moon and the trees beneath, as was nature of the Firstborn. And though Aragorn’s frown never vanished entirely, it eased.

They never spoke of it in the morning.

Seven days had passed before the duo finally crossed the river Isen. They might have done so sooner, but at Legolas’s insistence, they kept their distance from Isengard at all times.

He could only imagine what fate awaited those who were led to that place. Many times, especially in the early years of Sauron’s reign, he had come across groups of Orcs herding unfortunate prisoners toward the dark towers, slaves marched to their doom. Legolas had never known any to return.

Even at their crossing point, the vast Ring of Isengard was just barely visible, a dark wound upon the land. At its center, the black spire of Orthanc rose against the sky like a blade growing out of the earth, its polished surface reflecting the dim light like obsidian. From somewhere within, thick black smoke curled into the sky, carried by the wind in sluggish, heavy streams, the only sign of the unseen forges that never ceased their labor.

It was clearly a place of power, but not of the kind that nurtured life, only dominion and decay.

When Aragorn caught sight of it, he shook his head in disbelief. “Thalion once told me this tower was built by the Dúnedain,” he murmured. ”Now that I see it, I find that hard to believe. It looks too much like a place of evil.”

Legolas did not answer, but he could not help but agree. Whatever purpose this fortress had once served, it had long since been twisted into something dark and cruel, just like his own home.

They crossed the river successfully, though Legolas never once let his sharp gaze stray from his companion. Aragorn had long outgrown many of the fears of his childhood, but the Elf knew him too well. After all, the boy had nearly drowned once, and though he no longer faltered at the sight of rushing water, the memory still clung to him like a shadow. Only someone who had spent years by his side and held knowledge of Aragorn’s fear would now notice the subtle tension in his movements, the way his strokes were just a touch too deliberate, his breathing just a little too controlled.

Fortunately, their efforts were rewarded.

Only a few hours after crossing, as their clothes and gear dried in the cool air, they had a breakthrough.

Or rather, Aragorn did.

“Legolas!” he called out, excitement threading through his voice.

It was very telling of the dangerous times they lived in, that Legolas’ hand had already strayed to his bow before he even processed the elation in the boy’s tone. But Aragorn, oblivious to the Elf’s momentary caution, was already running ahead, dropping to one knee in the dirt.

“There are footprints in the soil!”

Legolas followed swiftly, kneeling beside him to inspect the ground. And indeed, there were footprints, faint but unmistakable now that they had been pointed out to him.

It had long been evident that Aragorn possessed an innate gift for tracking, undoubtedly honed by his upbringing among the Rangers. And yet, for him to notice something Legolas himself had nearly overlooked, that was impressive indeed, even to an Elf.

“Do not get too excited, Aragorn”, Legolas pointed out. “These could just as easily belong to a band of Uruk-hai. There is no telling if it was truly your kin.”

But Aragorn was not deterred.

"No," he countered quickly, shaking his head. "The footprints are too light. They cannot belong to Uruk-hai, nor to anyone in heavy armor. The shoes are soft, and the steps mostly careful. The only reason they are visible at all is because of the loose soil here." The boy paused, studying the marks with sharp focus. "There’s mud stuck to the boots, that is why they left an impression. Otherwise, we would not have seen them at all—"

Aragorn broke off suddenly, narrowing his eyes as realization dawned.

"Wait… Legolas, were you testing me?"

Legolas said nothing, but the faint curve of his lips was answer enough.

Aragorn’s own responding grin was wide and triumphant at first, but it soon faltered, replaced by a more thoughtful expression. He turned his gaze back to the tracks, tracing their direction with his eyes.

"The footprints lead south, away from the old North-South Road," he noted. "Do you think they mean to cross the river further downstream? Perhaps they are traveling toward Helm’s Deep? But surely they do not mean to go any farther south - Father said Gondor has been swarming with Sauron’s servants ever since Minas Tirith fell and its people fled to Rohan."

"It is possible that their goal is Helm’s Deep," Legolas acknowledged, own keen eyes already scanning the terrain ahead. "If they are who we suspect, they might be even more cautious than us in avoiding Saruman’s gaze, especially as they travel in greater numbers."

He straightened, his decision made, and Aragorn quickly rose to stand beside him.

"Let us find out," the Elf said, already moving forward.

Aragorn nodded and fell into step beside him.

Fate seemed to favor them, for it did not take long before they found clear signs of a group crossing the river. The muddy ground near the Isen made it impossible even for Rangers to move without leaving footprints, and so there were dozens.

When Legolas eventually called for camp at a small stretch of land between the rivers Adorn and Isen, Aragorn looked noticeably disappointed. No doubt he had hoped to catch up to the group before nightfall, but wisely, he did not argue. Instead, he wordlessly rolled out their bedrolls and set out their meager meal of dried fruit.

Though they were far from Isengard, they chose not to make a fire, as the open plains offered little cover, and a column of smoke would be visible from great distances.

Still, neither of them immediately sought sleep. Legolas lay in his bedroll, gazing up at the night sky, though he had no intention of resting. The land felt too exposed, too unsafe, even for the light reverie of an Elf.

Beside him, Aragorn sat cross-legged on the ground, absentmindedly whittling at a piece of wood with his knife. Given the near-total darkness, it was doubtful he could see well enough to shape anything, but he seemed content to let his hands work while his thoughts wandered.

Legolas studied him in silence, sensing the tension in his frame. He had spent enough years at Aragorn’s side to recognize when something weighed on his mind.

When the silence stretched on, Legolas finally spoke.

"Are you concerned about who we will find?"

Aragorn shook his head. "No. I do not know why, but… I am certain it is them. That we will find them." He hesitated, fingers tightening around the wood in his hands. "I cannot explain it, but ever since I saw that cloak on one of the…"

He stopped abruptly, shuddering as if caught in an unwelcome memory. Without thinking, he pulled the cloak tighter around his shoulders, as though warding off a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.

“…Well, I just know.”

Legolas’s curiosity stirred. “Then what is weighing on your mind?”

Aragorn exhaled slowly. “I am wondering how the others will receive me now,” he admitted hesitantly. “The last time the Rangers saw me, I was just a boy, the son of their leader, nothing more. Now, my parents are gone, and who knows how many of them have fallen as well? Who among them is even left?" His fingers tightened around the edge of his cloak. "I wonder if they will see me as a child or as a man.”

Legolas considered this for a moment, but before he could hope to muster any words of wisdom or reassurance, Aragorn continued.

“But, to be honest, that is not what weighs on me most right now.” He hesitated, then let out a quiet, rueful laugh. “I have been trying to summon the courage to apologize to you, but I have yet to find the right words.”

Now, Legolas sat up, his gaze fixing on Aragorn in clear surprise.

“Apologize to me?” he repeated, confusion slipping into his voice, something rarely heard from the Elf.

Aragorn nodded, still looking sheepish.

“About our argument. Well, one of the few we have had recently. I was angry that you kept coddling me, fighting our enemies alone while ordering me to stay behind at home, as if I were still a helpless child. In my frustration, I ran off… and in doing so, proved your very point.”

Legolas remained silent, waiting for Aragorn to continue, though his surprise lingered. He had hardly given the matter any more thought. To him, it had been a brief spat, long resolved. But clearly, Aragorn saw it differently.

“You had to step in, and because of my recklessness, you were injured. I apologize. You should not have paid for my foolishness.”

He stopped his idle whittling then, setting the wood aside to meet Legolas’ gaze with quiet sincerity.

The Elf arched a brow, momentarily perplexed. What injury? He had walked away unscathed, while Aragorn had borne the worst of it, his skin marred by burns and wounds that would likely scar. It took only a second for him to realize that Aragorn was somehow blaming himself for Legolas’ rather humiliating fainting episode.

“Aragorn, that is not—” he began, but was cut off, an uncommon display of impatience.

“I understand all of that,” Aragorn said. “But there is something else I need to ask of you.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts, weighing his words carefully.

“If all goes well, we will soon meet the Rangers, most of whom last saw me when I barely reached my father’s waist. I know I must seem immature to you, and I always will, compared to your years. I may never match your skill, no matter how long I train, but…”

Aragorn exhaled, gaze dropping for a moment before he continued.

“Could you treat me more like a friend, and less like your ward? I will not remain young forever. By next year, I will be considered an adult among the Rangers, expected to hunt and fight beside them. And I would like to think that one day, you and I could be equals. I do not wish to remain your responsibility, it makes me feel like a burden you never asked for.”

If Legolas had been mildly confused at the start of Aragorn’s monologue, he was now thoroughly astonished. The boy’s carefully chosen words appeared to speak of a deep-seated dissatisfaction, one he perhaps had harbored for months, if not years, while Legolas had remained entirely unaware.

Of all the things Legolas might have expected from Aragorn, the belief that he was being underestimated was not one of them. He could not fathom how the boy had come to such a conclusion.

To Legolas, it had always been clear, evident from the moment they met, that Aragorn possessed a wisdom beyond his years. Even as a mere child of seven, he had carried an empathy, determination, and bravery that surpassed what Legolas would have expected from any mortal boy of fifteen.

Yes, he had his missteps, but then again, so had Legolas. Some would argue he still did. Wistfully, he could almost hear his own mentor, Eryndir, making such a remark.

His first instinct was to protest, to insist that Aragorn was wrong, that he had never underestimated him. But clearly, his actions had failed to convey that truth.

Aragorn watched him carefully, perhaps bracing for exactly that - a flood of reassurances, a hasty denial. Instead, Legolas met his gaze and spoke.

“How old do you think I was when I slew my first enemy, Aragorn?”

Aragorn blinked. “Why do you ask?”

“Indulge me. What is your guess?”

Aragorn looked at him as if he had lost his mind, derailing the conversation so suddenly. Still, to his credit, he hesitated only briefly before answering.

“I… I do not know entirely how elven aging works, admittedly. Perhaps five-and-twenty? Or later? My mother once told me that the Firstborn gain wisdom swiftly yet come into their full strength more slowly.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Wait, how tall were you at five-and-twenty?”

Legolas’ lips curled into an amused smile as he noted how Aragorn grew more invested in the question the more he thought on it.

“At that age? I was probably as tall as you were when we first met, hardly tall enough to wield a cumbersome bow,” he revealed, snickering at Aragorn’s reaction, who looked as if his eyes were about to pop out of his head.

“Nay, I was well over a century old, truly an adult, both physically and mentally, even by elven standards. My first kill was a giant spider. We had raided a nest to rescue a She-Elf warrior who had been captured and strung up as the next meal.”

For a moment, he simply watched Aragorn’s reaction before continuing.

“I could have fought earlier and perhaps I should have, for my kingdom has long needed warriors. As you know, my realm stood against evil long before Sauron reclaimed his Ring and his throne as Dark Lord of Middle-earth. But my people wanted to grant me peace for as long as they could. Because once you take up a weapon, once you set out not to hunt for food but to kill another being, that innocence is lost forever.”

Legolas saw Aragorn’s expression shift from astonishment to slow, genuine understanding.

“Now,” the Elf continued, his voice quieter but no less firm, “can you guess how old I was when I first slew a man?”

Aragorn took longer this time.

“One hundred and fifty?”

“Close,” Legolas teased. “I must have been about half a millennium old. He was a misguided slave trader, foolish enough to believe he could make an exotic catch to sell. And yet, in all my years, not once have I been forced to raise a hand against my own kin, except in training or the occasional good-natured fight among friends.”

Aragorn’s gaze had turned contemplative as Legolas met his eyes, his own icy blue stare steady and unwavering.

“Am I truly belittling you,” the Elf asked at last, “if I only wished to give you the same privilege that was granted to me?”

“…I had never thought of it like that,” Aragorn admitted.

Legolas sighed. It was evident that the boy had not, but the fault was not his. Legolas had never been good at talking, expressing himself more through action than words. Aragorn, on the other hand, was inclined to both. Perhaps the Elf could still learn from him.

Perhaps all of this, Aragorn’s injuries included, could have been avoided if Legolas had explained himself earlier.

Alas, there was no good in dwelling on the past, on things that could not be changed.

“I regret how it ended,” Legolas murmured. “Your first kill was not a spider or an Orc, but a man. Even if they were evil, you should not have been in a situation to feel the need to. Not yet.”

“I do not,” Aragorn said. “Regret it, I mean. Perhaps I would have never found this cloak, or the clues about my people’s whereabouts.”

He smiled, but there was a new tightness in his features.

A short, heavy silence settled between them, and Legolas waited patiently. He could tell Aragorn had another question, and he gave him the space to voice it.

He did.

“Is it still difficult? To kill, I mean.” Aragorn was quick to clarify. “I hated it, even knowing it was necessary. And yet I would do it again, if I were in the same situation.”

For the duration of a heartbeat, Legolas considered lying, offering the words Aragorn might hope to hear. But he discarded the thought just as quickly. Even if his answer was not honorable, it would at least be sincere.

“No,” he said simply. “It has not been for a long time.”

When had it last been? When had he last stopped to think on the lives he had taken? Even when they were Orcs, Spiders, Uruk-hai, creatures steeped in malice, there had been a time when he had paused, when he had wondered. When the amount of blood on his hands had seemed to drag him down with its weight.

It must have been before Sauron’s rise, before the image of Thranduil’s golden hair in the red, muddy dirt.

“I understand,” Aragorn said, and he sounded sincere.

Legolas only hoped that he did not.

Sensing the conversation had run its course, the Elf remained silent, letting Aragorn sit with his thoughts,

Eventually, he rose, shifting into a watchful stance. There were no trees nearby to perch in, so he settled against his pack instead. “Rest now, friend,” he said. “We have another long day ahead of us. I will keep watch.”

Aragorn grinned, noting that Legolas had acknowledged his earlier request.

“As you command, your majesty,” he teased with a snicker, then turned to his bedroll, making himself comfortable at last.

And it was just as well, for this way, he did not see the slight stiffening of Legolas' shoulders, the fleeting shadow in his eyes. Nor did he see the way Legolas pressed his lips into a thin line, as though the jesting title had struck somewhere deeper than Aragorn could possibly know.

Before long, soft snoring filled the night air.

The next day, they set out eastward, following the winding course of the river Adorn as it carved its way through the land. To their left, the terrain stretched into the rolling plains characteristic of Rohan, golden with tall grasses that swayed in the morning breeze. To their right, the land began to rise in gentle slopes, growing rockier as it approached the distant mountainline of the Ered Nimrais, whose snow-capped peaks gleamed pale against the sky.

With each step, they drew closer, not only to the mountains but also to Helm’s Deep, hidden somewhere beyond the rugged hills that loomed ahead.

Aragorn seemed to take his own premonition seriously indeed, truly convinced that they were on the right trail and would find his father’s company soon. The boy darted in every direction, North to South, East to West, his energy relentless, his focus unwavering, so that to any observer, it would be hard to believe that Aragorn had sustained such brutal wounds little more than a week ago.

Aragorn’s sharp gaze combed the ground, anxious to miss no sign, no clue. Yet, they had seen no trace of their quarry in some time, and even Legolas had to admit that they might have lost the trail.

And if so, what then? March up to the gates of Helm’s Deep, a fortress on high alert, and ask if they had seen a wandering band of Rangers? The thought was absurd.

Legolas felt tension coil in his chest, though he did not express it. He could only imagine how deeply Aragorn would be wounded if hope failed him again, but understanding did not mean he could let the boy range so far ahead. With his own senses, Legolas would detect an approaching threat long before Aragorn, and danger could always be close by.

Yet now, as Legolas scanned the path ahead, he caught only the faintest glimpse of the boy’s dark head, barely visible where he crouched low by the river embankment, half-obscured by the uneven slope. What had he found? Whatever it was, it held his full attention.

Legolas exhaled, already parting his lips to call out—for the fourth time in as many hours—feeling uncomfortably like he was reining in a wayward horse.

But at that exact moment, a sound made him freeze.

A whisper of movement, swiftly followed by the faintest friction of wood against leather.

Legolas knew that sound all too well. Every archer would. It was the sound of an arrow being drawn from a quiver.

Once more, his body reacted well before thought could catch up. In one fluid motion, he reached for his own bow, drawing even as he turned, his movements swift as instinct.

A muted click—the nock sliding into place. A breath of tension—bowstring drawn taut.

His gaze snapped to Aragorn, still crouched by the riverbank, hood low over his face, oblivious.

“Aragorn!”

At Legolas’ warning, the boy immediately leapt to his feet, his hand already on the hilt of his own sword, wildly looking around for whatever had spooked the Elf so.

Then, just at the edge of sight, something moved.

Across the river, where the land rose into scattered hills and jagged stone, a tall, hooded figure emerged atop a large rock, their bow already drawn, arrow already aimed at Aragorn’s figure.

Both of them had been fast. But not fast enough.

“Do not move,” the stranger, evidently a man, ordered, his voice cold and dark. “Or I will shoot. And trust me, I do not miss.”

For a long moment, Legolas could only stare.

Then, very un-elflike, he cursed Aragorn with all the creativity of a seasoned warrior. He wanted to throttle him, or alternatively, tie him to a tree. Better yet, leash him like an unruly hound so he could no longer go running ahead like a reckless fool and get himself into situations exactly like this one.

But throttling would have to wait. For now, they had to get out of this mess.

And unfortunately, to release his own arrow now would be to gamble with Aragorn’s life.

The stranger’s voice left no room for defiance either, as he addressed Legolas without so much as a glance, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Aragorn, apparently secure in the belief that as long as the boy remained his hostage, the Elf would not dare to shoot.

“And you, Fair-hair, drop your bow. Now. Or I put an arrow right between your friend’s eyes.”

Legolas obeyed, his movements deliberate, but his eyes burned with anger.

One false step, and this man would die.

“Well done,” immediately came the mocking remark, and Legolas clenched his jaw against the indignity of it.

It had been long indeed since anyone had caught him off guard like this. A single lapse in vigilance, and death could come before one even had time to realize it.

“Good. Now, you are going to tell me—what brought you here? And how did your dark-haired companion get that cl—…” The man’s voice cut off sharply. “DO NOT MOVE!”

The sharp command rang out, and Legolas’ head snapped toward Aragorn in alarm. Caught in his own quiet fury, he had not noticed that the boy had lifted his head despite the man’s warning.

Aragorn was staring at the stranger, squinting as if trying to see past the shadow of his hood. But his hand was no longer hovering over his sword.

And then, breaking the tension like a thunderclap, came a joyful exclamation of recognition:

“Eldanir?”

The hooded man flinched, his entire body going rigid. In that moment, whether unconsciously or not, his grip on the bow slackened, just slightly, as his gaze locked onto Aragorn.

But it was enough. Legolas did not hesitate. In a heartbeat, his own bow was raised once more, an arrow nocked and drawn in one seamless motion.

And then, he let it fly.

An astonished, breathless shout rang out just before impact.

“Aragorn?!”

And then, the arrow struck true.

[1] Sindarin: ”Wood of Greenleaves” (In retrospect, I should have used this name more consistently, as it seems unlikely that Legolas would think of his home as Mirkwood. However, in this universe, he may have come to accept the name following the rise of Sauron and the decline of the Elves. Perhaps I’ll come back and edit the earlier chapters accordingly at some point, but I’m still unsure)

[2] “The Children of Ilúvatar” refers specifically to the races of Men and Elves, as they were directly created by Ilúvatar. Dwarves, on the other hand, were formed by Aulë and later granted life by Ilúvatar, which technically excludes them from this designation. (This detail isn't particularly relevant here, I just thought it might be an interesting fun fact for those less familiar with LOTR lore!)

[3] Sindarin: “Dunlendings“/“The Wild Men of Dunland”

Chapter Text

For a brief moment, there was only silence.

The man had gone still, staring in astonishment at the bow in his hands, which was now rendered useless, its string severed cleanly in two. When his wide-eyed gaze lifted and met Legolas’s, the Elf allowed himself a faint, satisfied smirk.

A fitting reversal, after the indignity of being at another’s mercy.

But then the stranger averted his eyes, recovering swiftly from his surprise. In one fluid motion, he discarded the broken bow and, without any further hesitation, launched himself off the rock. As he jumped, his hood flew back mid-leap, revealing long, wild dark hair.

Legolas noted, with some surprise, that the man was young, only a few years older than Aragorn at best. Nineteen or twenty, perhaps, though admittedly, Legolas had never quite mastered the art of guessing a Man’s age.

The stranger’s dark beard was short, uneven, and patchy, though still more developed than Aragorn’s, whose own had only just begun to emerge as a faint fuzz along his upper lip and chin. Like Aragorn, he was tall, had piercing grey eyes and an angular face, features that appeared to be characteristic of the Dúnedain. But one detail set him apart — his freckled cheeks.

As the river was shallow here, the man had no need to swim, instead, he waded through the water, which at its deepest reached only his waist, heedless of how it soaked his clothes.

Aragorn remained silent, watching attentively.

Yet Legolas kept his bow raised, another arrow already nocked, the tip following the man’s movements with steady precision. Whatever passed between him and Aragorn meant little to the Elf, for these were perilous times, and caution was rarely misplaced, something this encounter had already made abundantly clear.

Then Aragorn turned, excitement lighting his face—until his expression shifted. His gaze flicked pointedly to the bow in Legolas’s hands, a silent plea to lower it.

Legolas met his eyes but did not move.

Instead, his expression gave his answer for him, clear as any words might have:

‘I do not take orders from those who nearly get themselves killed twice in a fortnight.’

A second later, Aragorn was too preoccupied to care, for the man had reached the riverbank and flung himself at him. To his credit, Aragorn looked only mildly alarmed as he was seized by the shoulders and shaken with the exuberance of a hound greeting a long-lost master, one far more prepared for the reunion than the other.

“Aragorn! It is you—yes, it really is!” the man exclaimed, his voice so loud that Legolas winced before finally lowering his bow. There was no mistaking the sheer joy in his tone. Even Legolas had to admit that this kind of elation could not be faked.

"Where have you been? I barely recognized you! We thought you were dead for sure! And now—now you even surpassed me in height! What in Middle-earth have they been feeding you? Is Lady Gilraen—"

Aragorn’s wide smile, which had blossomed at the heartfelt welcome, dimmed slightly. He shook his head in quiet acknowledgment.

For a brief moment, the man’s exuberance faltered, and the shaking stopped. He nodded solemnly, clasping Aragorn’s shoulder in silent understanding before his cheer returned as swiftly as it had vanished.

Eager to shift the conversation, he turned for the first time to Legolas, who had, by now, stepped closer—though he remained a few feet away, feeling both genuinely warm for Aragorn and somewhat out of place in the face of such an open reunion.

The man’s gaze sharpened. Legolas felt the other’s travel to the tips of his ears, now visible to the man at this closer distance. Legolas took note as recognition flickered across the other’s face, his mouth forming a round "O" before splitting once more into a broad grin.

If he held any resentment over his broken bow, the young man certainly did not show it, as his tone remained nothing but lighthearted.

"I should have guessed Aragorn was in the company of an Elf the moment my bowstring snapped! That was mighty impressive. And yet, it never even crossed my mind, for I have never met one before. So was it you who kept this one alive? It must have been, he practically ran into my arrow! Only one of the Firstborn could keep such a fool alive for so long!”

Many years ago, shortly after Legolas had met Aragorn and begun to earn the boy’s trust, he had thought the child talked a great deal, pestering him with endless questions and speaking so quickly that Legolas struggled to keep up. After all, the Elf had come from an environment where words were carefully weighed before being spoken, and where much was conveyed through thoughtful silences or sometimes, through song.

Excluding his father’s feasts, of course, for those had been a different matter entirely.

Now, however, Legolas felt he might need to reconsider his assumption. This stranger, apparently called Eldanir, spoke so fast that Aragorn, in comparison, seemed like a contemplative old Ent delivering a speech.

Before Legolas could decide which question to answer—if any, since most had sounded more like declarations than genuine inquiries—Aragorn thankfully stepped in, perhaps attuned enough to sense his unease.

“Legolas, this is my friend Eldanir, son of Thalion. Eldanir, this is my friend Legolas.” He hesitated, as if realizing he did not know the name of Legolas’ father, for the Elf had rarely ever spoken of his past. After a brief pause, he settled on, “…a soldier of Mirkwood. And, of course, you are right—I owe Legolas my life.”

He said it simply, with a small gesture to introduce them to each other.

Eldanir smiled, though for the briefest moment, something in his expression dimmed, like a shadow passing over his thoughts. Regardless, he extended his arm in a warrior’s clasp, gripping Legolas’ forearm in the manner of men, who mirrored the gesture after a brief moment of hesitation, and not without a touch of stiffness. Among his own people, greetings had been far more restrained: a nod of acknowledgment, a hand laid briefly over the heart.

“It is my honor,” Eldanir said with an easy confidence.

Legolas inclined his head in acknowledgment. “As it is mine.”

Eldanir released his grip and turned swiftly back to Aragorn, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“Both of you will have to tell me everything. How you return after all these years, alive and well, and in the company of an Elf, surely, that must be a miracle.”

Then, with a glance at Legolas, his expression turned mischievous. “Speaking of which,” he added, “you owe me a bowstring, Master Elf. Though I do also accept lessons in archery as a suitable form of payment.”

Legolas raised a single eyebrow, though it was softened by a faint curl to his lips. This kind of talk was much more to his liking.

“That can be arranged.”

Eldanir’s grin widened. “I look forward to it. But first, we must tell the others. Follow me, they will not believe their eyes!”

He turned to lead them back the way he had come, but Aragorn halted him with a hand on his arm. Something in his expression had shifted the moment the bow was mentioned, so that he appeared thoughtful, almost hesitant.

“I have a bow. For you.”, he said, quietly.

He lifted his own well-worn bow from his shoulder, offering it out. Eldanir’s breath hitched the very moment his eyes fell on it, his gaze locking onto the delicate carving of a deer etched into the wood.

Legolas, initially watching the exchange in bewilderment, finally understood.

Years ago, Aragorn had told him of a skilled archer, Elgarain. He remembered that his had been her bow once, picked off near her corpse. She had had a younger brother, one who had been a friend to Aragorn, and the two had bonded over being the youngest in camp.

Eldanir.

The man’s fingers hovered over the wood, trembling slightly, before he withdrew them as if touching it might somehow tarnish it.

“Where… where did you—?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Lothlórien,” Aragorn answered quietly. He made a small motion, offering the bow again, but Eldanir shook his head, taking a step back.

“No. N-not me. Give it to my father. He will… It will mean a lot. Please.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned sharply and strode ahead, motioning for them to follow.

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a glance but said nothing. They fell into step behind him, careful not to catch up too soon.

They could recognize the look of a man holding back his tears.

By the time they neared the campsite, it was clear that it had been chosen with care. Tucked into the lee of a rocky ridge, it was naturally shielded from casual sight, its position making it near impossible to approach unnoticed.

Furthermore, the uneven ground and scattered boulders broke up the terrain, ensuring that anyone drawing too close would be exposed before they could see into the heart of the camp. As such, the first signs of life came not in sight but in sound, in the form the low murmur of voices, the occasional clatter of metal, and the crackle of a fire burning low.

Faintly, the scent of woodsmoke mingled with the cool night air, yet the camp itself remained hidden until they rounded a bend, where a lone guard, sharp-eyed and alert, caught sight of them first.

It was a man, who, judging by the gray streaks in his beard and hair, was noticeably older than either Eldanir or Aragorn. His gaze was questioning as he studied Eldanir’s face, but whatever uncertainty he held was met only with a conspiratorial wink from the younger man, who had by now fully regained his composure.

Legolas watched with quiet curiosity as the man's gaze flicked briefly toward Aragorn—dismissively, almost, as if he did not recognize the boy at all. The stranger’s eyes lingered longer on Aragorn’s cloak than on his face, showing little genuine interest. Aragorn, too, did not appear to recognize him.

But then, with a visible shift, the man's attention landed fully on Legolas, and this time the reaction was unmistakable.

Reminiscent of Eldanir’s earlier surprise, the man’s eyes widened instantly, yet unlike Eldanir, who had quickly caught himself, this stranger continued to stare openly, his expression an uneasy mixture of shock and something Legolas could not quite place. Perhaps it was a sense of awe, or fear, or most likely, a peculiar fascination that came from growing up on tales of the Firstborn, never expecting to see one in the flesh.

Still, the blatant scrutiny sent a flicker of irritation through Legolas, making him feel uncomfortably like a curiosity placed on display, like an exotic creature paraded through unfamiliar lands.

His posture stiffened, and with a sharp glare, he met the man’s gaze directly. He remembered all too well how uncomfortable Aragorn had been with prolonged eye-contact when they had first met, how long it had taken for the unease to fade.

To Legolas's satisfaction, this stranger’s reaction was immediate. Averting his eyes, the man muttered something under his breath as he shifted awkwardly in place.

Legolas exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to sigh. This would certainly not be the last time, and worst of all, he could hardly fault the man for the reaction. To his knowledge, the Firstborn had all but vanished from Middle-earth, their presence now little more than myth.

Still, the uneasy feeling of being out of place lingered stubbornly, a quiet whisper at the edge of his consciousness, suggesting that he did not truly belong here. Yet that was not entirely true, was it? If any place in Middle-earth held significance for him now, it was precisely where he stood in this moment.

At least soon, the attention would shift to Aragorn, who, judging by his expression, was acutely aware of it, for he was currently standing taut as a bowstring, appearing to be torn between anticipation and unease. As Eldanir made to step forward into the campsite, Aragorn grasped his shoulder in a firm hold.

“Do not make an unnecessary spectacle of this,” he asked, voice low, yet once more his plea seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Eldanir scoffed. “Unnecessary spectacle? Aragorn, you have returned to us from the dead after nearly a decade. Trust me, that is something to be celebrated.”

Before Aragorn could protest further, Eldanir seized him by the arm and pulled him forward with little regard for subtlety. Legolas followed at a measured pace, keeping his distance, though his gaze flicked over the camp, curious of the way the atmosphere would soon shift.

For now, the Dúnedain remained unaware, life in the camp carrying on as usual.

A hare roasted over the fire, its rich scent curling into the air, watched over by a man who lazily turned the spit. Nearby, a few others sat oiling their weapons, pipe smoke curling around them, its pungent scent enough to make an Elf wrinkle his nose in distaste from a distance. Low murmurs passed between those deep in quiet conversation, while others dozed beneath the scant shelter of the trees. Crude-looking tents dotted the area, most clustered near the back where larger rocks offered better cover from wind and wandering eyes.

“My brothers!”

Eldanir’s voice suddenlsy rang out, clear and firm, shattering the quiet murmur of the camp like a stone cast into still water. “I come bearing great news!”

For good measure, he added a theatrical flourish, and without needing to look, Legolas could feel Aragorn tense as eyes slowly turned their way. Thankfully, Eldanir did not drag the moment out, perhaps sensing how a few of the Men had already begun to frown at the younger Ranger’s antics.

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and last living heir of Isildur, lives!”

At first, the reaction was sluggish. A few heads turned with idle curiosity, expecting little of note. Somewhere nearby, a half-muttered curse trailed off mid-sentence, though Eldanir’s name was unmistakable.

But then someone froze, a blade half-polished in their grasp. Another man inhaled sharply on his pipe, only to cough as the smoke caught in his throat, resulting in hard pats on the back by his neighbour. The man tending the fire straightened abruptly, nearly knocking over the spit, his gaze locking onto Aragorn.

A hush fell.

Then, like the crack before a storm, the silence shattered.

“Aragorn?” One of the rangers rose to his feet, his voice hoarse, as if he barely dared to believe his own words.

“It cannot be,” someone else whispered.

Another man swore under his breath.

“By the Valar, look at his face. It is him.”

“He looks just like…the Chieftain.”

Aragorn, for his part, stood motionless beneath their gazes, his posture straight and proud yet remaining taut with unease.

Perhaps he was feeling the weight of years in which he had been little more than a memory, a name spoken in hushed tones around the fire, with grief and longing. Or perhaps, inwardly, he was cursing Eldanir’s theatrics, mortified by the sudden spectacle. Most likely, it was both.

Eldanir, for his part, showed no sign of embarrassment. On the contrary, he looked rather pleased with himself, almost fox-like, Legolas thought. As if to crown the moment, he stepped forward, turned to face Aragorn directly, and dropped to one knee.

And then, slowly, the others began to move. Some stepped forward as if in a trance, compelled by the quiet desperation to see with their own eyes what reason told them could not be.

Aragorn barely had time to react before a second Ranger knelt.

Then a third.

And a fourth.

Not all bent the knee, some instead bowed their heads in solemn reverence, while others remained standing, their faces unguarded, etched with raw emotion, full of grief and joy, guilt and disbelief, hope and relief all at once.

Aragorn swallowed visibly, as surprise and confusion visibly flickered in his eyes, followed by something harder to name.

Then he exhaled, the sound loud in the stillness.

At last, he found his voice.

“I have returned,” he said, and his words hung in the hush. “But please, I ask you—stand. I am not my father, and certainly not your king. Did you not teach me the bow and the blade? Did you not guard and guide me as one of your own? Let us remember that I was raised among you, but not as your liege.”

Yet his plea appeared to go unheeded, for many remained bowed, unmoving.

One man, however, lifted his head, kneeling still, but no longer silent. Legolas recognized him as the man who had audibly sworn to the Valar just now. He was of middling years, grey just beginning to touch the dark at his temples, and his voice was deep and steady as the earth.

“It is not as a king that we kneel before you, my Chieftain,” he said.

Aragorn’s eyes widened. Evidently, he recognized the speaker.

“It is true that we taught you. It is true that we stood beside you. But we also swore our oaths—to your father, Arathorn, and to his house. To protect him, and his kin, until our final breath. Seventy-four we were, when we set out on that cursed mission, and but thirty remain. Thirty who yet draw breath, while Arathorn lies in the earth, and his wife and son vanished beyond hope or word.”

It was then that he dropped his gaze, and for the first time, the shame in his eyes was plain, echoed in the faces of many others around him.

“We did not forget you,” the man said quietly. “But we failed you. We failed your father when we could not save him. And we failed your mother and you, when we believed you lost to the shadows and stopped searching. Now we are the remnants of a broken oath, and so we kneel not in duty, but in dishonor.”

Aragorn was silent for a moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was soft.

“Halbarad,” he called gently, sorrow in his tone. “There is nothing to forgive. You did what you could—I saw the proof of your sacrifices with my own eyes in Caras Galadhon.”

Legolas’s gaze snapped from the man who had been introduced as Halbarad to Aragorn. Unbidden, images surged in his mind: a small child cradling the broken body of his father amid a fallen forest. The memory struck him with the same terrible force it had the day he had witnessed it.

Yet Aragorn showed no outward reaction now, no sign of the anguish Legolas knew still lingered beneath the surface.

“If my father were alive today to see this,” Aragorn continued, “he would be as glad as I am to see you—alive and well.”

Still, Halbarad's gaze remained on the earth, as though he could not quite meet Aragorn’s eyes despite the boy’s reassurance.

Then another voice spoke up.

Legolas turned to see one of the eldest Rangers in sight: a man with hair and beard heavily streaked with grey, his face lined with age. Yet his dark eyes were keen with intelligence, and he stood tall and straight, undiminished by the years.

He had been among the few who had not bowed, and Legolas remembered his face clearly, for it had worn the expression of a man who had seen a ghost. That shock had faded now, replaced by a look of quiet wisdom and good humor as he stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on Aragorn’s shoulder.

Aragorn’s expression brightened at the touch, relief softening his features. Legolas felt a quiet fondness stir within him, watching how openly the boy wore his emotions. It was plain how deeply glad he was to see this man alive and well.

“This is a fortunate day indeed,” the man said, his voice warm. “In all my years, I have never seen a miracle such as this. Arathorn was my dearest friend, and I mourned his death bitterly. But this is not a time for mourning. This is a gift. We shall have time enough for sorrow later.”

There was something in his calm, firm, and steady voice that held sway over the others. Slowly, the rest of the Rangers began to rise to their feet, some hesitantly, others more sure.

And at last, what Aragorn and Legolas had expected upon arrival came to pass.

The tension finally broke, and in an instant, Aragorn was surrounded by a crowd of tall, dark-haired Rangers. Though tall himself, he quickly disappeared from Legolas’s view amidst the warm press of bodies. Still, the Elf was able to catch sight of a few men ruffling the boy’s hair in fondness. It amused him, for he knew from firsthand experience just how much Aragorn hated that. It always left his wild mane tangled, a nuisance when he later tried to smooth it into something presentable.

“My, you have grown, boy!”

“Is Lady Gilraen—oh… my condolences, lad. Still, your parents are together again, are they not? There’s comfort in that. They could never have endured long apart.”

“Should we call you ‘Chief’ now, too?”

Legolas remained where he was, in the back, arms crossed, content to listen to the soft swell of conversation.

Though he found himself somewhat sidelined again, the warmth that filled him at the sight of Aragorn’s joy outweighed it entirely this time. Every time he caught a glimpse of the boy’s face, grinning from ear to ear, it made the long road worth it.

Notably, he was not the only one content to simply watch, for several others stood back as well, observing in silence.

Six men kept their distance. Unlike the Rangers, they bore no resemblance to the Dúnedain and looked strikingly different from one another: darker of complexion, lighter of hair, or shorter in stature. Among them was the guard at the entrance, who had failed to recognize Aragorn earlier. He too, was now simply staring, eyes wide with astonishment.

Legolas found himself wondering about their stories. He was almost certain now that they were not of Númenórean descent. More likely, they had joined the Rangers after Aragorn’s disappearance. That, he presumed, was why they had not recognized him, though they had no doubt heard his name whispered among the Rangers.

“And who might you be?”

Legolas tensed. He had been so focused on Aragorn and those gathered around him that he had not noticed someone approach. It was the older Ranger who had introduced himself earlier as Arathorn’s dearest friend.

“My name is Thalion. I believe you have already met my son, young Eldanir,” the man said, inclining his head toward the lively youth animatedly holding court with a knot of Rangers.

Legolas followed his gaze, just in time to catch Eldanir’s triumphant conclusion, and the conversation that followed:

“You did not believe me, did you? Ha! Let that be a lesson next time. I found our Chief while you were still waiting for Calenmir to bring your dinner!”

Groans and laughter rippled through the group. One of the Rangers threw up his hands.
“Aye, but can you blame us? This week alone, you have claimed to spot the Chief, Elves, buried treasure, and a talking fox!”

“Who knew one of those would actually be true?” another added, shaking his head.

Eldanir’s grin grew even smugger, if such a thing was possible.

“Actually… two.”

There was a pause. Then a third Ranger narrowed his eyes.
“If you are about to tell us the fox spoke Sindarin, I am taking my leave.”

The others chuckled, and one clapped Eldanir on the back.
“Next time you claim there’s a dragon lurking by the latrine pit, forgive us if we finish our stew first.”

But Eldanir was not willing to let this sit on him.

“Such slander!” he cried, clutching his heart as if wounded. “Do you dare back those foul words with action?”

That earned a few skeptical glances.

“What kind of action?”

“A wager,” he said smoothly—so sly, one might almost believe he was the talking fox.
“You doubt that two of my tales are true? Fine. If I can prove it, each of you owes me a full day of chores. Firewood chopping, cleaning the cooking gear, digging latrine pits, guard duty…”

A chorus of groans met that.

“And if you cannot?” one Ranger shot back, arms folded.

“Then I take your worst for a week. With a smile.” Eldanir swept a mock bow, the very picture of smug confidence.

“You have got yourself a deal,” said the first Ranger, shaking his head.

“Aye,” added another. “About time you learned to regret that reckless mouth of yours, lad.”

“But no tricks,” the third warned, eyeing Eldanir’s smug expression with growing unease. “Only solid proof. No clever wording, no half-truths.”

“Of course,” Eldanir replied, all wide-eyed innocence. “You will see soon enough.”

As the others returned their attention to Aragorn, Eldanir glanced sideways. His eyes lit up when he spotted his father and Legolas next to each other, listening in. With a barely contained grin, he shot them a triumphant wink before turning away to rejoin the conversation.

Legolas arched a brow and glanced at Thalion. He said nothing, though the silence was pointed enough to count.

Thalion cleared his throat, his expression composed. “He is my only living child,” he said mildly. “My pride and joy, for better or worse.”

Legolas found himself pleasantly surprised by the man’s manner. First, by the fact that he had noticed him at all, and second, that he approached him as he might any of his own kind, without hesitation or ceremony.

So it was that Legolas, uncharacteristically, felt inclined to introduce himself as well, without reservation—well, without much.

“Legolas Greenleaf of Eryn Lasgal…-Mirkwood,” he said, correcting himself with a wry note, and instinctively placed a hand over his heart in greeting, as he would to any fellow warrior of his homeland. The gesture came unbidden, a habit he had not shed despite the passing of more than three decades.

Wryly, Legolas wondered if he ever would.

To his quiet surprise, Thalion mirrored the motion, placing a hand over his own heart, not as one merely mimicking, but as someone familiar with the custom.

“You have met Elves before?” Legolas asked, his curiosity piqued.

Thalion gave a small, wistful smile and nodded.

“Indeed. I near my hundredth year. I lived in the days before the Dark Lord laid hands once more upon that which should have remained lost, and much of that time was spent in Arathorn’s company. We maintained cordial ties with Imladris and its lord, and through him, I had the honor of meeting many of the Firstborn.”

Before Legolas could respond—though he felt quietly heartened to meet someone who had once known the Firstborn, even if only those of Elrond Half-elven, whom Legolas himself had never met—it struck him how strange this distance had become, the quiet space between himself and his kin.

He had not spoken with another Elf in over thirty years, not truly,  not since the last of them had sailed westward like fading starlight. At times, he felt less a son of the Eldar and more their echo, as if he was an old song still playing in a world that no longer remembered the melody.

Perhaps he could ask Thalion about Imladris, about how it had been, once, before the world began to change. Perhaps it would bring a measure of comfort. For though Thalion was no Elf, he was a testament that they had walked these lands, once.

But before he could find the words, Thalion continued, his tone light, as though making an idle remark.
“You are the prince of Eryn Lasgalen, son of King Thranduil, are you not? I believe I have heard your name before.”

He said it so simply, and yet a chill stirred at the back of Legolas’s neck. He could not say why the words unsettled him, only that they did. Instinctively, his gaze flicked about, making sure no one else had overheard.

“That is true,” he said quietly. “But I would ask you not to speak of it.”

“Oh? Are you ashamed of being a prince?”

And in that moment, Legolas understood the unease that had crept over him.

“What is a prince,” he said, “when no realm remains to claim him, and no voices rise to call him kin? Perhaps naught but a hollow name… or worse yet, a forsaker, one who left when he was needed most.”

The man gave a thoughtful hum, stroking his bearded chin. But before he could reply, or more importantly, offer a promise to keep Legolas’s not-quite-secret, a familiar voice cut through the air.

Even before Legolas turned, he recognized the tone. Aragorn’s voice carried that particular lilt he used when mischief brewed behind it. Whatever he was about to say, Legolas knew it would not bode well for him.

He glanced over and met Aragorn’s gaze, whose grey eyes sparkled with joy, but also far too much delight. Clearly, the boy had grown weary of the spotlight and, in true form, had found a way to shift it elsewhere.

Legolas shot him a sharp glare in warning.

Aragorn, predictably, ignored it. Years of friendship had long since made him immune to the enchantment of an angry Elf’s stare.

Raising his voice, Aragorn called out: “You should greet Legolas as well! He saved my life, taught me nearly everything I know, and is the finest friend any man could ask for.”

Then, as if he had not already caused enough trouble, Aragorn leaned in slightly, lowering his voice in a mock conspiratorial tone that was without a doubt inspired by Eldanir’s theatrics, and added:

“He is a Mirkwood Elf—the greatest archer ever to walk Middle-earth! And, or so I hear, quite willing to offer lessons to any in need.”

Legolas stifled a sigh. Predictably, Aragorn's words drew immediate silence as conversation faltered and heads turned.

Half a dozen Rangers, mostly those close enough to hear Aragorn's voice, froze mid-motion, some blinking in confusion, others already glancing toward Legolas as if seeing him for the first time.

"An Elf?" someone whispered incredulously.

Someone choked. A different Ranger swore softly. A third muttered something about overindulging in pipeweed.

Eldanir stepped forward once more, barely suppressing laughter. "Well, brothers," he began theatrically, "remember our wager? You doubted two claims, did you not? Aragorn stands among us now—alive and well. And here, before your very eyes, stands proof of my second tale."

He gestured toward Legolas, eyes gleaming mischievously. “And you lot called me mad.”

“You are mad,” one Ranger muttered, but he sounded dazed.

An older Ranger, grey-bearded and stoic-faced, pushed himself forward from the crowd, squinting carefully at Legolas. "Forgive our disbelief," he said slowly, tone careful but respectful. "Yet, to our knowledge, no Elf has walked openly in these lands for decades. We thought your kind lost to shadow."

Legolas inclined his head, the rigid line of his posture softening by degrees. “You speak no more than the truth,” he admitted. “My people have either passed into the Halls of Mandos…or fled to the Undying Lands.”

Though he spoke without venom, without accusation, a quiet bitterness threaded through his words, subtle as a hidden current beneath still waters, perceptible only to those who knew how to listen.

He remembered all too well the silence of Lórien, the wind that stirred empty boughs where once the voices of the Galadhrim must have sung. How swiftly they had fled when the power of their ring failed, how alone the warriors of Eryn Lasgalen had stood in their final hour.

Another younger Ranger, clearly bolder than his peers, regarded Legolas with a mix of awe and doubt. “Could you truly prove yourself an Elf?”

Legolas crossed his arms, amusement curving at the corner of his mouth as the admittedly foolish question chased away the last trace of bitterness. Yet he did not take offense, for the wonder in the young man’s face spoke of no malice, only the wide-eyed curiosity that reminded him, oddly enough, of a much younger Aragorn, once so easily impressed.

“I did not know proof was required,” he said lightly. “But if your knowledge of my kind begins and ends with fireside tales, I fear no truth will satisfy you. Shall I search for snow to walk on without leaving a mark, or speak to trees in tongues you cannot hear?”

A ripple of laughter broke through the tension, hesitant at first, then warmer. Aragorn grinned openly, clearly pleased with Legolas’s deft handling of the moment.

There was a quiet relief in that smile, and Legolas looked away, struck by the realization that Aragorn, too, had been quietly worried—not for himself, but for Legolas. Concerned that his friend might feel out of place, ill at ease among this band of men who were the closest thing Aragorn had left to family.

At last, Thalion raised a hand in peace, stepping forward once more with quiet authority. “It is enough,” he said firmly.

“There is no cause to demand proof like suspicious innkeepers, nor to pester our guest with questions he did not consent to and that that might stir unwelcome memories.”

His face shifted subtly, shadowed by weariness, the look of a man who had seen too much, the kind of things that linger in the dark, unspoken, and steal sleep from the weary.

“Rather, let us offer gratitude—that we yet live to witness the return of our Chieftain, and the arrival of an ally none believed remained.”

A respectful silence settled over the gathering, this time tempered by understanding. A few expressions turned sheepish, a little chastened.

“Well,” Eldanir cut in cheerfully, unable to resist a final jab, “it seems I have chores to assign.”

A chorus of groans rose in reply, shattering the solemnity with familiar ease. Aragorn laughed aloud, and even Legolas allowed himself a quiet, genuine smile.

But before a sense of normalcy could return—before daily tasks resumed, as they must even after miracles—one last surprise awaited.

Only this time, it was not Aragorn or Legolas who stunned the others, but the other way around.

A quiet voice, thick with sleep, rose from beyond the gathering.

“…What is all this noise?”

They turned, and Legolas saw a young woman standing near the edge of the camp.

She stood out, though not for her red, unruly hair, which was so uncommon among the Dúnedain, nor for the pale scars that encircled her neck and wrists, silent witnesses to chains long shed. Nor even for the quiet pride with which she held herself, though weariness lined her face.

It was the infant she cradled in her arms.

A babe, small and swaddled tight, with only a trace of dark hair showing. No more than a week old, Legolas guessed, which explained why the mother’s bright eyes were heavy with exhaustion, yet full of resolve.

Eldanir’s face lit up. He crossed the space between them swiftly, gently taking the child from her arms with easy familiarity, then pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“My apologies,” he said softly. “I thought you were still resting, I meant not to wake you.”

She nodded, weary but unoffended, though she still appeared confused by the commotion.

Aragorn, meanwhile, stared as though he had been struck.

“Eldanir…” he blurted out, and then, with undeniable emphasis:

“You are a father?”

Silence.

A beat passed before Aragorn seemed to realize how that had sounded. His expression faltered, and he cleared his throat, appearing slightly flustered.

But it was too late.

The men around them erupted in laughter, clapping Aragorn on the back with far too much enthusiasm.

“Aye, lad,” one chuckled, “we’ve been asking the same thing since the day the child was born!”

“Who would have thought Eldanir had it in him?” someone else added. “We always assumed he would end up raising goats, not children!”

The man in question looked ready to snap back with a retort, yet a soft giggle at his side stalled whatever words had gathered on his tongue. His wife, her thin frame trembling with laughter, had not even tried to hide her amusement.

Eldanir turned to her with a huff that barely disguised a smile, voice indignant, though his eyes had already given him away.

“Mari, you too?!”

A few hours later, the Rangers, now all of them, including the guard who had earlier stared at Legolas with such open rudeness, were gathered around the campfire, sharing an early evening meal.

The fare could hardly be called a feast. There was no wine or bread and the portions were modest. Yet the fire crackled warmly, the night air was cool but not biting, and laughter flowed more freely than the drink, and as such, that alone made up for the rest.

Legolas and Aragorn had both offered to help in preparing the ‘feast’, whether fetching wood, cleaning game, or heading out to hunt something fresh, hoping to ease the strain their arrival might have caused on the Dúnedain’s supplies. But they had been quickly and kindly waved off.

As guests of honor, they were told, their only task was to sit still and enjoy themselves. Though the sentiment had been well-meant, in practice, it left the two of them sitting off to the side, a little stiff, while everyone else bustled around making things ready.

Still, the Rangers had done well with what they had, for the meal, regardless of its simplicity, was satisfying: fish fresh from the stream, wild berries, and a hare roasted over the flames. It lacked salt and finesse, but the smoke and herbs did their best to make up the difference.

As the meal unfolded, Legolas was content to sit back and listen. Firelight danced across weathered faces as Aragorn and his kin exchanged stories, tales of patrols, narrow escapes, quiet victories, and the long months of uncertainty during Aragorn’s absence.

Fortunately, no one particularly inquisitive had been seated beside him. Aragorn sat at his right, at ease now in the company of his own, while to his left was Thalion, who appeared mostly reserved, observant, and mercifully uninterested in prying, which suited Legolas just fine.

The conversation eventually turned to their clash with the Gwathuirim. Aragorn mentioned it only in broad strokes, carefully sidestepping the worst of it, saying nothing of the torture he had suffered. Legolas could tell by the glances they exchanged that the other Rangers took notice, but none pressed him. A few looked his way with quiet sympathy, but they honored his silence.

As he and Aragorn already knew, the Rangers had faced their own hardships with the Gwathuirim. Halbarad explained that their company had spent the past year wandering the west, through the lands of Arnor and Eriador, before deciding to make for Helm’s Deep once they found out that Marilen was with child.

After all, they had all been able to agree that the wilds were not any place to raise a baby, and as such, she and Eldanir had hoped to find safety behind the Hornburg’s walls before the child was born.

But then came the ambush. A young Ranger named Tarvin had been killed—Aragorn flinched at the name—and they had been forced to stop, bury their dead, tend their wounded. Marilen had given birth to a daughter just a week ago, before they had managed to reach the relative safety of the Hornburg’s walls. The little girl had been named Elgarain, in honor of her late aunt.

It was through quiet observation that Legolas came to understand the origin of the seven individuals—Eldanir’s wife, Marilen, among them—who were clearly not of Númenórean descent, unlike the thirty men who remained from Arathorn’s original company.

Each bore visible scars, the legacy of a life once lived in chains. Two of the elderly, white-haired men were blind, their sight destroyed after years spent crushing and sorting volcanic glass in the fire pits of Gorgoroth, where fine black dust clung to the lungs and seared the eyes until nothing remained but darkness.

“We found them northeast of Minas Tirith, about two years back…” Halbarad was saying, drawing slowly from his pipe before letting the smoke curl from his lips. “Slaves. Taken from the city. We believe they were being marched toward Isengard, though we cannot say for certain—or what for.”

Marilen sat quietly, eyes fixed on the firelight flickering gently across her features. Her daughter nestled closely against her chest, fast asleep, blissfully unaware of the grim tales exchanged in hushed tones around the campfire within the safety of her mother’s arms. Eldanir slipped a comforting arm around Marilen’s waist, his hand resting firmly at her side as the Ranger continued speaking.

“They were guarded by Uruk-hai. Fortunately, we caught up with them in the Firien Woods—and we all know how their kind struggles in the forest. We turned the terrain to our advantage. Not a man lost on our side, though Marilen’s father fell in the fight.”

It was then that Legolas spoke, his voice breaking a long stretch of silence. Several Rangers looked up, mildly startled to hear him.

“From Minas Tirith?” he asked, sharply. “How can that be? To my knowledge, the people of Gondor fled to Helm’s Deep when the White City fell.”

“Aye,” came a different voice—Thalion this time. The moment he spoke, the others fell quiet. Legolas noticed how naturally authority settled around him, even now. Though they willingly called Aragorn ‘chief’ despite his young age, it was clear Thalion had long held command in the wake of Arathorn’s death.

“It is true that many fled,” Thalion continued, his tone steady. “But the city was never laid fully to ruin, nor was it emptied entirely. Some were taken, captured in the first siege and enslaved. Others stayed, or worse, bent the knee to the Dark One. Minas Tirith still stands, but not as we knew it. The White City is no longer.”

He paused, his gaze distant.

“For now, it is overrun with Dunlendings and Haradrim, its gates broken and streets fouled by ash and blood. Orcs and Uruk-hai roam freely, tormenting the few souls unfortunate enough to remain. Nazgûl haunt the halls when they are not circling their master’s dark tower, their cries filling the nights with dread. Statues of kings lie toppled and defaced, banners bearing the White Tree torn and trampled in the dust. It has become a place of ruin and despair and even though in the Court of the Fountain, the last of the White Trees still stands, it stands dead.”

At that, Eldanir cut in, voice blunt and bitter, less cautious about interrupting his own father than the others seemed to be.

“Filth,” Eldanir muttered, his voice taut with barely contained fury. “They take pleasure in defiling all that once belonged to the heirs of Elendil. They did it to Minas Ithil… and now to Minas Tirith.”

Legolas could not help but think of the halls of his father’s realm, of how silent and withered they had become, not merely from desertion, but from the foul touch of hatred and shadow and sorcery that had swept through them. And that had been after but a few days. What, then, had befallen the city of Men, left to darkness for thirty-five years? He could scarce fathom it.

His gaze shifted to Aragorn, wondering what thoughts stirred in the mind of the boy, who had never set eyes upon the city that by right of birth should be his to rule.

But Aragorn did not look his way, nor did he stare into the fire like many of the others. Instead, his eyes had turned to Marilen, and there was a quiet weight in his dark eyes, earnest and kind.

“That must have been a cruel thing,” he said gently. “You have my sorrow for the loss of your father.”

Marilen looked up, surprised to be addressed, then gave a small, firm nod.

“Thank you, but you need not grieve for him. He died free, if only for a moment. He would have chosen that over a lifetime in chains.”

She hesitated, her voice softening.

“My mother was of Rohan—that is where the light in my hair comes from. But my father… he was of Minas Tirith. He saw it fall, was forced to serve those who defiled it. I do not think he ever truly returned from that.”

Her gaze dropped to the fire.

“By the time I was born, his mind was already broken. And afterward, when my mother—” She faltered, shaking her head slowly. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier.

“Well, that was all I had ever known. For years I neither saw the blue sky nor felt the warmth of the sun. And now… now I behold it every day.”

Marilen paused, eyes softening as she glanced toward her husband. “And now it is a joy our daughter will know as well.”

Eldanir swiftly nodded, smiling warmly at Marilen. “It was unexpected, yes, yet surely a blessing—a miracle, even.”

Marilen cast a sidelong glance at her husband, one brow arching elegantly. “Unexpected indeed,” she remarked dryly. “Though joyful as I am for her presence, perhaps a measure of restraint would be wise to avoid another such miracle quite so soon?”

Eldanir cleared his throat sheepishly, leaning in to place a contrite kiss first upon her cheek, then softly upon her lips.

Legolas found himself averting his gaze, somewhat unaccustomed still to mortals’ ease and openness in displaying affection. The others seemed entirely unbothered, though a few offered good-natured eye-rolls.

However, the peace was soon broken when Aragorn spoke, his voice sincere but tinged with bewilderment.

“I do not understand,” he said plainly. “How does one… accidentally have a child? Is that not something one…”

He paused, gesturing vaguely as he searched for the right words, though the awkward motion of his hands only made his inexperience all the more apparent.

“…plans?”

At once, Legolas felt the collective weight of several gazes turn sharply toward him, as though Aragorn’s ignorance were somehow his fault.

At once, Legolas returned each stare with a firm glare, ensuring he held their gaze until each challenger looked away.

Had not Gilraen charged him to guard her son and stand in her place? Had he not faithfully kept the boy fed, warm, and dry? Had he not additionally and voluntarily instructed him in Sindarin, tracking, archery, and swordsmanship, watched over him to keep nightmares at bay, gifted him friendship, and even a fitting name?

He had done all this and more. Who, then, could fault him for neglecting to explain the intricate mysteries of life’s creation? Besides, it was hardly his area of expertise, as he had never wed.

After a minor, awkward pause, Eldanir mercifully intervened, though perhaps not for altruistic reasons. “We shall ask Saelwen to explain it to you,” he said to Aragorn, smiling faintly. “I am sure she will find words suitable to the occasion.”

“That old hag?” came another voice, filled with exaggerated horror. “You truly are cruel!” Though the accusation carried little weight, given the speaker was struggling mightily to suppress laughter. Others quickly joined in, chuckling good naturedly, leaving Aragorn both bewildered and mildly irritated at being excluded from the joke.

Legolas briefly considered glowering again.

“Speaking of Saelwen,” Thalion interjected gently, ever the responsible one, especially now that even Halbarad, who had acted so solemn earlier, was visibly amused.

“Aragorn, you mentioned earlier that the Dunlendings captured you. Were you injured? Your movements seem a little stiff. Perhaps you should let her take a look.”

Aragorn looked up, his face lighting with relief.
“She is alive, then? I had not seen her and feared she might have been among the dead.”

Thalion nodded. “She said she would greet you later. You know how she is—not fond of crowds.”

“Or loud noises. Or good food. Or joy and laughter,” Eldanir added cheekily.

Marilen smacked him lightly on the back of the head, making him wince.
“She helped me more than once these past weeks, and I found her company just fine. She simply has less patience for your tomfoolery. Something I could still learn, perhaps,” she said with mock reproach.

Thalion sighed, a long, tired sigh, when Aragorn finally spoke, surprising Legolas.

“That is a good idea. I sustained a few burns, perhaps she has herbs to help treat them. Can you point me to her tent?”

As Thalion obliged, Legolas studied Aragorn more closely, concern creeping in. It was true that he had not checked the burns in a few days, assuming they were healing and that Aragorn was tending to them. But what if they had worsened? What if infection had set in, and Aragorn, knowing how few supplies they had, had chosen to hide it?

“I will go with you,” Legolas said quietly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Aragorn agreed at once, perhaps too readily. It only deepened Legolas’s unease, though he concealed it well as they rose and made their way toward the healer’s tent, set apart at the very edge of the rocky encampment.

As they approached, subtle yet unmistakable scents drifted on the evening air, the pungent aroma of crushed herbs mingling with the sharper tang of alcohol and medicinal salves. Beneath these familiar notes lingered a gentler trace of dried lavender, a smell Legolas recognized as an old trick to calm frayed nerves and soothe pain.

Something about the scent stirred a quiet ache in Legolas’s chest. He had spent long hours in the healer’s halls of Mirkwood, though rarely as a patient. More often, he had come to sit beside those wounded in their ceaseless struggle against the creeping shadow, offering what comfort he could to those he counted as subjects, comrades, and friends.

He cast a glance at Aragorn, finding that the tension in the other’s shoulders had eased, as though the familiar scent had reached him as well and, for a moment, laid his worries to rest.

From within the tent came the soft rustle of movement and the muted clinking of glass, quiet confirmation that Saelwen was within, tending to her craft with the diligence of long habit.

Aragorn lifted the tent flap aside, gesturing Legolas to enter first. Legolas obliged, suppressing his mild amusement at the younger man's formality.

Inside stood a woman far shorter than Legolas had imagined. She might have been tall once, but age had bent her frame and etched deep lines into her face, marking her clearly as the eldest among them, even older than Thalion, whose seniority Legolas had assumed until now. Her thinning grey hair was gathered neatly into a knot at the back of her head, and she leaned slightly upon a sturdy cane.

Yet, when her gaze met theirs, her eyes were impressively sharp and clear, eagle-like in their intensity.

Saelwen straightened slowly, setting aside the bundle of dried herbs she had been sorting. Her piercing gaze landed first on Aragorn, recognition plainly flickering across her weathered face before shifting toward Legolas. Here her eyes narrowed subtly, curiosity plainly evident.

“Well now,” she said at last, her voice dry but not unkind. “So Thalion spoke true after all. The chief’s son returned from the dead, and an Elf openly walking among us. Strange times indeed.”

She stepped closer, her sharp eyes scrutinizing Aragorn thoroughly.

“Seven years, child. You have filled out some, but clearly not learned to avoid trouble.” Her gaze softened, the slightest of smiles quirking at the corner of her mouth.

“Welcome home. And who is this you bring into my tent? And for what purpose?”

Aragorn inclined his head respectfully, warmth glinting in his eyes. “This is Legolas, Saelwen. My friend as well as companion in travels.”

Instinctively, Legolas placed his hand over his heart in greeting. He was about to speak formally, for though she was mortal, the wisdom of years was evident in her bearing, and deserving of his respect.

Yet Aragorn spoke first, and his words caused Legolas to freeze.

“Might you examine him, Saelwen? My friend fainted recently, and the cause remains unclear. I fear it may be illness, or perhaps something even more troubling.”

Legolas turned swiftly, surprise clear upon his face.

Which was how he found Aragorn standing firmly before the sole entrance, arms crossed resolutely over his chest, his posture making it perfectly clear:

You shall not pass.

In that instant, Legolas understood the truth.
Aragorn had cunningly set this trap from the very beginning, ever since Saelwen’s name had first been mentioned.

And he had walked right into it, played as skillfully as a bard might pluck his lute.

Chapter Text

Legolas glared.

Aragorn glared back.

Gone were the days when he had been a little boy, unable to hold Legolas’ gaze for more than a heartbeat.
Now, the young man’s eyebrow arched in a daring, almost insolent fashion, and it struck Legolas with quiet surprise how familiar that expression looked. It only took him a moment to realize that it was his own, perfectly mirrored.

For a brief moment, Legolas considered testing the boy’s mettle then and there, challenging him to a duel for such boldness and knocking him face-first into the dirt. But before he could voice the thought, Saelwen made a curious sound.

“Is that so? Sit down then, Master Elf.”
She gestured toward a nearby cot, one that was roughly made, yet clearly meant for patients.

It posed a dilemma. After all, Legolas had no wish to be examined. He felt fine. And even if something was amiss, what could a mortal woman, no matter how skilled, possibly determine?

And yet, still, there was wisdom in her bearing. He had not been taught to heed age, but honor demanded respect for those who possessed true insight.

In the end he sat without further complaint.

“You have my thanks,” he said politely. It was not her fault that the boy he had raised had tricked him, using Legolas’ concern against him with all the cunning of a fox.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Aragorn’s smug smirk, souring his mood further—until Saelwen spun, cane in hand, and rapped the boy smartly on the head.
Not hard enough to injure, but certainly enough to hurt. Aragorn yelped, startled, grey eyes widening enough to resemble those of an owl in his surprise.

“What are you waiting for, boy? Go make yourself useful!”

Aragorn blinked. “But Lady Saelwen, I want to know what is wrong, too!”

She huffed. “And you truly think I will find anything with you breathing down my neck? Out. Now.”

Not so easily convinced, Aragorn frowned, lips pursed, preparing to argue…

…until the cane lifted again and he wisely reconsidered.

“I will come by later, then!” he called over his shoulder as he ducked out of range, leaving Legolas alone with the healer.

Unconsciously, Legolas straightened as she turned back. There was something about this woman…

She was not like the ellith[1] and ellyn[2] of Mirkwood’s healing halls, with their soft voices and gentler hands. Instead, Saelwen reminded him, strangely, of Mithrandir.

The wizard, though often warm-hearted, had a temper that flared brightly when his patience was tested. In his youth, Legolas had come perilously close to feeling the sting of the wizard’s staff—and not even his royal status would have spared him.

Aragorn had once mentioned that Mithrandir visited the camp on occasion. Perhaps he and Saelwen had even been friends.

“Aragorn, too, should be examined. He sustained burns, about ten days past,” Legolas offered, perhaps not entirely from concern.

She waved a hand. “That boy looked plenty worried about you. I am sure he will be back to pester me later, I can take a look then.”

Her dark eyes met his, sharp and discerning. To his mild surprise, she held his gaze without discomfort.

“So,” she said, “what happened?”

Legolas hesitated. Normally, he would’ve stayed silent. But something about her, perhaps her frankness, or that she reminded of someone from his past, made him speak.

Softly, haltingly, he explained. More than he would ever tell Aragorn, not out of deceit, but because he did not want to burden him with worry. And because some truths... some failures... were his alone to bear.

He spoke of the most recent battle, of the ground soaked in blood, of the fury that had risen in him at the sight of Aragorn in danger.

How, in the blink of an eye, he had found himself in a waking nightmare.
Legolas spoke of discovering his people, of the aftermath he had stumbled into. For the first time, he admitted his part in their fate to another, though he left unspoken that he had once been a prince of Mirkwood. Similarly, he mentioned the Wraith, but brushed past the duel, skimming the surface of the memory like one afraid to stir what lay beneath.

When he described waking from the vision, how he had been disoriented, aching, and in pain from an old wound, Saelwen’s brow furrowed. Her expression shifted, emotions shifting over her face in an observable manner for the first time.
Empathy. Sadness. Pity.

Legolas stiffened.

“How do you usually sleep?” she asked, quietly.

“I do not,” he replied. “There is no need.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever returned to your home since the massacre? Mourned the dead? Buried them?”

He shook his head. “There was no reason.”

“Hmph. Do you experience… outbursts? Anger? Irritability? Guilt?”

He looked away.
No outbursts. He was composed. Detached, even.
But—irritable? Perhaps. (Aragorn would no doubt say yes.) Guilty? Absolutely.

“No outbursts,” he said at last.

She did not appear to believe him. Though her face remained impassive, her silence said enough.

“And the pain?” she asked. “Old injuries?”

“Only one,” he said. “On my face.”

Though he kept his voice even and calm as always, his hand betrayed him, lifting, unbidden, to touch the numbed skin of his cheek.
Saelwen followed the motion with sharp eyes. Then she sighed.

When she spoke again, her voice was gentler. “I will be honest with you, Master Elf. I would ask to examine you, but I trust that you would tell me if you had any injuries or pains on your body. In truth, I believe that this is an illness of the mind, not of the body, and as such, it is not of the kind I can cure.[3] If I could, half the poor fools in my care would sleep without waking in a cold sweat, they would not flinch every time someone unexpectedly raises their voice. Wounds of the mind simply do not heal like cuts and bruises.”

Legolas blinked. Surely, she had misunderstood. He bore no such illness.

Ignorant to or perhaps, uncaring of his doubts, she pressed on regardless.

“What I can give you is advice. Talk to others. Some find relief in speaking, in sharing the burden.
And I can offer you this. Some of the men seem to take comfort in it.”

She held the item out to him, offering. When he refused to reach for it, she gave a snort that was entirely unladylike.

“You will get used to the smell. You must. After all, you are planning to stay, are you not?”

Legolas inclined his head, accepting the Dúnedain pipe without comment, though in his heart, he vowed never to willingly smoke like some dwarf forge billowing smoke from the mountains. Such strange customs should be left to the mortals.

Just as he was about to offer a polite word of thanks and take his leave, a sharp cry rang out from outside the healer’s tent - followed by the unmistakable crash of metal.

Legolas froze. That voice, he would know it anywhere.

In an instant, his body was in motion, knives drawn, every sense flaring in alarm. How had he let his guard down so completely? He had not even noticed the approach of enemies. His boots struck the ground with practiced swiftness as he slipped out of the tent…

Only to be met by the sight of Aragorn’s back.

No enemy in sight. No skirmish, no ambush. Just the clang of weapons, as several shields and two training swords had toppled from a nearby rack, likely knocked loose when Aragorn had leapt to his feet in a sudden motion.

But the young man was as taut as a drawn bowstring, his shoulders trembling with fury.

Around them, a few Rangers exchanged glances, some curious, others wary, few filled with pity, but also understanding.

“It’s not true!” Aragorn’s voice cracked, louder than necessary. “Take that back!”

When Legolas stepped forward, concern rising at this behavior of Aragorn’s that seemed so very out of character, the young man turned at the sound, his eyes lighting up with something like relief when he saw him.

“Legolas,” he said, almost pleading. “Tell them it cannot be true. Mithrandir, he did not betray us, not for Sauron. He never betrayed my father. H-he did not!”

His words spilled out unevenly, and Legolas’ gaze instinctively dropped to the man’s hands. Though they were empty, the faint scent of wine on Aragorn’s breath drifted to him moments later, carried by the breeze. It did not take long to piece the rest together.

Someone, likely a well-meaning or foolish comrade, had shared whatever poor vintage they had scavenged. And Aragorn, unused to its effects but naturally curious, seemed to have taken to it a little too well, judging by the slightly glazed look inside his usually clear eyes, or his reddened cheeks.

“Where did you get the wine?” Legolas asked quietly.

Aragorn did not answer, eyes still wild, jaw clenched as he turned back toward the small group of Rangers.

“They are saying he lied. That he was never on our side.”

Before Legolas could respond, Halbarad, the only man standing aside from Aragorn, gave a slight shrug, though he did appear apologetic. “I meant no offense, Aragorn. It is simply…”

Aragorn glared once again, disbelieving.

“…the facts do not favor him. Aragorn, we should not have gone to Lothlórien. You know this. We walked into an ambush. The only one who insisted we had to go, who persuaded your father it was necessary, was Gandalf. One of the few in your father’s trusted circle who knew our exact purpose, it was him. And then, just before the attacks began, he claimed to have urgent matters elsewhere and vanished.”

A heavy silence followed. Most of the men, it seemed, silently agreed.

Only one dared to mutter something under his breath. He was rewarded with a sharp elbow to the ribs.

Aragorn’s shoulders sagged for a brief moment. Then his eyes lit again, and he looked up sharply.

“I still cannot believe it. Legolas and I—we were in Fangorn Forest. He saved the Ents. The forest would be ash without him. How could he do that, and also turn around and hand us over to the darkness? No. It cannot be true.”

This time, it was Thalion who spoke. Only then did Legolas notice that the old man sat alone, his son and daughter-in-law nowhere to be seen. The older Ranger’s dark eyes held a quiet sorrow, mirrored in his voice.

“I wish it were not so, boy. Truly.”

“But-…”

“Aragorn,” Legolas said again, his tone softer now. He reached out, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Come, walk with me. Steady your spirit, lest anger’s tongue betray you.”

Aragorn did not resist, though the fire in his gaze remained. Briefly, his hand curled into a fist before he allowed himself to be led away from the campsite.

However, soon, his thoughts resumed, evident in the way his pace quickened and his stride grew tense.
Legolas allowed himself to fall back a few steps, intentionally. Perhaps it would be best to let Aragorn walk ahead, lost in his thoughts, and merely make sure his tipsy friend would not stumble over a rock in the dark.

But the silence did not last long.

“Do you truly believe it?” Aragorn asked, his voice tight. “That my parents, my father especially, died because of a man they trusted so deeply? A man whose word they honored, whose friendship they valued?”

Aragorn shook his head, his hands balling into fists once more.

“That would be worse than falling to any enemy. I would rather be cut down a hundred times by Orcs than betrayed by someone I once called a friend.”

Suddenly, he turned, and Legolas had to react quickly to avoid a collision.

“I would never do this to you.”

Aragorn turned again, his eyes burning with conviction.

“And you would never do it to me.”

Legolas watched his friend’s back as he walked ahead. The sudden certainty in Aragorn’s declaration caught him off guard, leaving a warmth in his chest. It took him a moment to find his voice again.

Eventually, he responded with an answer that was evasive but honest.

“All my life, Mithrandir has been a force of good, long known to my kin. Had you asked me if Mithrandir could commit such a treacherous act in the past, before the fall of my kingdom, I would have denied it, perhaps as vehemently as you are now. But much has changed since then. The sky, the sun, the air… all are different.”

Some part of Legolas’ subconscious made a cynical addition: ‘and most of all, myself.’

“I do not know the Mithrandir who walks the world now. All I can do is warn you not to cling to comforting lies, simply because they are warmer than the truth.”

Aragorn stopped. His shoulders sagged, and for a moment, it looked like defeat, at least until he spoke, and his voice was full of determination instead of resignation.

“I understand. And if Mithrandir is guilty, I will find him. I will hold him accountable. But until I know the truth, I will defend his name.”

He exhaled a long breath, then turned again, prompting Legolas to catch up to him.

“…I need water,” Aragorn muttered. “And then, I need to apologize to Halbarad. You were right. My anger was misplaced.”

At that, Legolas could not resist teasing him, though he was quietly pleased with his friend’s resolve.

“Are you not planning to get yourself captured by savages first, this time around?”

The Elf made no effort to dodge the shove Aragorn gave him in response, for it was well earned indeed.

When the time finally came to settle in for the night, Legolas found himself alone with his thoughts for the first time in what felt like centuries. Around him, only the quiet sounds of nature, such as the flutter of wings, the occasional whisper of wind through stone, and the occasional distant caw of a crow, kept him company.

The Rangers had been polite, offering him and Aragorn space in one of their tents. However, they had few to spare, and only the older Rangers along with Eldanir and Marilen had one, likely to give the young family some privacy. Naturally, both Elf and man had declined. Aragorn had joined the others a little farther off, where the ground was softer and more covered in grass.

Legolas himself had no intention of sleeping, offering instead to take the watch. Even if he had wanted rest, he doubted he could lie calmly beside over a dozen strangers, men who snored and smelled of sweat and smoke.

Aragorn, however, seemed unbothered. On the contrary, he had fallen asleep easily, and his quieter snores mingled with the rest. Perhaps, Legolas thought, he truly felt at home here.

Yet, something was troubling the Elf.

Normally, he would have chosen to perch on a high rock, surveying the terrain from the best vantage point. Instead, he remained seated near the fire, though his senses were sharp as ever, alert for any sign of danger long before any of the Rangers would notice.

But Legolas was cold.

The chill had settled into his bones alongside the darkness and silence.

It was not true cold, not the biting kind by any means. Yet as an Elf, he had once atop knee-deep snow in little more than boots and a tunic, and hardly noticed the frost.

But tonight, he was warming his hands at the fire like any weary mortal. It felt strange. Wrong, somehow. And now and then, he glanced toward Aragorn, vaguely guilty, as though he was a mischievous child caught doing something he ought not.

If the lad woke and saw him like this, Legolas had no doubt he would be marched straight back to the healer.

It was in this uneasy quiet, only occasionally interrupted by the sounds of crows, that he heard someone stir, but it was not Aragorn, nor any of the Rangers. Instead, Marilen emerged quietly from her family’s tent, her steps light, her head bowed, eyes fixed on the ground. She did not seem to notice him.

That assumption was confirmed when she approached the fire and looked up, clearly startled to find him already there.

“Oh! My apologies, Master Elf. I did not see you,” she said in a hushed voice. “I will go.”

“There’s no need,” Legolas replied quickly. “You are welcome to stay.”

She hesitated. “Well… if you are sure. I would not want to intrude.”

“I can leave, if you’d prefer.”, Legolas offered now instead, wondering if her offer to leave was actually borne of a discomfort with him, instead of it being the other way around.

“Oh, please don’t,” she said, and as if to put an end to their polite fencing, she dropped down beside the fire—leaving a respectable gap between them.

And so they sat, bound together by an unspoken pact of courtesy and discomfort. The silence between them was not exactly companionable, nor entirely awkward, just long. And polite. Very, very polite.

Legolas dared a glance her way. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks and nose tinged with the flush of recent tears, enough to make him feel even more like an intruder.

The Elf looked away again. Neither of them spoke.

But after a while, the silence must have grown too heavy for her to bear. It was she who broke it.

“Thalion and Eldanir… they truly appreciated that you returned Elgarain’s bow to them. That you and Aragorn found it after all those years… it is a small thing, but to them it means everything,” she said softly.

Legolas looked up. “I am glad,” he said. “Though the credit belongs to Aragorn. I would not have known of its significance.”

She gave a small shrug. “Perhaps. But you brought Aragorn back to them, and Aragorn brought the bow. That makes you part of the miracle too, does it not?”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “There is truth in that,” he admitted.

This time, only a brief pause followed before Marilen spoke again. Perhaps she did not wish to be left alone with her thoughts.

“About Aragorn… may I ask you something? Do you think he would be offended if I offered to teach him how to stitch his clothes?”

Legolas turned toward her, blinking in confusion. She looked briefly doubtful, but continued.

“The stitches on his tunic are a bit… unfortunate. Quite dreadful, if I am honest. They will not hold for long. Of course, there is no shame in it. He is young, and I doubt his mother had time to teach him before she passed. But I wonder if he would take it the wrong way if I offered to help.”

There was a pause.

Then Legolas said, quietly, “Those stitches were mine.”

Silence followed. Their eyes met.

Then Marilen let out a snort. She clapped her hands over her mouth at once, but it was too late. The giggles had already escaped.

“My apologies,” she managed, barely suppressing more laughter. “I did not mean to insult you. Truly, there is no shame in it.”

The muttered words that followed, which Legolas courteously ignored, sounded very much like, “I just cannot believe my sewing skills are better than those of a thousand-year-old immortal.”

He cleared his throat and chose to respond with dignity, though a faint heat was creeping up his neck. After all, Legolas could hardly explain that he had spent his life as a prince and a soldier, where such tasks were left to others.

However, he had no qualms about accepting advice from his betters. If he had held himself too high superior for that, he would never have become as skilled in the art of battle, hunting or climbing.

“I accept your offer of instruction with humility,” he admitted. “Though I daresay Aragorn would benefit just as much, for until now I have been his only teacher.”

Marilen smiled, clearly pleased that he had taken no offense. The silence that followed was gentler than before, filled with the soft crackling of the fire. She began to hum softly to herself, eyes lost in the flames. Legolas let his thoughts drift with the smoke curling toward the night sky.

Eventually, Marilen stirred again.

“May I ask for your opinion?” she said. “As someone else who stands apart from the Rangers. It would mean something to me.”

She hesitated, biting her lip as if weighing how much to reveal. Whether she could trust him with something that still felt raw.

When he nodded, curious what had made her see him as someone safe, she drew a quiet breath. Then she began to speak, and he finally learned what had kept her from sleep – an argument with Eldanir.

Until recently, they had been travelling to Helm’s Deep, hoping that the Rohirrim might offer them refuge, to leave the Rangers and settle down within the fortress. Eldanir was a seasoned warrior, and Marilen had her own talents. Between them, they had reason to believe they would be accepted, even if they added more mouths to feed. Helm’s Deep was not safe in the truest sense, but it had walls, food, people. It had children, and for their daughter, it could offer a life beyond campfires and wandering.

Until today, they had both believed in that plan.

“Suddenly, he told me he wants to stay,” she said, her voice low. “Now that Aragorn has returned, he thinks it is his duty to remain with the Rangers. He says he will make sure our daughter and I find a place in the fortress, and that we will see each other again in the future. But how can he say that? Does he think I want to raise our child alone? That she does not need her father?”

There was bitterness in her voice now, laced with pain.

Legolas frowned slightly. “He would place his friend above his wife and daughter?”

Marilen shook her head, a sad gesture. “It is more complicated than that. He truly believes it is the right thing. That Aragorn is our last hope. That if he can help him, it will lead to a better world, and that in time, that better world will be ours too. Yet I no longer believe in that future. I believe we must live in this one and we must do the best we can with what remains.”

She drew her knees close to her chest, arms wrapping around them as if seeking comfort. Her eyes stayed fixed on the flames.

“…I think it all traces back to his sister. She believed in Arathorn with the same conviction Eldanir now holds for Aragorn, and she kept her oath, even unto death. Elgarain was my husband’s greatest hero when he was young, and instead of blaming Arathorn for her loss, he chose to honor her memory by following her example. I believe he is still walking the path she set before him. And now I cannot help but wonder… if she were still alive, would she stand with me? Or with him?”

She fell silent for a moment.

“Right now, the only one I feel I have on my side is Thalion.”

“Only Thalion?” Legolas repeated, gently.

She nodded. “The others will not interfere, saying it is between us. But I can feel their thoughts, that they want Eldanir to stay. I can see it in their eyes. It makes me feel selfish for asking him to leave, makes me question my anger. But I am not wrong to be angry, am I?”

She looked down for a moment, then added quietly, “Only Thalion understands. He lost his wife to this way of life. His daughter too. Now he would do anything to keep Eldanir safe. He even tried to persuade the others to come with us — to leave behind this endless fight against evil and choose a safer path instead. But with Aragorn’s return, all their old hopes have resurfaced, and I fear the choice is no longer ours. The Dúnedain are too loyal to turn away now.”

Something in her words gave Legolas pause.
He was lost in thought for a moment before realizing Marilen was watching him, waiting expectantly for his reply.

“You should tell Aragorn what you told me.” he said quietly. “He could convince Eldanir to leave without you even having to ask.”

She looked up, eyes wide with hope and surprise, as if the idea had never crossed her mind before.
“Do you really believe that?”

“I am certain of it,” he replied, and in that moment, it was the honest truth.

For a brief moment, the sadness in her beautiful hazel eyes softened and faded. Then, she lifted her gaze, now shining with quiet determination.

“I will do as you say. Thank you.”

Not long after, Marilen retired for the night, and Legolas found himself quietly heartened by the thought that he had lightened her spirit, if only a little. Perhaps, after all, there was still something he could offer to this world, that offering comfort, even in small measure, was not beyond him, and Aragorn need not be the only exception.

The camp had grown quiet again, the stillness broken only by the crackling of the fire and the distant caw of crows. It was in that uneasy hush that Legolas heard a rustle. It was soft, careful, and not born of wind or small beasts.

Instinctively, his posture straightened. He rose, drawing his weapons without a sound, and moved with quiet purpose toward the source. Like a wraith beneath the trees, he passed beyond the great stone the Rangers had used as both lookout and gate to their resting place.

There, just beyond its shadow, he caught sight of a figure moving. He stepped closer, silent as falling snow.

“Show yourself.”, he commanded.

The figure turned with a sudden jolt, startled by his presence. Recognition came quickly - it was Thalion.

“My apologies,” Legolas said at once, lowering his blades. “I heard someone and thought it might be an intruder.”

Thalion let out a breath, placing a hand over his chest, though his mouth twitched in amusement.

“No harm done,” he said. “With an Elf on guard, I suppose no one can so much as take a step unnoticed.” Then, after a brief pause and a wry glance, he added: “Truth is, at my age, I often find I have to answer nature's call more often than I would like. Nothing more exciting than that, I fear.”

Legolas inclined his head, stepping back respectfully. “Then I shall leave you to your privacy.”

He had just begun to turn when a sharp cry split the night air. A crow's voice, harsh and sudden. From above, more followed. A tangle of wingbeats and harsh calls echoed across the bare rocks and empty slopes.

Thalion flinched, a twitch running through his shoulders, though his eyes remained fixed ahead.

“Crows.” Legolas said softly, his gaze lifting toward the shadowed sky. “They are no strangers to the dark, but even so, they are rarely so restless at this hour. Do you give any weight to the old tales your people tell of them?”

Thalion remained still, his gaze fixed ahead. “Strange times,” he murmured. “I will not pretend it sits well with me. I grew up hearing tales of what such birds mean. Bad luck, blood on the wind, war.”

Legolas continued to watch the circling shadows above, his thoughts distant. "Perhaps not omens," he said quietly, "but messengers of the same."

Thalion made a sound of curiosity, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean by that?"

But Legolas only shook his head. “Pay me no mind. Rest well.”

With that, the Elf vanished into the shadows, leaving the old Ranger to his thoughts underneath the night sky.

The following day found Legolas leaning against a rock, a sewing needle and thread resting idly in his lap, though they were long forgotten, as the sharp ring of clashing blades, the grunt of exertion, and the thud of sword against shield echoed through the camp.

It was, all things considered, a most peculiar sight. Legolas watched with quiet amusement, unable to stop himself from drawing comparisons to the old legends and fairytales Men were so fond of, tales he had learned of from Aragorn.

Admittedly, such tales usually featured valiant suitors proving their worth to win the favor of a fair maiden, rather than two rugged Rangers dueling each other for the chance to test their skills against an Elf in combat.

It had all begun earlier that day, when Eldanir approached Legolas with a request for a friendly duel, hoping to refine his technique.

Before Legolas could even reply, Aragorn had burst into laughter, claiming Eldanir did not stand a chance and that he would end up eating dirt and swallowing his pride well before Legolas needed to exert himself, much to Eldanir’s offense.

Somehow, the exchange had from then on turned into a challenge: Aragorn offered to face Eldanir first, and if the latter won, he would earn the right to fight Legolas himself.

To the Elf’s quiet amusement (and, admittedly, his pride) Aragorn had kept his word. Within minutes, he had Eldanir disarmed, his sword at the older Ranger’s throat, forcing him to concede. From there, Aragorn continued to win match after match, defeating three more challengers while the rest of the camp gathered, either to watch or to join in.

Now, however, it seemed that Aragorn had finally met his equal.

Halbarad had stepped in, and from the very beginning, it had been clear to Legolas that Aragorn would not win this time. Aragorn likely knew it too, but he fought on with determination, skillfully dodging strikes and pressing his advantage whenever he could. Eventually, his dark hair was damp with sweat, his face flushed, and he panted with the effort, yet he held firm.

Still, talent and dedication could not yet surpass years of experience. At last, Halbarad tricked him with a clever feint and followed through with a strike that easily disarmed him.

"Very impressive," he said, lowering his blade with a respectful nod. "In a few years, you might well defeat me. But your technique needs refinement. It is unusual. You swing your sword as if it were light, relying on speed, but you ignore the advantage of your reach. You should also learn to use a shield, since your other hand remains unused."

Legolas initially could not help but bristle at the criticism. Yet after a moment of consideration, he had to admit that Halbarad had a point. While Aragorn knew how to wield a sword, his training had been shaped by Legolas himself, and his fighting style reflected that of the Wood-elves. In the forest where Legolas had grown, large weapons could be impractical, even dangerous. Twin blades, a small bow, speed, and agility had long been his greatest tools.

But in spite of all his elvish qualities, Aragorn remained a man, and though he had trained hard and fought well, speed alone would never be his greatest strength. What would serve him best was a blend of agility and strategy, endurance and strength, and the grounded resilience that only time and experience could fully bring to the surface.

Now, however, the time had come for the master to restore the pride of his student.

As Aragorn stepped back and clasped Halbarad’s forearm in a gesture of goodwill, their breaths still heavy with exertion, Legolas rose from his seat. As he did so, the quiet shift of leather and the soft clink of his twin knives slipping free from their sheaths turned more heads than any word might have.

All eyes fell on him as he stepped forward, but this time, he welcomed the attention. It did not weigh on him today, for the part of him that loved the prospect of a challenge, the clean grace of movement and steel was now in command. And that competitive side of him was looking forward to a demonstration of skill.

“Well won,” he said calmly, nodding to Halbarad as he approached the center of the clearing. “And well earned. Shall we see how far that skill carries you?”

Halbarad’s mouth twitched in something between a grin and a grimace, clearly more self-aware than Eldanir had been. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword, and took his stance once more.

“I suppose it is my turn to eat dirt and pride now,” he said dryly.

Legolas inclined his head. “Only if you do not move quickly enough.”, he answered. Though spoken with grace, the words lost some of their gentleness to the faint curl at the corner of his mouth. It was more smirk than smile.

Laughter rippled through the gathered Rangers but quickly faded into silence as the two men stepped into the ring formed by the crowd.

As soon as Elf and man stood face to face, lightness against grounded strength, the contrast was striking to any seasoned observer.

Anyone with a discerning eye for combat would admire how Halbarad moved, each step deliberate and grounded, his broad frame bearing the weight of sword and shield with unshakable control. In contrast, Legolas scarcely seemed to touch the earth. The Elf’s twin knives flashed like quicksilver, and his his feet glided soundlessly over the pebbled ground.

Then came the first blow. Halbarad’s sword swung down with the strength of muscle and the pull of gravity behind it, but it struck nothing. Legolas had already spun aside, his blades cutting in from opposite sides, too swift to catch. One was deflected, the other glanced off the rim of a shield, but by the time Halbarad turned to counter, the Elf was already at a distance, unreadable as stone.

It was a dance, and Legolas had been dancing far longer than any of those present had drawn breath.

Each time Halbarad pressed forward, the Elf slipped past him with graceful ease. Never mocking, never reckless, only fast and fluid.
When Legolas struck, it was with purpose, not a motion wasted, and no strike made for the purpose of show. And yet, there was beauty in every motion, something that caught the eye and held it. It was the kind of grace that made onlookers forget to breathe, understanding at last why the tales of Men spoke of elven elegance not as something learned but as something innate, woven into their very being.

Halbarad, to his credit, held his own with strength and grit. His sword caught the sunlight as it blocked and turned and redirected the flashing knives. For a time, he matched the rhythm, driving forward with determination. But the difference between them became clear with each passing moment.

Legolas did not slow. Where Halbarad began to tire, the Elf showed no sign of it.

At last, Legolas feinted left and slipped to the right. One knife halted just beneath Halbarad’s throat. The other hovered at his side, angled toward the ribs. Both had found their mark.

The camp was silent.

Halbarad exhaled slowly, then gave a quiet chuckle. “I yield.”

Legolas stepped back and gave a courteous incline of his head. “Well fought.”

Halbarad returned the gesture, rubbing his neck where the blade had nearly landed. “There is no shame in losing to someone of your skill. Still, I cannot help but admit I had hoped to win. If you ever offer lessons, I would be glad to accept. Though I doubt I could learn half of what you know.”

From somewhere behind them, Eldanir gave a dry cough. “Me too…” he mumbled, thoroughly humbled.

That broke the tension. Laughter swept through the Rangers, and Aragorn, still catching his breath from his earlier bout, shook his head with a grin.

Legolas turned to him, and the sight of the man made him smile. Aragorn’s grin said enough, telling him that the younger man was as proud of him as the Elf had been, watching  his friend defeat his elders.

“You may now consider your pride restored.”, he told the other.

Aragorn gave a snort. “I would have preferred to win it back myself.”

“Then try again tomorrow.”

“Perhaps,” Aragorn muttered. “Once I can lift my arms again.”

It was then that another voice spoke up.

Thalion had stood up from where he had been sitting on a larger rock which served as a sort of seat near the campfire, stretching his limbs.

“A splendid demonstration,” he said. “A few years ago, I might have joined in, though I fear I am no longer as competitive as I once was. What I can offer, however, is a chance to prove an older Ranger's skill in the hunt. This area used to be full of game, of mountain goats and the like. If I am lucky, we will eat well tonight.”

Eldanir called out, “I would call you a coward, Father, for fleeing the field, but I know that when you hunt, we feast. So I will wisely hold my tongue and look forward to it.”

“I too would like to demonstrate my skill with the bow,” Legolas said quietly, his voice soft but steady, and at once, the attention shifted to him.

Thalion did not look thrilled by the suggestion. “I have no wish to compete with an Elf. In such matters, I am wiser than my son. It is not necessary.”

Legolas gave a slight shake of his head. “Then let it be a collaboration. Together, we will feed the camp.”

Thalion hesitated, then nodded. “Let us leave at once. Dusk is not far off, and we do not want to be finding our way along treacherous mountain paths in the dark.”

With that, the two of them set off, leaving the rocky campsite behind as they made their way toward the lower slopes of the Ered Nimrais. Behind them, the rest of the Rangers returned to their tasks.

Before vanishing beyond the ridge, Legolas glanced back and met Marilen’s gaze. She was smiling at him, and for a moment, the world felt light. Something in her seemed more at ease. Though he did not know exactly when, he was certain she had spoken to Aragorn, and that the man had surely promised to help bring Eldanir to reason.

She still sat in the place where, not long ago, she had shown him the patient art of needlework.

Legolas turned away and continued on, unaware that, aside from Aragorn, this would be the last friendly smile he would see for a long, long time.

There were very few things that all the Free People, Elves and Men, Dwarves and Hobbits, could agree on. One of those rare instances was the shared truth that they were not, in fact, so free. For there were creatures who enjoyed greater freedom than they did.

And what was more freedom than being able to spread your wings and fly? To see the earth below yet not be chained to it, as so many others were. Birds followed no master, no creed, no expectation or rule, not even that of gravity.

Or so one might think. For the Crebain were a special case among them. They were the largest of their kind, surpassing their lesser cousins in life expectancy, strength, speed, and intelligence.

But for the Crebain, that freedom had been stolen many years ago.

Thirty-five years had passed since Mount Doom had spat fire, since the earth had trembled and the sun had veiled itself behind an ever-gray shroud of cloud and ash. And thirty-five years had passed since the Crebain had last known true freedom.

Their existence now was worse than that of the chained Men and Dwarves who toiled in the pits of Isengard, who scavenged volcanic shards on the barren plains of Gorgoroth, who mined the cursed depths of Moria, or more recently, built monstrous warships in the once abandoned Elf haven Edhellond. It was worse even than the lives of those who fancied themselves free yet remained huddled behind the walls of Helm’s Deep, never daring to see beyond them, clinging together like frightened rabbits. And it was worse still than the fate of those poor fools who willingly followed the Dark Lord, free in mind, perhaps, but walking into slavery nonetheless.

For the Crebain were slaves. Though their minds remained their own, their bodies were cages, enslaved by the White Wizard, servant to Sauron.

As such, they were forced to obey the White Wizard, who, in his arrogance, refused to see that he too was a slave, mistaking himself for a partner instead. And as the lowest of the low, they were likewise bound to serve the White Wizard’s servant.

The Crebain hated the White Wizard. And they hated his servant.

They had not forgotten his face, not even after years without speaking to him. They were known for holding grudges, and they remembered this man who had reduced them to mere carrier pigeons, a pathetic parody of their nature.

When he summoned them again, seven years after the last time, the murder[4] raged. Their cries echoed across the night, wild with fury. They longed to descend and tear out his eyes with their beaks, but they could not.

After all, they were bound to obey.

Yet before they could swoop down to hear his command, he stopped. Something startled him, so that he ordered them to retreat.

Now he called again.

The sun was setting, bleeding red and orange across the sky. And the flock wished for nothing more than to stain the ground below with that same blood-red hue, to live up to the name ‘murder’. But they could not.

And so, the largest among them, a female, swooped down, while the others circled high above, watching. Waiting.

The human stood at the edge of a steep cliff. Below, the river Adorn wound its way toward the Great Sea. The man’s arm was outstretched, expectant, waiting for one of the noble birds to land and receive his message.

She landed heavily on his forearm, her claws digging deeper into his flesh than was necessary to support her weight, hoping to cause him pain. To his credit, the man did not flinch. Not even a grimace.

His words were steady, though hushed.

“Tell your master: it is as he feared. The line of Isildur endures, in the son of Arathorn. He has returned, and an Elf walks beside him.”

She tilted her head slightly, expecting more. And of course, she was right.

“Tell him the deal still stands. One life in exchange for many. I will find a way to deliver him to—”

It was in that moment, with her head turned just so, that she saw what the man could not: a glint of movement behind him, above his right shoulder.

She squawked in alarm, her warning echoed by her kin overhead. She beat her wings to take flight, but it was too late.

There was a hiss, then the sharp crack of impact as an arrow struck her chest, piercing her heart.

The force knocked her backward. She tumbled from the man’s arm, past the cliff’s edge, the mountain wall a blur as she fell. The roar of the river below and the cries of her flock above were the last things she would ever hear.

And at last, she was free.

[1] Ellith (Sindarin): „Female Elves/Elf-women”

[2] Ellyn: (Sindarin): „Male Elves/Elf-men”

[3] A/N: Saelwen basically thinks Legolas is dealing with PTSD—even though she wouldn’t know that name for it. Based on what he’s describing, it’s a fair guess. That said, I don’t think it’s spoiling anything to say there’s probably more going on beneath the surface, based on what the reader knows and Saelwen does not. Alway's be 100% truthful with your medical professionals, don't be like Legolas!
(Just a heads-up: I don’t have any personal experience with PTSD, nor am I a medical expert. I’m just a woman with Google and a vivid imagination, so sorry if this isn’t perfectly realistic!)

[4] A group of crows is called a murder. (The Crebain are a crow-like species native to Dunland and Fangorn Forest. I'm not entirely sure whether they're an actual sub-species of crows or simply related, but I've interpreted them as the former here.)