Work Text:
Home, is where I want to be
But I guess I'm already there
I come home, she lifted up her wings
I guess that this must be the place
I can't tell one from the other
Did I find you, or you find me?
There was a time before we were born
If someone asks, this is where I'll be, where I'll be
- Talking Heads
The fruit vendor has a face as dried and weathered and wrinkled as the raisins that fill the jars on the table before her. Her skin is potato-colored and her sparse gray hair is pulled back and secured under a pattern-less scarf almost the same color as her face. Expressionless, she looks molded from clay, and out here alone with her battered wooden cart and impossibly wide table - miles from the last village and miles more from the next town - she looks like something permanent and immovable and natural. Like something sprung from the earth. Like something impossibly old, although she cannot be as old as Legolas.
Strange, he thinks, to be so young in one realm and so old in another.
He likes her instantly, although she seems entirely indifferent to him. Either she sees elves often or cannot see at all, because she doesn’t react to or remark upon Legolas’ appearance when he approaches. He is grateful for that. He has only been out of his realm for a few months now, but already he is tired of Men, wary of them; of the way they leer, and lust, and lurch when they see him - the males and the females alike. So far the Men outside his Wood have been everything his father has warned him about, but he holds out hope for this “Strider” he has been tasked with looking for. After all, if his father thinks he is a good man - thinks he is worth meeting at all - then he must be. Legolas’ father is many things, but he is rarely ever wrong.
And if there is one good Man in the world, then there is hope for their race yet.
“I can give you a good deal,” she greets him, when he reaches her, voice dry as autumn leaves, “for the oranges.”
Legolas looks at the round, lumpy fruit piled up in one of the baskets. They are ripe and their bright, sweet scent floats up to him; makes him nostalgic. Back home, there is an orange tree in one of their courtyards; a small one, gnarled and twisted, that puts out small, hard fruit at the end of every season. He likes to climb up it when it is fruiting and sit among its leaves and let the smell of citrus waft around him.
Legolas misses him home briefly and intensely for a moment. He has never been away from home before, save for one brief visit to Rivendell when he was an Elfling and that had been with a large delegation of Wood Elves.
When his father first bestowed this task upon him, he had been excited, eager to embark on the quest as soon as possible. He loves his realm, yes, but Legolas has always been possessed of a deep curiosity of the outside world that most of his kin in the Wood do not seem to acquire. So far though, this trip has not been the grand adventure he had dreamed. So far, it has been a long meandering journey, lonely and uneventful, only occasionally punctuated by moments of great action - fights against Orcs and great beasts - or moments of cold anxiety - being followed by Men in towns; being stared at too hard.
Legolas picks up an orange, feels the weight of it in his hand. “How much?” he asks.
She tells him.
Legolas considers. “I will take a bag,” he says, “but I must ask you a question first. Are there any Rangers about these lands?”
The fruit vendor smiles, wide and toothless, her lips disappearing with the movement; to some it would seem grim, but Legolas sees the warmth in it and finds it beautiful. He smiles back. “There are always Rangers about,” she tells him. “They look menacing, but they are nothing to be concerned about. Why do you ask?”
“I am seeking one called ‘Strider’,” he replies. Then, feeling the need to elaborate, “I…have a message for him.”
“You are in luck then, dear. He passed by not two days ago. Heading back to Bree,” she informs him. “He bought apples,” she adds cryptically.
“Bree,” Legolas repeats, considering.
“You can take the road to get there,” she advises him, “but if you want to meet with your Ranger in a timely fashion, then I suggest you follow his path.” She inclines her head, “Go north up that path. Follow it until you reach the wheat field, then head west,” She nods her head, confident, affirming, “Yes,” she says, “yes, you will meet your Ranger there. That will be the place.”
Legolas is excited, feels like he is making progress on this journey at last. Then doubt comes to him, sudden as a storm cloud. “How will I know it is him?” he asks.
He expects the fruit vendor to give him a hair color, or describe something particular about his manner of dress but she only says, “You will know.” Then, more cryptically, “Yes. Yes, you will know instantly and without doubt.”
Legolas soaks this in for a moment then blurts, “You have been the most helpful, most wonderful being I have encountered on this journey - I cannot thank you enough!”
He pays her for the oranges, pays her too much, grateful. The fruit vendor ignores the coins on the counter, turns to look back north again with her clouded eyes. “When you find Strider,” she says, “Tell him I said that all his doubts on the matter we discussed will be cleared by summer’s end.”
Legolas nods once, serious. “I will relay the message. Thank you.”
He sets off on the path, determined.
He walks the rest of the afternoon and most of the night, picking his way through the forest until he is too tired to continue on. Only then does he rest, climbing into one of the trees and sleeping there until he feels sunlight on his face. He doesn’t bother to prepare breakfast; he eats an orange as he walks and then forages lightly on the path as he makes his way northward. It is spring and there are various nuts and berries and edible plants popping up. This forest is bountiful and unlike his Wood it is less hostile, less angry, more generous with its offerings.
As he journeys, he thinks about what the fruit vendor said, about how he would know the Ranger instantly. His is an isolated kingdom, with few visitors, so it is highly unlikely that it would be someone he knows. And to that point, how would the vendor even know who he knows? No, this “Strider” must be so distinct in appearance that descriptions are not needed. Strider, he thinks. Maybe this Man is long-legged and swift, like a spider or a heron? But then again, the name could have been given to him in jest. Perhaps this Man is slow-moving, but sturdy and strong like an ox? Or slow only in movement, but quick in the mind? Legolas lets his imagination fly.
Eventually the woods start to thin and he finds himself at the edge of an untilled field. Across the field he can see neat lines of winter wheat lined up against the horizon. The field is green-gold, the stalks not yet ripe. The sun is starting to set and he debates whether or not to spend the night in the woods amongst the trees or to cut across the fields and spend the night amongst the wheat.
His decision is made for him when he notices a figure, darkly clad, moving parallel against the tall stalks. They move so swiftly - Strider! - and so naturally across the landscape that Legolas almost hadn’t noticed them. Legolas feels his pulse quicken with anticipation, but he resists the urge to spring to action; he crouches down in his spot at the treeline, digs his fingers into the soil to ground himself. He watches the figure move, graceful as the swaying wheat; quick, but unhurried as the breeze that calls the wheat to motion - his legs must be so long.
Yes, Legolas thinks, yes that must be him; that must be Strider. Your ranger , the fruit vendor’s dry voice comes to him suddenly, unbidden, and he smiles. He lets the patience of the earth, unending and unmoving, flow up through his fingers and still him, and he watches, like trees. He debates how best to approach him; Men, he has learned, do not often take kindly to being approached, especially by strangers, especially by Elves.
Strider - there is no doubt in his mind now - disappears into the wheat, into the shadows between the wheat. The wheat here is as tall as Men, but he can still just make out the top of Strider’s hood above the stalks. Legolas waits until he is out of view, until the sun is red and dying on the horizon, until the shadows on the land are dark and deep. Then he springs out from the wood and runs quick and quiet across the field, the dirt soft under his feet. He feels a brief touch of panic being out in the open like this - no trees or foliage around, just the flat waiting earth beneath him - but the feeling quickly steels into a determined excitement. He has plunged into the great wide open; he is racing towards the new.
When he reaches the wheat field it is completely dark and the moon is inching up in the sky. He dives into the wheat, grateful for the cover; glad to be unexposed again. He ventures in a little further, then stills and listens: just the wind and night noises; no footsteps or human sounds. He kneels down, suddenly tired. He wants to fight rest, to keep going, but the adrenaline from the day is wearing on him so he decides to nest amongst the wheat and sleep. Before he retires, he slowly peels an orange, savoring the way the strong smell of citrus blends with the strong grassy smell that surrounds him. Above and all around him the wheat sways and sighs in the night air; singing the lullaby of fields.
— <> —
Legolas startles awake, knife immediately in hand; the gray pre-dawn light all around him. There is tension in the air and he can feel something fraught and angry approaching. He is on his feet in an instant. His senses sharpen and he can make out the frenzied barking of dogs and the deep angry boom of their master’s voice. He is temporarily torn between the desire to fight or flee; more wary of a confrontation with the Man than he is with the dogs. Upon hearing another Man’s voice, he decides to flee and tears westward through the fields.
He runs fast as the wind; the wheat stalks parting gently before him, urging him on and brushing his cheeks with their dew-damp leaves. The hounds keep their pace, but the Men’s voices fall back, unable to keep up. He emerges from the wheat onto a little beaten dirt path that cleaves the fields. The Men’s voices have disappeared, the dogs in the distance bark less furiously. He feels momentarily triumphant then -
“Hey!” He looks up to find a third man standing a few paces up the path. They lock eyes and the man looks stunned. “An elf?” he asks, surprised. Legolas watches him carefully, steels himself for anything untoward. The man’s expression shifts from wide-eyed astonishment to a narrowing suspicion before darkening into lust. He takes a step forward. “Come here, pretty one,” he coaxes, “easy now. Just come here.” He reaches to grab and that is when Legolas springs into motion, dashing into the wheat on the other side of the path.
He runs madly through the field, hoping to shake off his new pursuer. The hounds are back up again. He runs until he comes to the edge of the field, which ends abruptly. The land before him slopes dramatically down and Legolas pauses to assess the landscape before him. The land below is freshly plowed, flat. His eyes set on a large pile of hay nearby. He immediately jumps and slides down the slope, then runs headlong towards the hay. He throws himself into it then burrows down to the bottom. He grasps his knife tightly and waits.
The hounds arrive first, barks getting louder as they barrel down the hill; then the Men come, voices thundering and angry. Legolas makes himself very still in the hay. It is damp inside, smells pleasantly of earth and decay. The Men approach, arguing. From some other direction, another Man appears; Legolas can’t see him, but he can hear his voice as he comes near to the excitement. Why must there be another?
The new voice is calm, but direct and commanding. The other voices don’t like this. A great row ensues with much shouting. Deep under the hay, Legolas can only make out so many words from the chaotic chatter: something about thieves; something about vengeance. Then the Man from the path starts shouting wildly, “An Elf! An Elf! I swear to you an Elf!”
The voices die down, get serious. Some agreement is reached, then the hounds and the Men dissipate. Legolas listens intently until he cannot hear their footsteps anymore. Then he waits a long while after. Finally, certain that all danger is gone, he sheathes his knife and lets out a low sigh of relief.
He is just about to move when - suddenly - hands plunge into the hay above and grab him. They fist into his hair and the back of his tunic and pull and Legolas is lifted up and out - plucked from the earth like a vegetable from a garden.
He immediately begins to struggle. He twists violently back and forth, but then an arm snakes around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He kicks, but then he is lifted just off the ground. The hand is still tangled in his hair, so he can’t turn his head to see his attacker, can only listen as the voice proclaims, “Ah, so it is an Elf!''
Legolas is livid, all fear gone for a moment leaving only rage. “Let me go!” he demands, loudly.
The Man lowers him slightly, so that Legolas’ feet touch the ground again, but the arm around him does not loosen.
“Now!” Legolas demands again. The hand untangles from his hair and Legolas is surprised at how easy this is going - but then that same hand starts to move over his body and his blood runs cold.
“Easy,” the Man warns. Legolas watches the hand move across him. It pats his chest, his sides, then around his waist where he might have a knife. The Man bends forward to feel around his ankles, which forces Legolas, still pinned to the Man’s chest, to bend underneath him. It is a frightful position.
Satisfied, the Man straightens them. “You have a shortsword and a hunting knife, in addition to the bow,” the Man states plainly, as if commenting on the weather. His voice is low and rough and close to Legolas’ ear. “I will let you go,” the voice continues, “so that we may talk as civilized people do. Just do not do anything…uncalled for.”
The Man releases him and Legolas’ spins around as quick as lightning, but the Man has already backed a few paces away. Legolas doesn’t like this, doesn’t like that he is this quick. The Man has his hands held up in a gesture of passivity, but Legolas is still enraged. He spits on the ground, angry - a very un-princley, un-elf-like thing to do - and the Man looks briefly taken aback.
“Don’t touch me!” Legolas shouts, fists clenched to prevent himself from pulling out his bow.
“I’m not,” the Man responds. His voice is even, controlled, and it makes Legolas feel briefly ridiculous. He touches the back of his head where the hand was. He feels violated. Before he can say anything else, shout anything else, the Man asks, “So. What is a Woodland Elf doing wandering these fields? You are very far from home.”
Legolas wants to say something scathing, but he opts for peace instead. “I am looking for a Ranger,” he says, pulling his voice back to a normal volume. “My king has sent me to find him.”
“And what is the name of this Ranger?” the Man questions.
“He is called ‘Strider’,” Legolas responds.
The Man gives him an exacting look. Legolas, defiant, glares right back. They have a short, quiet standoff as they assess each other. Legolas looks the Man up and down. He is a young Man, tanned from the sun, with dark hair that shags over his shoulders. He is taller than Legolas, but not by so much. His clothes are dark, a bit tattered, but surprisingly well-made.
Legolas moves to open his mouth but the Man cuts him off, “What is your name?”
He tells him.
“Legolas,” the Man repeats, slowly, as if tasting it. Then, “Legolas. Why has your king sent you to seek out Strider?”
“I…,” Legolas begins, suddenly unsure. He was never explicitly given a ‘why’. And in these long weeks of travel he has never stopped to think of a ‘why’; had never needed a ‘why’. He has long wanted to leave his kingdom, to travel outside it. And recently, it seemed that his father had started to want that for him too. His kingdom is under a shadow, has always been, but recently that shadow has begun to deepen and darken and sad things have happened. Maybe his father sent him out so he could be happy? How Strider fits into that, he doesn’t know.
The Man quirks an eyebrow at his silence, begins to say something, but Legolas barrels on, proudly, “Why I have been sent to seek him is something that only he and I need to know. What is your name now?” he demands, “I have told you mine.”
The Man smirks, “My name is Aragorn,” he says.
Legolas glares in response, guesses, “You’re a Ranger?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know Strider then?”
Aragorn cocks his head, “I do.”
“Has he passed this way then?” Legolas feels some of the heat leave him, replaced by hope.
“He is on his way to Bree,” Aragorn supplies.
“She was right then,” Legolas whispers to himself and then he smiles, small and quick, before making his face neutral again. Aragorn is smiling at him cheekily and as much as Legolas wants to hate it, he actually really likes that smile. “How far away is it?” he asks.
“Not far,” Aragorn answers, nonchalant, “a few days. I am heading there now. My company meets there to trade news.”
Legolas brightens, “Will you take me there?”
Aragorn moves to walk to the other side of the haystack. Legolas follows, but keeps his distance. Aragorn muses, “I cannot leave you here to torment the farmers. I will take you to Bree.”
Legolas watches him gather his things. “Thank you,” he says. Then, because it still irks him, because he still feels that hand in his hair, “After all, it is the least you can do after handling me so.”
Aragorn gives him a stern look from where he is knelt on the ground. “I was not gentle with you, no, but I was far kinder than those men would have been, had they found you first.” Legolas feels the need to apologize suddenly, but Aragorn goes on, serious, “I do not know what the Men are like in your realm, but they can be very dangerous here,” he looks Legolas up and down quickly, “especially for someone like you.” Legolas bristles. “You are quick, obviously skilled,” he amends, “but you do not know the Men here. You do not know what horrors they can commit.”
Legolas feels sad. “But they cannot be all bad,” he laments. He wants to believe that. “After all, you are good.”
“You do not know that.” Legolas tenses, affronted, but then Aragorn smirks again, assures, “You will be safe with me. I promise.” He finishes gathering up his things, slings the pack on his back and turns westward toward the treeline in the far distance. The sun is high and bright overhead, the sky a perfect blue. “Let us leave these fields.”
They begin to move.
After the trials of the morning and all his talk of the horrors of Men, Legolas expects Aragorn to have them hurry away, but instead he leads them at a casual, leisurely pace towards the trees, as if he owns the very land they are traversing, as if he is the lord of all these fields.
Once in the trees, Legolas feels the last of the tension and anger in him evaporate. It is good to be amongst trees again, to be surrounded by something so familiar. He touches one of the trees they pass - a great oak - rubs his hand over the roughness of its bark, then presses his cheek to it and sighs.
Aragorn, paused a few paces ahead, just stands and looks at him, nonjudgmental. “Shall we break for the day?'' he asks, then adds, “You look…weary.”
“I am fine.”
Aragorn looks skeptical; starts to set up camp anyway. Legolas watches him for a moment from his tree. He likes this Man, he decides. Likes the quiet strength he exudes; the way he fits into the environment so naturally, like he was sprung from it; the way he feels familiar as ferns. Legolas moves to help. He drops his pack nearby, then begins to collect small branches and leaves for a fire. “Tell me about Strider,” he prompts.
“Don’t you know anything about this Man?” Aragorn questions. He is kneeled on the ground near some bramble, examining a shrub there. “Surely your king has told you all you need to know.”
Legolas leans against an ash tree, cradles his bundle of branches, “I don’t know anything about him,” he admits, “Nothing real anyway.” He confesses, quietly, “In truth I don’t even know why I’m here.”
Aragorn is quiet and Legolas moves back to start the fire. “What do you want to know?” he asks, softly, giving in.
“I don’t know,” Legolas muses, “Everything. What is he like? As a person, I mean. Is he kind?”
Aragorn contemplates, then answers, “He is kind. Helpful. He can be gentle, but is not always.”
Legolas hums and feeds the fire, newly born. “Is he strong?”
“In the ways that most Rangers are, yes.”
“Very tall?’
“Taller than most, I suppose.”
“Wise?”
“No. But he is practical and learned.”
Legolas smiles to himself, feeling mischievous. “Is he handsome?”
Aragorn is silent and Legolas has to turn to make sure he is still there. He is; sitting back in the shadows amongst the shrubs and logs like some ancient deity of the forest. Their eyes lock and they share a long strange look that makes Legolas feel static.
“What do you think?” Aragorn counters.
Legolas looks away, back towards the flames, suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t know,” he says. “All this time I’ve been searching for him, I’ve never pictured his face.” He considers this, then continues, “But I think that if he is a good man and as brave and honorable as my father says, then I will find him handsome no matter how he looks.”
Aragorn doesn’t say anything, just goes back to his foraging. He is as quiet as an elf, the only sounds, the soft rustling of leaves. When he returns, he sits on the opposite side of the fire, away from Legolas, and sorts his small handful of twigs and leaves; medicinal plants. They are quiet. They don’t know each other, there isn’t much to say, but Legolas wishes that there was. He has been alone during this journey, more alone than he has ever been, and he longs for connection. Aragorn, for his part, seems content to sit in silence.
“How long have you known Strider?” Legolas starts again.
Aragorn doesn’t respond, just starts packing away his findings.
“Will you introduce me to him once we are in Bree?” Legolas tries again, undeterred.
“You speak like an inquiring suitor,” Aragorn says, “Surely your king did not send you out here to find a love match.”
Legolas flushes, equal parts embarrassed and angry. “I am only making conversation,” he snaps. “And this Strider is someone we both have in common, so he is as good a topic as any.”
Aragorn is examining the arrows in his quiver now, but he pauses to raise an eyebrow at Legolas. He looks unamused. “Well, if conversation is what you want, then we may have it, but let us turn the table then. You said you did not know why you were sent to find this Man, but what do you intend to do once you’ve found him?”
Legolas is quiet for a long moment, then begins slowly, “I think…that I would ask to travel with him. You Rangers are constantly fighting off threats, although they seem to be a different sort of threat than the darkness that plagues my Wood. Perhaps there are skills I could learn from him that could be of use to my kin and I back home.”
“That is reasonable,” Aragorn says.
“My father told me that this Strider is a good Man and that he may be a great Man one day. My father does not give out praise often, so there must be much I can learn from this Ranger.”
Aragorn is studying him intensely now. “Legolas,” he says. Then, “You are King Thranduil’s son. The name rang familiar but I could not place it earlier.”
Legolas smiles, proud, “Yes, I am his son.”
Aragorn frowns, “Speak of that to no one,” he commands, “It will be difficult enough for a lone Elf out here; do not make yourself a greater target by letting it be known that you are the son of the Elvenking. Out here you will be Legolas of the Woodland Realm only.”
Legolas makes a face and Aragorn repeats with even more gravity, “Tell no one.”
“You need not repeat yourself, I am not daft,” Legolas shoots back.
“I say it only for your protection,” Aragorn counters, solemn as stone.
“I have traveled these lands for months on my own now, I need no protection.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, Legolas knows that he is being difficult, but he cannot help but feel patronized.
“Clearly.” Aragorn gets up to leave, done with him. “I am going to inspect the perimeter of this camp. Do not stray too far.” He is gone, slipped away into the forest, before Legolas can have the last word. Legolas misses him immediately. Alone again, he feels his loneliness descend around him like a fog; he resolves to be more agreeable once the ranger returns.
Hours pass and Aragorn does not return and Legolas grows restless. He takes his bow, quiver, and an orange and climbs one of the trees. He goes up as high as he can, gets to a good branch where he can look up and over the canopy at the setting sun, but still maintain a fairly clear view of the camp down below. He watches the sun set and waits.
Eventually he catches the faintest rustles of leaves and he peers down through the branches to see Aragorn enter the camp. He watches him for a while, his smooth assured movements, the glint the firelight casts on his dark hair. Aragorn is handsome, Legolas does not need to be on the ground with him to be reassured of this fact; he had noted it earlier when they were setting up camp. He has been thinking of it, unintendedly, on and off since he has been up in this tree.
Legolas starts a slow descent down. When he gets close to the ground he can smell the scent of something roasting.
“I was wondering where you went,” Aragorn greets him before he is even in view and Legolas thinks that he will never not be caught off guard by how perceptive this Ranger is. He wonders if they are all like this; so quiet in movement, so good at hearing.
Legolas drops to the ground, regards Aragorn from over the fire. “I was admiring the view.”
Aragorn hums in acknowledgement, continues carving at whatever is in his hand. Legolas tilts his head in curiosity. Aragorn sees the gesture, then reaches into his pack and tosses something toward Legolas in one smooth, easy motion. Legolas catches it with ease and examines his present. It takes him a second longer than it should to realize what it is because it is not of the usual colors found in his Wood, but there it is in his hands; an apple. A yellow color that would mark it as sickly or possibly poisonous if found in Mirkwood, but an apple all the same. Something clicks in Legolas’ mind and he frowns.
Aragorn notes his expression from where he is reclined casually against a rock and offers, “I do not care for the yellow ones either, but these are all that were on offer.”
“You visited the old woman at the fruit stand?”
Aragorn eyes him suspiciously. “Yes,” he says and nothing more.
Legolas, angry now, cuts straight to the point. “You’re Strider,” he accuses.
Aragorn is unmoved. “To some,” he says simply, “but that is not my name. I am Aragorn as I told you earlier.”
Legolas grips the apple in both hands so that he will not sling it across the camp. “You should have told me,” he admonishes, and he does not care if his tone seems biting. “I told you I was looking for Strider. You’ve been lying to me all day.”
“I’ve told you nothing untrue.”
“You withheld information. That is the same thing as lying.”
Aragorn sits up and steels him with a look that might chill anyone else, but only serves to heat Legolas’ anger further.
“You came to me saying that you were sent by the King of Mirkwood to find me. You offered no other information. Why would I trust you? Your father may be a kind and generous lord to you and your folk, but outside of your Wood he is not known to be so fair-weathered.”
It is a reasonable response but Legolas still feels slighted. “You make a fool of me,” he bites out, accusing.
Aragorn, until now so easy-going and unruffled, snaps back, “I cannot make you into what you already are.”
Legolas feels like he has been struck. He crosses his arms and stands his ground, but Aragorn, lord of the earth, is not intimidated at all. He remains seated on the ground against his rock, half a yellow apple in his hand. He does not even give Legolas the dignity of standing up so that they are face to face in their argument. It is unsettling to see a Man so unmoved by his fury; but it is slightly thrilling also.
Legolas is stubborn, but his anger is finite and Aragorn, he is realizing, is infinitely patient; he will stay right where he is and wait out the storm of Legolas’ emotion. Legolas is not going to win this fight, but he is not going to admit defeat either. Instead, he glares at Aragorn - who just lifts an eyebrow at him in response - and then turns his back and moves to the far side of the camp to sit among the shrubs and shadows. Behind his back, he thinks he hears Aragorn muffling a laugh, but when he turns his head to look, the ranger is just studiously carving the other half of his apple.
— <> —
Legolas wakes up alone at first light. As always, the first thing he does is listen for anything unusual, then rubs the sleep from his eyes and scans his surroundings. The campfire is lit, but dying down, and Aragorn is nowhere to be seen.
Legolas sits up. Last night he had relented and come back to the firelight. He had not apologized for calling Aragorn a liar and Aragorn had ignored him the rest of the night, but when it was time to sleep they had laid out their bedrolls together and slept next to each other like a quarreling old married couple. It did not seem odd last night under the darkness of trees to lay so close, but thinking about it in the light of day Legolas does find it exceedingly strange that they seem to be so at ease with each other after barely one day together.
It is just that Aragorn feels very familiar, Legolas thinks. He has a comforting presence and -
Something cracks in the forest and Legolas immediately has his bow drawn and pointed. Aragorn emerges fully into view. He has one hand raised up but his other is hovering just over his sword. A tense moment passes which breaks when Aragorn proclaims, “That is no way to say ‘good morning.’”
Legolas lowers his bow, “You startled me is all.”
Aragorn gives him a look and when Legolas meets his eyes he feels static again, this time on the back of his neck. Aragorn goes to straighten his things and Legolas decides that this is as good a time as any to make peace. He wants to be friends again, or rather, he wants to get back on the path to becoming friends. He rifles through his pack, digs out the last orange and goes to sit next to Aragorn. He places the orange neatly on the ground between them. Aragorn looks at the orange and then at Legolas and says nothing.
“It is an orange,” Legolas states.
“Clearly,” Aragorn answers and Legolas refuses to be riled up.
“It is a peace offering,” he clarifies and Aragorn says, “I did not know we were at war.”
Legolas sits up straight and looks Aragorn right in the eye. Aragorn’s eyes are as gray as rain clouds. This close, they stand out marvelously against his dark skin. Somehow, noticing his eyes tempers Legolas and he says, calmly, solemnly, “It is an apology. I am sorry for my attitude yesterday. I was rude. I also apologize for accusing you of lying. That was unworthy of you.”
Aragorn shrugs, “You are forgiven,” he says lightly, as if he had already forgiven Legolas, as if he had done that ages ago. He picks up the orange and examines it. “You got this from the witch?” he asks.
“She is not a witch,” Legolas says sternly, “She is a kind old lady. And yes, I bought these from her. In fact, she was the one who told me how to find you.”
Aragorn’s face is neutral, “Did she tell you anything else?”
“No, just that,” Legolas answers. Then, “Wait, no, there was one more thing. A message for you in fact.”
Aragorn keeps a blank face and waits for him to go on.
“She said to tell you ‘that all your doubts on the matter will be cleared by summer’s end.’” Legolas taps his lip in contemplation then says, “I have no idea what that means, but it sounds lovely.”
Aragorn frowns and Legolas chastises him, “Do not look that way. It is a nice thing to be told. I wish I had been told something similar. Sometimes I feel I am only full of doubts.”
Aragorn is dismissive. “Be glad you were only given practical advice,” he says with a wave of his hand. “The fruit vendor is a witch and she is good for potions, yes, but she fancies herself a fortune-teller also and in that regard she is nothing but false.”
Legolas feels offended on her behalf. “She told me I would find you in the wheat fields and that I would recognize you instantly and I did.” Aragorn looks skeptical, so Legolas clarifies, “I saw you the night before you found me. You were walking into the wheat fields. I had not even seen your face, but I knew it was you.”
Aragorn remains skeptical. “Like I said, you were given practical advice.”
Legolas changes the topic, “What doubts do you have?” he asks, bluntly.
“I only doubt the so-called prophecies of the witch,” Aragorn dodges smoothly. “Like I said, she only sells fantasies.”
Legolas frowns, “Well, I wish she had told me one too, even if it wasn’t real, just something nice to hope for.” Aragorn starts to peel the orange and Legolas watches his hands move; the same hands that were fisted into his hair just a day ago. They are very nice hands, large and wonderfully scarred and callused like tree bark. “What did she tell you when you saw her last?” Legolas asks again. He doesn’t care if he is being forward.
“Nothing important.” Aragorn tosses the peel into the forest and splits the fruit in half. He hands one half to Legolas.
“I bet it was something wonderful,” Legolas prompts, “but if you don’t want to tell me that is fine.” He eats one of the orange slices, looks at Aragorn out of the corner of his eye. Aragorn looks away from him, but relents.
“Later perhaps. But now it is time for us to move on.”
— <> —
Later comes that night when they are sitting around the fire in the quiet dark after their meal. They have had an agreeable second day. Legolas likes his new companion. A lot. He likes the easy stream of conversation that flows between them, the comfortable way that Aragorn lightly teases him, the ranger’s confident, frivolous-less manner. The way that he will hold back branches so that Legolas can pass through unhindered, even though Legolas comes from a world that is full of hindering-intended branches.
Legolas still wants to know what the fruit vendor told Aragorn. The fact that he was evasive and mysterious about it just makes Legolas want to know more. Aragorn can read this in Legolas' expression over the fire. He cuts all pretense and gets straight to the point.
“I will tell you,” he begins seriously, like he is beginning the recitation of a great epic, “what the witch told me. But, we will only speak of it this once, and then never again.”
Legolas feels his heart beat and something like a shiver runs down his spine. He does not know why he is suddenly so nervous to hear this thing he has been so curious about all day. He looks at Aragorn with anticipation and Aragorn meets his eyes only briefly before turning his gaze back into the fire.
“She said,'' Aragorn starts, “that I am going to ‘embark on a grand romance this year’ - her words, not mine - that I am going to meet the one I am going to marry, and that I will fall in love.” Aragorn frowns deeply, then says quickly, “It is such an embarrassingly silly, foolish, remark that I am even loathe to repeat it here.”
Legolas gasps, “And you will have no doubts of this love by summer’s end - Aragorn -” something in Legolas’ voice makes Aragon’s eyes shoot up at the mention of his name, “what a beautiful thing to have told to you,” Legolas exclaims. He feels sentimental and happy for Aragorn and jealous of him all at once.
Aragorn, Legolas is learning, is not sentimental by nature. The Ranger says, “It is a foolishness meant to prop up the dreams of young girls and the easily swooned.”
Legolas frowns, but unlike Aragorn’s his frown is not one of resentful embarrassment, only sadness and longing. “You do not want to fall in love?”
Aragorn pokes at the fire with a stick. “It is not my only goal in life, no.”
Legolas presses, “If you were to meet the love of your life right now -” Aragorn rolls his eyes and Legolas ignores him, “you would not reject them would you? I do not think that you could be that cruel.”
“If I were to meet this person out here, right now, then they would in all likelihood be a threat and up to no good, and that is no way to start a romance.”
“You know what I mean,” Legolas admonishes. Then, “You met me out here and I was not a threat.”
“You were breathing fire when I found you,” Aragorn says flippantly, but with a smile. “And this morning you were aiming to shoot me dead.”
Legolas waves the comment away with a hand, “You were creeping about in the half-dark around an Elven archer, if you had been felled by my arrow then it would be no one’s fault but your own.”
Aragorn tilts his head in consideration. “Well,” he says, “I suppose there are worse ways to be felled than by being shot through the heart by you.”
It is a dark thought, but it makes Legolas smile all the same. “You needn’t have suffered long; I always aim true.”
There is a comfortable pause, and then Legolas barrels on, “Did she tell you what your lover will look like?”
Aragorn looks cross again, “No,” he says, too quickly, “and I would not have heeded her had she done so,” then, like an afterthought, “I do not fancy myself a slave to fate.”
Legolas hums, “Well, either way, you need not be embarrassed by it. Even if it is not true it is a lovely thing to hear.” He peers into the fire and thinks about his most recent rejection. “How I wish I had been told something similar.”
“Surely you have no shortage of suitors in your homeland.”
Legolas sighs, says, “I have never been lucky with love,” and Aragorn looks slightly surprised to hear that. Legolas has had suitors, yes, and he has even pursued others on occasion, but no one he has ever been interested in has returned his affections. Others are attracted to Legolas because he is particularly fair - it is a fact and Legolas does not consider himself vain for acknowledging that - but the trouble always arises when they get to know him on a personal level. Legolas is an unusual Elf, at least in the Woodland Realm, in the sense that he is just too much. He is too curious, too emotional, too interested in the outside world, too fanciful. Those are just some of the things has been told he is too much of.
But Legolas doesn’t want to think about himself anymore. Before Aragorn can follow up with any questions, he asks him, “Have you ever been in love?”
Aragorn keeps his answer as vague as Legolas’, “I have had relationships and feelings for others, yes.”
Legolas wants to know more about these relationships, about Aragorn. Actually, he wants to know everything about Aragorn. Who has he loved? Where has he been? What does he dream? What does he like? Does he like Legolas?
But right now, he just cannot get over it: “Aragorn,” he says dreamily and Aragorn instantly turns his full attention on him, “You are going to embark on a grand romance.” Instead of skeptical, something in Aragorn’s expression now seems to read as fear, but why he should fear anything, Legolas does not know. Legolas lays on his back on the ground and admits, “I am jealous.” It is true. He is. Aragorn is destined to be loved and Legolas is destined to be loveless. He looks at the stars that are visible between the tree leaves and sighs.
There is a long pause, then Aragorn says tentatively, “You are surprisingly sentimental for an Elf, but then again I have not met many Woodelves.”
“Have you met many Elves?”
“Yes, I was raised by them in Imladris.”
This both surprises and doesn’t surprise Legolas. He comments, “Then that explains why you are so Elf-like.”
"I suppose,” Aragorn responds, then asks, “Then what is it that makes you so human-like?”
“I am nothing at all like Men,” Legolas deflects.
And Aragorn doesn’t pursue the matter. And they are silent for a long time. Legolas turns his head to look at the Ranger through the flames and catches him staring. He could ask Aragorn what he is looking at, but that is obvious, so instead he asks, “What are you thinking?”
Something passes across Aragorn’s face, something serious, and he hesitates just a moment before answering. “I was only thinking,” he says neutrally, “that I like you like this.”
Legolas feels his heart beat faster. “On the ground?”
“No,” Aragorn quickly answers, and Legolas thinks that he can make out the faintest touch of color on the Rangers face. “I meant quiet,” Aragorn clarifies roughly and Legolas scowls. He has not said a snide word all day and he might have been tempted to do so now, but Aragorn looks at him with such gentle affection that it makes Legolas want to get up and hug him and hold his hand and kiss him. And even though they have not known each other long, there is something so right about that thought…
“Tell me about Bree,” Legolas asks. His face feels warm and he can still feel his heart beating hard in his chest.
Aragorn tells him matter-of-factly, “They do not like Rangers in Bree and they will not like Elves either.”
That warning should make him feel apprehensive or unnerved, but for some reason it doesn’t matter to Legolas. He catches Aragorn’s eye. “Then I guess we will have to like each other,” he replies.
Aragorn shrugs, smiles, “Then I guess we shall.”