A party of elves were huddled in the trees by the side of the Old Elf road, one of their number in great distress. Another lifted his head, and the eyes of the youngest of the three widened. It was an Elven king, a wood elf. He bowed none the less, as did Elladan and Elrohir beside him, and then he began in rapid-fire Sindarin, much to the surprise of the Wood Elves.

“What has happened here? Do you need any help? Just tell us which way the filthy orcs went, and I’ll dispatch the brutes for you.”

“The orcs are closing in!” an archer warned.

The king clutched his badly bleeding arm, blood was spurting from it at an alarming rate, but his concern lay only for the elleth who lay beside him.

“A human speaks our tongue?” the king’s personal guard noted in surprise.

“I am Estel, son of Elrond. These are my brothers Elladan and Elrohir.”

“Elrond of Rivendell?” the king asked.

Estel nodded. “The same.”

“An orc arrow struck my arm and tore right through. It then hit my wife. Please, she needs help.” Elladan at once pressed a spare shirt from his saddlebag to the king’s arm, pressing down firmly. The king had also been hit in the leg and shoulder, the orc arrows embedded deeply in his flesh. “Keep fighting. You must . . .” The king sank slightly, loss of blood making him faint. “Never mind me, my wife . . .”

“Hold still, your majesty,” Elladan told him. “This wound is severe. I must hold it firmly, or you will die.”

“My wife,” the king said, breathily. “Our unborn . . .”

“I can help,” Estel said, totally un-phased by the noise all around them. “Adar taught me.”

“Lord Elrond is a great healer, but you are only a lhi. My wife is dying, but there is no time to get her to him or even to get her home.”

Estel put away his hunting knife and stepped boldly forward. “I am well versed in herb lore, adar taught me. I may be young but perhaps I can . . .help?” Estel looked down at the queen and his voice died.

The orc arrow was sticking out of the elleth’s side and a dead horse lay nearby, having rolled into the ditch at the side of the road. Estel knelt beside the queen, who was now unconscious. There was blood everywhere, and the queen was as white as he had ever seen anyone who was still counted among the living. He knelt and touched her face with his fingers and the pulse point of her throat. “She is already dead.”

The king whimpered, “What does a child know?”

But Estel was not finished. He recalled watching a mare being cut to save a foal. Elrond had wanted him to see the birth, but days before it was due the mare had fallen ill, and Elrond had to intervene. “Your majesty, we do not have time to argue.”

“Estel, the unborn. Its voice is fading.” Elladan did not doubt the little boy’s faith, or his abilities. Even at six years old, he was far advanced for his age.

Estel nodded at the voice over his shoulder.

“There is nothing you can do,” said Elrohir, identical to Elladan, but not so quick to understand his twin’s faith.

“There is,” Estel persisted. “Just keep the orcs away and give me room,” he said, remembering the words his adar had said in the stable. He did not have time for hot water, or a sterile knife. What he had would have to do.

The wounded king could do nothing but watch as Estel took hold of the silk robes that adorned his wife and tear them open to reveal the swollen belly. There was no one else, he had to do this, a life was at stake. The elves were busy staving off another attack, and his brother was busy trying to keep the king alive. Those actions were successful for now, but would his task be? The king knew there was no choice, but a child . . .?

The little boy could see the child moving about inside its mother and is heart went out to the dying baby. It was alive but would not remain so for long. His hand could feel the desperate struggles within the dead elleth’s body. “I can do this,” he whispered.

He dodged an arrow without thinking and drew a boot knife and thread from his tunic. All around him, arrows flew, cries rose and combatants fell. Estel knew the time to act was now and almost without thinking he began to cut the flesh.

Elrohir stood behind him, his bow unceasing in its action; reach-draw-release-reach-draw-release. Estel pulled the child free and lifted him up. Its little mouth was open in a soundless scream, very different from the birth of the foal, he noted. He quickly lay the infant in Thranduil’s free arm and cuts the cord. Tying the cord as he saw his adar do to the foal he gazed down at it. It was alive, but why wasn’t it making any sound? It was then he noticed that not all the blood on the infant was from his dead mother. There was a cut in the baby’s throat, like a mouth that should not have been there . . .it was a cut that he had made . . Valar! What have I done?

Estel did not hesitate. Plucking athelas sprigs from his tunic pocket he chewed it and pressed it to the open wound, knitting the edges of the wound together almost instantly. He heard his brother’s gasp beside him, but did not look up, nor question what he did next.

Bending close to kiss the baby’s forehead, Elladan whispered, “Let the grace of the elves of Fingolfin bless this child. Let him live.”

Although the elves watching are horrified by the injury the realisation that the king’s son had been saved was foremost on their minds. They would not forget that Estel, son of Elrond, had saved the life of the heir.

“You saved him,” the king spoke. “My gratitude . . .”

“The orcs are driven off, My Lord,” his aide broke in. “We must retreat now, while we can.” At once he took the time to tend to the king’s wounds, drawing the arrows out and binding the wounds. He nodded to Elladan as together they staunched the bleeding from the arm and wrapped the limb with the shirt. “Thank you,” he said.

At that moment a chirruping came from above their heads as a squirrel in the tree threw down its bedding in disgust, as if to complain at their noise and disturbance. The bunch of green leaves fell on the infant and he blinked and stopped the silent, unnatural cries. The king smiled. “I shall name him after this moment. My son’s name is Legolas, the fresh green foliage.”

The three brothers watched the Wood Elves make preparations to return to the palace, Estel and Elladan both drenched in blood. As the queen’s blood still dripped from his hands, her body was covered and borne away. He did not expect any thanks, the queen had died, after all, and his wounding of the babe warranted no thanks. But, finally the king turned to him.

“Estel, son of Elrond, I give you this, the brooch of my house. If ever you travel through my realms again, my people will know you are a friend to me, and my son will call you brother.”

Estel watched him pin the mithril and jade beech leaf to his tunic and knew he had to speak out. “Your majesty, I cut . . .”

“You saved my son’s life,” the king put in. “And for that, you are my son’s First Sword. He will grow up knowing who you are.”

Estel felt bad. He eyed the reward he thought he didn’t deserve. What would adar think? he wondered silently. He believed Elrond would accept it and be grateful that the child had been born alive. He had been sad when the mare had been lost, but the foal had been saved and he had told Estel that it was reward enough to have acted at once and not left them both to die. Estel smiled then, and watched the Wood Elves vanish into the distance.

Elrohir and Elladan had already cleaned themselves as best they could and remounted. Estel followed suit, taking a water pouch from his saddle bags and rinsed the blood off his hands. That done, he climbed into the saddle and together they rode off in the opposite direction, towards the Misty Mountains.

“Elladan, again, you are the wisest of us. Estel, I should not have doubted you.” Elrohir congratulated.

Estel smiled, fingering the brooch pinned to his lapel. “It was nothing, Elrohir.” Suddenly brightening, he said, “Do you think Adar will be proud of me? Do you think we will see the baby Wood Elf again?”

Elladan grimaced. “The first, yes, if we can convince adar not to tan our hides for bringing you so far from home.”

“As for seeing the infant again, who can say?” Elrohir finished. “Let us hope so, terein. I, too, would like to know how he fairs.”

Upon their return to Imladris, Elrond listened to the tale of the queen and the saving of an elfling. “Truly, you were brave and resourceful, my youngest.” Elrond bestowed him with his warmest smile. “It seems you took more note of the incident with the mare than I had thought . . .and even I would have thought twice of using such a technique on a woman,” he admitted.

Estel swallowed. “But does it really deserve this great gift?” he asked. “I cut the baby, as well.”

“Did the child live?”

“Yes, adar. He lived. I gave him athelas and healed his wound.”

“Then you truly deserve the honour accorded you, First Sword to the heir of Mirkwood. You have made me proud. Now, go and find your mother and eat.” He kissed the dark curl-festooned head and watched him run off happily. Elrond lifted his eyes to his other sons. Elladan and Elrohir stood to one side, waiting for the wrath of their father, but it did not come. Elrond rose from his desk and regarded them evenly.

“You are waiting to be scolded, and but rights you should be,” he told them. He saw them both flinch, but shook his head. “Estel is very precious to me, my last hope. The last hope of this ravaged world, and is therefore not to be put into such danger as well you know, but . . .even as you defied my word, taking an innocent lhi into possible harm, I am proud of you.” Elladan’s and Elrohir’s eyes rose to his in surprise. “He has gained a vital connection between our two peoples. The link between House of Eärendil and the House of Thranduil would not have been forged easier or as well any other way. I also know that the child you saved is vital to Estel’s future, their fates are intertwined. One will not survive without the other. What better way to heal old hurts between our two peoples?” Elrond smiled with amusement. “You may both relax now, before you do yourselves an injury.”

His son’s both released a breath and smiled widely.

“Scrawny little elfling!” one spat at him. “Not much meat on you, is there?”

One of the dwarves poked at the little elfling lingering by the door. He mouthed an ouch, and the dwarf watched with satisfaction as tears filled his eyes. “Oh, look. It’s a mute!”

“More like mutt. It’s only dogs that can’t speak,” muttered another. “Here doggy, doggy. Want a nice juicy bone?”

“Pah, the stupid elf is probably brainless. A cabbage!” the dwarf supposed. “Elves are soft, keeping this little scrap alive.”

Legolas sniffed back the tears and ran away, hearing their jeers echoing down the tunnel towards his father’s throne room. He followed out of sight, and heard his father order them to be locked up. He was pleased in a way, but in another he was not pleased at all. They smelled funny, like dirty swords and cleaning oil, and they were still in the palace.

He climbed up into his father’s lap, giving him a big hug and sat there for a while, listening to the boring banter of adult talk before drifting off to sleep. He awoke with a start.

“My lord! News from Dol Guldur!”

Word had arrived from Gandalf in the form of a short note, which the king read at once. It did not look good, in fact it looked worse than they had feared. The king rose from his seat as he read the message written in haste.

“Findolas!”

“Yes, my lord?” the aide came at once.

“Send word to every home and habitation. Get the ellaeth with lhaes out of Mirkwood at once.”

Findolas looked at him, for a moment stunned. “What is it, my lord?”

“An unspeakable menace. Hurry, send as many soldiers as you can to guard them.”

“But my lord, there are more ellaeth and lhaes than there are soldiers. You will be left unguarded.”

The king nodded gravely. “I know, but they are our future. They are helpless to defend themselves. Without them, all those souls in Mandos . . .” He could not finish the thought. “Hurry, the quicker they are across the mountains, the better I will rest.”

Findolas gazed down at the elfling at the kings feet. “My lord . . .your son . . .”

The king looked down at Legolas all arms, eyes and big tears rolling down his cheeks. “Take him with you,” he said and lifted the child up to pass him to his aide. Suddenly the child’s mouth opened into a scream, arms reaching for him as the aide walked away. Big round eyes beseeched him.

“Wait,” the king’s voice trembled. Findolas turned and the boy wriggled out of his grasp. He lowered him to the floor and the boy ran to his father, again wrapping himself around his leg.

“My lord,” Findolas spoke softly. “I think it best if he stays with you. There is no one close to him that he trusts who can understand his needs. If it be within you to grant, allow my wife to remain behind to care for him.”

The king nodded reluctantly, gazing down at the sobbing lhi, clinging tightly to his leg. Again her lifted him up and settled him against his shoulder where he instantly fell into a fitful sobbing. There was no way he could hurt the lhi any further. Legolas would stay with him.

Later Thranduil watched his city empty and wondered if he would see any of them again. Remaining behind was a garrison of just four hundred archers, plus those already fighting the Necromancer in Dol Guldur. It would be several nights before he would remember the dwarves locked up in his dungeons.

Legolas lay in his cot, slowly waking up. As lhaes went he was small for his age, but bright and always with a ready smile, and greatly admired for his hair. He was almost unique amongst the wood elves, his golden hair a rarity. Since the Wood Elves split away from the main groups of elves travelling West, their hair had gradually taken on the colour of the majority. Occasionally there were throwbacks, and Legolas was one such elf. Legolas had heard that term several times, but did not know what it meant.

He looked around his room, watching a small shadow cross the floor beneath the lamplight. The shadow stopped moving. Suddenly, a little man appeared and Legolas jumped. The face was friendly, but it was a surprise nonetheless.

“Hello,” the little man spoke.

Legolas looked up at him, and smiled.

“My name is Bilbo Baggins. You’re the littlest fellow I have seen in this place. And what a little fellow you are,” he exclaimed softly. “What is your name?”

“Legolas,” the elfling mouthed.

“Legolas?” Bilbo replied. The elfling nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Legolas,” Bilbo smiled and clasped his shoulder in elf fashion. “Now, I am wondering why you were left behind.”

Legolas sat up, looking towards the door as a woman entered. Legolas looked back at his new friend, but he was gone.

“Hungry, Legolas?”

The small boy nodded.

“I’ve brought you some nice things to eat. And make sure you drink your milk, there’s a good boy,” the woman told him and left without another word.

Legolas watched the door close, a sad look in his eye.

“Don’t they let you out side to play?”

Legolas jumped.

“Sorry,” the little man said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Bilbo smiled and sat down beside him and eyed the plate. It looked like a whole day’s food for such a little mite. He had been watching the boy for days, and the only one who paid him any mind was his father. The maid was nice enough, but not very interested in him. “Poor thing,” Bilbo thought aloud. “It’s a pity I couldn’t take you with me, but I’m on a very dangerous mission. Only thing is, I’m lost in these caves and I don’t think I shall ever find a way out.”

Legolas held up a piece of chicken to Bilbo.

“For me?”

Legolas nodded, stuffing it into Bilbo’s mouth. Finally Bilbo realised just how hungry he really was, but after three pieces of chicken he decided to let the boy have the rest. He had been right, hours went by and the boy had slept for many more, before the maid came again with food.

The boy was more or less forgotten in the two rooms he inhabited. His father, a loving elf, was too busy with the evacuation and the war and the dwarves to remember a little boy, although he did visit once or twice.

Bilbo had wandered around the cave city, learning the tunnels and where the rooms are, the little boy trotting beside him wide-eyed, but silent. It came to him that he had to give the boy something in return.

“Today we are going to play a new game.” Bilbo watched him turn for the door. “No, we aren’t going to explore today. I’m going to teach you to speak.”

Legolas turned to look at him at once. There was a wisdom in those eyes that went far beyond his years. And at that angle, Bilbo caught sight of the scar on his throat, it was a pink line, nothing more. It was hardly noticeable except at certain angles of the light. The boy was concerned, afraid, and a lot of other things.

“Your father can’t keep you hidden forever,” Bilbo said. “One day you will want to see the great forest and climb every tree in sight, dip your toes in the stream or run through the meadows like all the other children.”

Legolas smiled and sat down in front of the hobbit and crossed his legs. Bilbo smiled.

“Let’s see, we’ll start with something simple.” He pressed his hand to his chest. “Me.” The boy got it all wrong, but Bilbo was a patient hobbit, and just as he had suspected, elves were fast learners, especially an inquiring mind like this little one. The elfling was giggling silently as he practiced the sign for his name, Green Leaf. Bilbo chuckled along with him, so loudly that Legolas suddenly looked up, startled at something beyond Bilbo’s hearing range.

The boy stood up and Bilbo slipped his ring on again, just as the doors opened. The maid stepped into the room with food.

“Who is in here with you, Legolas?” she asked. Her voice was kindly, but indifferent.

Legolas looked around him and sent a quizzical gaze up at her. Bilbo smiled, clever lad.

“I heard laughter,” she said as she set the tray down. “Unless you have some magic potion than can make you normal, you have someone hiding in here.”

Legolas smarted at her words, and his shoulders sank further and further as she searched through his rooms. Legolas could see the little shadow beneath the lamp, and was afraid she would take his only friend away.

Finally she gave up and left. The room was a mess, and Legolas was standing in the middle of the room in tears. Bilbo slipped the ring into his pocket and went up to him, drying his tears with his fingers.

“Now, now,” he said softly. “You take no notice of old Iron-Draws Lobelia. You are as normal as the rest of us. Understand?”

Legolas suddenly collapsed into giggles. Bilbo smiled, and chuckled a little to see him giggling. “What is so funny? What? Iron-Draws Lobelia?”

Legolas nodded, laughing all the harder. Bilbo would have laughed along with him, except for the fact that the ‘iron-draws lobelia’ that he was thinking of sobered him with a shudder. “Well, we better get some food in you, then we can tidy up, alright?”

Legolas nodded.

For many days, Bilbo played and talked with the boy, teaching him signs and wandering the halls with him, learning the layout of the tunnels. If it had not been for Legolas, Bilbo would never have come up with the cunning plan to escape.

“Am I stupid, Bilbo,” Legolas asked him one day.

It was to be their final day. Bilbo was certain the boy knew that, and had been more subdued than usual. “No, my boy. You are not stupid. Whoever told you that?”

“A dwarf called me stupid,” Legolas replied.

“Well, Legolas. Dwarves are funny creatures, to be sure, but I don’t think he meant it like that. At least, I hope not, or I shall give him what-for. Sometimes a knock or two makes us stronger. You see, dwarves don’t like elves much. I don’t know why. It’s a very long story, I’m sure, but the most important thing is that you are not stupid. Sometimes people say things to others that they meet who are different. You are different because you cannot speak. I am different because I am so small.”

Legolas’ eyes narrowed as he peered at him. “You are not so small to me,” he told him.

Bilbo smiled. “Well, no, perhaps not, but I am small compared to your father.”

For a long moment, Legolas remained silent, looking at him. “You are leaving.”

Bilbo swallowed. “Yes, my boy. I must leave soon.”

Legolas hugged him tightly, and Bilbo swallowed in an effort not to cry. “Sometimes the hardest things in life are for the best,” he told the little boy. “You must be strong and brave, be like your father. He is a good man - elf,” he corrected. “But sometimes grown-ups make mistakes. My being here was a mistake, but it turned out to be a happy one. I met you. And no matter where our paths take us, our friends will always be right here,” he touched the boy’s heart and smiled. He kissed the top of the golden head and watched him yawn tiredly.

Lifting him into his arms he took him to the bed and laid him down, covering him with a blanket. Elf children slept with their eyes closed, he had noted more than once, and wondered at what age, like thumb-sucking, they grew out of it. Legolas sucked his thumb as well, Bilbo noted as he smiled down at him, and his little arm was curled around a little bear that reminded him of Beorn. That memory seemed so old now, and he wasn’t even sure how long he had been inside the palace.

As much as his heart ached, he had to leave. And tonight was his only chance. It was with mixed feelings that he left the elven city behind, never having had the chance to say goodbye.

He had met him once in Rivendell when he was about ten years of age and had talked with him at length on the uses of willow wood, especially the making of elven bows, and of pipe weed, which he had found fascinating. Elrond was less than pleased. Aragorn smiled, remembering his temper.

He had met up again with the old hobbit eight years ago, and the story he told of Gollum was no less potent than the wizard’s recitation. The hobbit shuddered, at times, his lips quivering. Hobbits might have been small, but they were stout-hearted and not easily troubled. If anything, that made the story that much more frightening.

Aragorn kept walking, searching and seeing nothing. Gandalf was nearby, he could hear him muttering his frustrations under his breath. Suddenly even those fell silent. Aragorn thought nothing of it, since the wizard was apt to fall silent, often in the middle of an important sentence, much to the annoyance of the listener.

Mirkwood was beautiful at this time of year, in fact was beautiful at any time of year, but especially in the autumn. The birds were singing the last choruses before flying south, and the deer were beginning to rut in the distance.

Suddenly a hand pressed to his lips, not so much to silence, but to warn. Something approached, and something smelled foul. A dark head passed by, unaware of his presence, and then two more. Orcs! As swiftly as they had arrived the fingertips left his lips and an elf uncurled himself from the far side of a beech tree. Wordlessly, he beckoned him to follow.

Aragorn was astonished, and could do little more than stare at him and stumble after him. This was one beautiful elf, golden-haired and creamy complexioned.

“Where did you come from? We are not within a hundred leagues of Lorien,” Aragorn gasped.

The elf pressed a finger to his lips. “Shsh,” he said and beckoned him on. Aragorn followed, frowning with curiosity. This was no wood elf, and yet he was dressed as one of them. But what struck him the most was that he was silent. True, elves were the quietest of creatures. You could make camp among their hiding places for a week and move on again never knowing that they were there. But there was quiet and there was silent.

Suddenly the elf pulled him into a thicket and gazed about them, making sure they had not been seen. The elf turned, frowning at the feel of a brooch beneath his palm. Aragorn noted his interest and covered it with his hand, he could understand the elf’s surprise. It was an elven symbol of brotherhood, not usually found on the lapel of a man’s jerkin.

The elf pointed to it, trying to push his hand away. Aragorn frowned, but resisted his hand's request.

“It is not for barter, my friend,” he told him. “It was gifted to me by the King of Mirkwood, himself. So I would not remove it if I were you.” He doubted that the elf would really attempt to steal it, the Wood Elves were often of a different mind than the High Elves . . .that is, if this was a Wood Elf. His colouring was all wrong. “Tell me, what is your name, and what are you doing so far from Lothlórien?”

The elf tipped his head to one side, regarding him with what Aragorn recognised as amusement.

“Speak,” Aragorn commanded. “The orcs are well out of hearing range.”

The amusement was gone in an instant. The elf rested a hand across his own mouth.

Aragorn gazed at him in sudden understanding and finally the hand fell away from his tunic. “You are mute?”

The elf nodded, and again pointed to the brooch on his clothing, the fingers caressed the mithril and jade piece with a delicate sweep and then pressed the hand to his chest. Aragorn frowned, not understanding. The elf pointed to himself and the brooch, and finally it dawned on Aragorn that there was a connection between the two.

“You are . . .Legolas . . .” he gasped.

Legolas smiled widely and with no warning enveloped him in a hug. Aragorn, taken by surprise suddenly laughed and returned the gesture. When they parted Aragorn regarded him with no small amount of pleasure.

“I never thought for a minute that I would ever see you again, I mean I hoped I would. And look at you, you are taller than me, now. Full grown and a bowman to the king, your father.” Legolas stood proudly and nodded. Aragorn laughed again, “My brother-in-spirit, it is good to see you again.” he clasped his shoulder and Legolas did likewise.

Legolas began to sign things to him and Aragorn noted their complexity; it bore the distinctive lilt of a small child just learning to speak, but who had then suddenly ended his learning and never progressed. The last symbol was most definitely un-elvish. It spoke more of hobbit than Sindarin. A hand covered Legolas’ left index finger and then clasped his throat. Ring-Bond.

“Gollum,” Aragorn said. “Yes, I am seeking him.” He had to ask. “Who taught you to sign? This is not an elf skill.”

Legolas told him of his friend during the lonely days of his childhood, called Bilbo, and the deepening loneliness that followed when he had vanished. He noted, with a wistful look, that he hoped he was safe, but that he doubted that he was still alive.

“Oh, he is still alive,” Aragorn told him. “Bilbo lives in Rivendell. He is old, but speaks often of his time in your father’s house, as often as people will listen actually,” he added ruefully.

Legolas threw back his head in silent laughter. Aragorn caught a glimpse of a tiny white scar on his throat and winced. There was no doubting this was Legolas, the infant he had saved, and there was no doubting why he was mute. Aragorn turned away, not wanting to reveal his anger to the elf.

Too late, Legolas saw the look of horror on the man’s face, but it was gone as fleetingly as the tears that stung the man’s eyes. His brow creased a little, but he said nothing of it.

“Why do you call me Estel?” Aragorn asked, changing the subject.

“My adar said that was your name,” Legolas replied.

Aragorn smiled. “My childhood name, given to me by Elrond.”

“Your adar,” Legolas signed.

Aragorn shook his head. “He cared for me as a father would, but my father’s name was Arathorn. I never knew my father. He was killed by orcs when I was still an infant.”

“Like my naneth,” Legolas responded.

There was a long silence between them as they walked together. “We shall have to create a sign for Aragorn,” the man decided at last. “Calling me Estel is the place of only one to whom my heart belongs. It is unseemly for you to call me that, despite your place at my side as my brother.”

Legolas nodded his agreement and understanding.

Aragorn thought long and hard. Then he drew his thumb nail across his brow, a symbol of royalty, “Ara.” Then, crossing his thumbs he drew his hands upward like the spreading of branches, a symbol of a tree, “Orn. Aragorn, the royal tree,” he said. “That is my name.”

Legolas practiced it a time or two and nodded. “I like it,” he said. “More?”

“You want more signs?” He noted Legolas’ eager nod. “I think that would be a good idea. It has been many years since you were taught those simple signs. It is time to teach you some more adult ones.” Legolas lowered his eyes, suddenly looking embarrassed. Aragorn chuckled softly. “Not that adult, little brother.”

As his time in the Woodland Realm drew to a close, Legolas was at a loss to see him go. Aragorn could tell by the rounding of his enlarged eyes that he was close to tears, but his pride alone prevented them falling.

“We will meet again,” Aragorn assured him.

Legolas clasped his shoulder when all he wanted was to hold him, and never let him leave. Aragorn could hear his breath rasping through his nose in measured breaths, knowing that if he were to open his mouth and whisper what he wanted to say, the tears would begin. Legolas clamped his jaws shut and kept his hands silent.

Aragorn nodded imperceptibly. He knew that once he was gone, Legolas would return to that lonely place he had inhabited before his arrival. Who among his kin would understand or care to learn his language?

“Your majesty,” Aragorn spoke to Thranduil. “I hope we will meet again. I have one request of you before I leave.”

“Name it, brother of my only son.”

“I leave you now to go to the Shire, where dwells the last known bearer of the Ring, sworn enemy of Gollum. If it is the One Ring, we will be in need of skills to protect its passage back to the Fires of Doom. Legolas is the one I would wish for by my side, for it is my intention to take up my place on the Quest to destroy it."

Thranduil remained silent for a long time. “I do not want to lose my son to the orcs, Aragorn, and for that I want him gone far from this realm before the war begins.” Legolas stepped forward to speak, but his father held up a hand to stop him from speaking. “Please, let me finished, my beloved son. You mean more to me than life itself. I put you at risk once before and I will not do so again. If the forces of Dol Guldur rise again, I do not want you here. I need my heir safe, and there is no safer place to be for you than by Aragorn’s side. I would not separate you and he any longer than is necessary. What father could separate his sons? No, Legolas, you will not fight to save Mirkwood. Who will Lord Elrond choose to accompany the Ring bearer?” he asked the Ranger.

“I do not know,” Aragorn replied. “As yet I do not know who the Ring Bearer is, but I intend to volunteer my aid to whomever the council chooses. If it is my choice I would choose Legolas to be with me, but it must be his choice. Please allow Legolas to choose for himself. He is of age.”

Legolas leaned in close to him and whispered as loudly as his voice would allow. “I will be there.”

Thranduil reluctantly agreed.

The white-haired hobbit looked up and up, dropped his drink and pipe and smiled widely. “Legolas?” Bilbo cried, in astonishment. “My, how you have grown!”

Legolas grinned and nodded. He signed to him.

“Thank you for the hours of fun. I am glad you got out alright,” Bilbo translated the gestures. Bilbo grinned. “Oh, if it wasn’t for you,” Bilbo replied. “I would still be wandering around those confounded tunnels. Legolas, this is my nephew, Frodo. Frodo, this is Legolas, son of the king of Mirkwood. You know, the one I told you about? This is the little elfling I met . . .not so little now, it seems.”

Frodo stood up and smiled. “How do you do, Legolas?” Legolas held out his hand and they shook in hobbit style.

“Very well, thank you,” came the reply.

“Wow, you didn’t learn those signs from me, Legolas,” Bilbo enthused. “Come, join us, Legolas. Tell Frodo all about the antics we got up to.”

Behind Legolas, Aragorn was smiling, watching them hug and talk together, one signing, the other talking.

“Do they know each other?” Elrond asked.

“Apparently, they do,” Aragorn mused. “I have never seen Legolas so restful as he is now.”

All through the Council Legolas’ aide translated his signs to the summoned host, but it did not sit well with all those attending. Aragorn sighed and shook his head several times, when a sign was translated incorrectly, and Legolas had to repeat several key points. Legolas was becoming annoyed, even though the aide seemed to be trying his best, he was also making deliberate attempts to embarrass the disabled prince. Aragorn was certain of it after the sixth mistake.

Legolas slapped the elf beside him in barely concealed annoyance and repeated the sign. Again, he said it wrong. Aragorn huffed out a breath. “The word if Ring-Bond, Gollum, not ‘my wife’. Lord Elrond, with respect, but this elf is doing this on purpose . . .”

“Lord Elrond,” Boromir spoke up. “I question the importance of a deaf elf’s presence here. What good is an elf who cannot hear? We might as well have a mole for a look out!”

Legolas was at once on his feet chin to chin with the man, glare to worried look. “Impudent pup,” Legolas whispered. With that he nudged the man back into his seat and returned to his own. Boromir did not speak again for some time.

The dwarves were less than eager to capitulate. Glòin was on his feet almost before Legolas was off his. “I have been to Mirkwood, and I have been within the palace walls, and I question the truth to his claim to be the heir of Mirkwood,” he called. “If you were the son of Thranduil, I would know you. I was there, 60 years ago, and Thranduil had no son. It is well known that no child has been conceived there in decades, that all the children of Mirkwood fled at the time of invasion of Dol Guldur. I know these things. I was there.” Glòin turned to Legolas with an accusatory glare. “This whelp is an impostor!”

Legolas, his aid and several other Mirkwood elves jumped to their feet at the insinuation, but it was Aragorn who spoke first. “I know this elf, I was there at his birth. I delivered him of his mother during an orc attack on the Old Elf Road. I can vouch for his claim.”

“Oh, really?” Gimli spoke up. “And I suppose you fathered him as well?” To which there was laughter from the dwarfs behind him, and livid glares from the rest of the forum.

“Enough, Gimli, son of Glòin,” Elrond roared. “I know this is Legolas, son of Thranduil.”

Several others, including Gandalf, put in their own 2-silver coins worth, all talking at once. The council was descending rapidly into anarchy. Legolas was getting more annoyed as more people began to speak for him. Suddenly he waved his hands wildly about, pushing several elves into their seats before he could regain a measure of attention and quiet. He made four signs and dropped his hands.

Aragorn sighed softly. “I am sorry, Legolas. It was rude of me.”

“Forgive me, Prince Legolas, but I do not understand the signs," Glorfindel said. "Could you please tell us what you just said?”

Legolas' eyes flitted to Aragorn, and there followed a small nod of permission.

“Legolas speaks for himself,” Aragorn replied. Legolas said something else, realising that some of them would not understand the signs that he and Aragorn devised together. As Legolas began again, Aragorn translated for him.

“I remember you,” Legolas addressed Glòin, “You were the one to poked me like an animal for your own enjoyment, but I am not the pushover I was at the age of 3 years, to be frightened by an adult who should have known better. Your cruelty has made me strong, and for that I am grateful. You also brought with you the best friend a child could ever hope for, Bilbo Baggins, and for that, too, I am grateful. A greater being than any other, is a hobbit of the Shire, mark my words well, for they will come true.”

Glòin was speechless. Gimli had no choice but to bow to him and sat down.

Elrond sighed and sat down at his desk. "I have my doubts . . .about sending Gimli in a fellowship that includes a handicapped elf. Relations between the two races being what they are will be compounded by the dwarf belief that disabilities and disfigurements are born of evil spirits and any contact with a being ‘infested’ with these evil spirits means being infected yourself."

Galdalf slowly nodded. "But it can also be the founding of an understand between your two peoples," he noted. "Was it not an incident so simple as the saving of a newborn child that brought peace between the Silvan and Wood Elf tribes?"

Elrond lifted his eyes to his old friend and slowly smiled, but the smile was grim. "It may take a little more than saving a child to heal this wound, Gandalf."

"My old friend, do not doubt Aragorn's wisdom. He will be able to deal with anything that the journey has to offer, and whatever nastiness old hatred's bring out. Do not doubt him too soon. The fate of all the countries and tribes of Middle Earth are riding on this Fellowship, and before long, even though the part that the Silvan and High Elves will play is still unclear, you, too, will have a hand in it's success. No, do not doubt this decision. Aragorn knows he is in for a long journey and he knows how to keep tempers under control."

"Oh, I do not doubt Aragorn's ability to handle Gimli's bitter tongue. I am more concerned about Gimli's ability to cope with Legolas' fiercely independent spirit."

"Gimli will learn of it, or he might find himself on the receiving end of a temper far more terrible than your own. No doubt, so will Boromir." Gandalf began to chuckle wickedly and Elrond smiled with amusement.

Elrond watched them leave by the gate and his heart sank, but then rose again as a thought occurred to him. Aragorn was not alone. Gandalf was right. He turned to gaze at the banner of Arnor, bearing the symbol of the ring of Barahir circled by the three stars of Numeanor.

"My brother . . ." he whispered.

He turned to were his sons stood by the portico watching the gate close behind the Fellowship. "Do not lock the gates," he called out.

The twins turned to him at once. "Adar?"

They watched in surprise as Elrond crossed to the banner and drew it from its perch. "Take this. Muster the men of the North Kingdom and return here as soon at the entire land had seen the banner of the king."

"Adar?" Elladan asked again.

"The time has come when Aragorn will need all the help we can give him. We must be ready."

Elladan held up the banner watching it catch the wind and dance to its cause, and not for the first time his heart ached for the loss of his little brother, yet another little brother. But this time the ache of loss had an edge of hope. "We ride north."

Elladan and Elrohir rode for several days, light conversation filled the time for the first few hours, after that, as they entered the lands of Arnor, companionable silence grew between them. There was little need for words, their minds focused on their task.

Elladan opened the banner of Arnor and let the wind carry it aloft, flying it above their heads as they rose. The sun lit up the colours like a beacon to the land. The time had come.

Far from the road, ten pairs of eyes lifted from a quiet contemplative stare at the ground, ears having picked up the steady thrum of horses hooves. The group of burly Numenoreans looked up from their meagre campfire to a sight never before seen. Across the wilds rode two golden beings on white horses; the beings were so fair they could only have been elves and the horses were so beautiful they could only have been Mearas.

One man rose before the others, but all eyes watched them ride passed in the distance. "Was not Aragorn, son of Arathorn, raised in Rivendell, like his fathers before him?"

"Aye," said another. And is that not the banner of Arnor?" said the second who now joined him on his feet.

"The king calls!" the first man cried. "Do we follow him?"

The elves before them did not stop, being beyond even their earshot of the camp they did not know that their passing had been witnessed at all. On they rode across the fells and heath lands of Arnor, the banner of kings fluttering above their heads. It was many days before their road again turned towards Rivendell. And not one human had they seen, anywhere.

Elrohir finally broke the long silence as they made for home. "Are you sure this was such a good idea?"

Elladan peered over his shoulder and smiled. "My dear sceptical brother, why not ask them?"

Elrohir turned in his saddle to see a great host following them. Unnumbered horsemen were still swelling their number as on they rode; to aide their king; to war.

Far to the south-east, Gimli still had no incling as to how far he could push an elf's buttons before something exploded. He never once used Legolas' name, choosing instead to call him 'impostor elf', or if he was feeling particularly charitable, it would simply be 'elf'. Once, he had even resorted to 'dumb ass', after which Legolas had walked away and not returned for several hours.

Boromir said nothing directly to Legolas at all and merely scoffed at Gimli's attempts at getting anything intelligent out of the elf. "What are you talking to him for?" he asked on one such occasions. "He is either deaf or too stupid to understand. It is a wonder that his mother did not knock him on the head with a rock at the moment of his birth. She was a fool for raising a fool."

Frodo turned to Boromir. "Legolas' mother was killed by orcs when Legolas was born, Boromir. So, who is the real fool? The fool or the fool who exposes the fool?"

Gimli opened his mouth at that, but swiftly shut it again. Frodo could see why, Aragorn had returned from scouting the terrain up ahead. No one said anything at all to or about Legolas when Aragorn was around, but sometimes their silence was worse than their tormenting.

The Ranger knew by the feel of camp that something had been said. He glanced at Legolas' large eyes and he could guess the mouth that had uttered it. His eyes lifted to Gimli, the glare as knife points. The dwarf did nothing, but point in the direction of Boromir's hunched back. The hobbits said nothing to the contrary, sitting in silence as they were, food in their tin plates.

Merry was the one to drop his gaze first. "Frodo, tell him what the man said," he whispered.

"That is not my place," Frodo replied. "It is Boromir’s place to offer an apology."

Aragorn levelled an 'I am waiting' look at the back of Boromir's head, but nothing was forthcoming. Aragorn gave it up with a sigh as Gandalf approached from the woods at the far side of the camp.

"Anything?" the wizard asked.

"No, our way is clear for several more miles," Aragorn replied. "Where did you go?"

Gandalf shrugged slightly. "Even an old Maia like me needs his privacy."

Aragorn almost blushed. "Forgive me for asking," he replied. "What have you cooked for dinner, Boromir?"

Boromir lifted a plate to him, filled with meat, tomatoes and mushrooms. "It's not much, but it tastes alright. Everyone else has eaten, I saved the last of it for you."

Legolas stood up to say something, but sat down again, silent, and Aragorn was aware of strange looks from the hobbits and the dwarf, but nothing was said.

Sam dropped the last of his food back into the plate, and sighed thickly, putting the plate down on the ground at his feet. "There's nothin' like a liar to ruin a good appetite," he muttered. He got up and headed for a small knot of hazel shrubs a few feet away. "I'm leading a leak afore I get some sleep."

"What has happened here?" Aragorn demanded. At once, hobbits rose as one and followed Sam, the dwarf remained silent and Gandalf stayed well out of it Aragorn noticed. "Boromir?"

"What?" the man retorted.

"I am asking you 'what', Boromir," Aragorn replied. "What happened here while I was scouting ahead?"

"Nothing happened here," Boromir replied. "I cooked, they ate, what more is there to say?"

"You could add that you lied about the food," the dwarf said. "You cooked enough for eight."

Boromir levelled a sneer at the dwarf. "You count yourself among saints, dwarf!" he retorted.

"Leave me out of it, human!" Gimli shot back, suddenly on his feet. "I will admit, that my dislike for elves, makes me distrustful of them. I will admit that my people do not suffer those with handicaps to live long, preferring to kill them rather than raise them, but to say that about an innocent woman . . .nay, that is dishonourable. You are on your own with this one."

Aragorn watched him stomp off to take his turn around the hazel bay, wondering what that had to do with Legolas. "You have again not made anything for Legolas to eat, have you?" he asked of Boromir.

"Why should I?" he demanded. "Until he asks, he will get nothing. He is nothing but a spoilt, and ill-mannered child in need of a good spanking, not a molly-coddling from everyone he meets. He is a fool if he thinks he will get it from me!"

"It is you who is the fool, Boromir," Aragorn scalded. "He is mute, not deaf!"

"Gimli said it himself. A thing like that is a burden. What use to us is an elf who can't or won't talk."

"And starve him to death?" Gimli put in as he sat back down. "He is a burden, true enough. Who wants to be trying to decipher his hand waving while trying to fight off orcs." Gimli took out his pipe and filled it. "No dwarf would be allowed to live so long handicapped as he is. A child who cannot hear, speak or see is as useful as a broken axe, to be replaced as quickly as possible."

Merry glowered unhappily, a hand pressed to his chest where beat an irregular heart. He felt Pippin's eyes on him, but gave him nothing more than a fleeting glance. He could see Legolas' tears from where they stood. Boromir was too big for him to deal with, but the dwarf . . .

Merry sighed. He had had enough of his lip. "Cousin or not, Frodo, if you're too soft to stick up for the elf, I will have to uphold the family honour alone." He was a Brandybuck, there was still some fallohide blood in him, dilute as it was. He stepped passed Frodo's restraining hand and walked right up to the unsuspecting dwarf and slapped the dwarf so hard he fell off his little log.

Gimli coughed and cried out, his breath lost, and stared up at him in astonishment.

"I’m sorry, Mr dwarf, did that hurt? How could it? A hobbit with a bad heart is too weak to knock a dwarf off his tree. Are you sure you didn't just fall down?"

Aragorn chuckles softly, despite his anger. Gimli, on his back, feet still up in the air, could not think of anything to say. He grunted with anger and rolled onto his side. The wizard and the rest of the hobbits were too astonished to speak.

Merry went up to Legolas and smiled to him. The elf's round eyes, pupils so large that the grey-green irises had all but vanished, gazed at him. "Here, have my dinner. I’m full."

Legolas frowned as he looked from the plate to Merry. Legolas set the plate in his lap and spoke with his hands, but merry did not understand.

Legolas leaned closer and whispered, "Hobbits never get full."

"This one does," Merry said.

Legolas thought about it, touched that the hobbit was sharing what to him was a meagre meal indeed, and pressed his fingers to his chin and drew them out towards him. That was an sign merry understood. "You're welcome, Legolas," Merry replied. “Frodo says he can hear your thoughts and says your voice is just fine to him, so that's good enough for me. he's a good hobbit really, but he's a gentleman, and not taken to violence. He's too softly spoken to get into much, otherwise he would be standing here instead of me.”

Legolas tried to smile and pushed the plate towards him, but Merry was adamant. "Nope. You're hungrier than we are, Mr Legolas."

Legolas mouthed thank you and began to eat a little. He was not going to give Boromir the impression that he was hungry enough to eat a horse, but he was that hungry. I could almost picture Sam's reaction if he had said it, and the thought was enough to bring a smile.

Several nights later, after teaching the hobbit’s a little about swordsmanship, Boromir again had not made enough food for everyone. Legolas was prepared, having known it was Boromir's turn to make the Fellowship's evening meal, he had gathered nature's harvest and carried them in his pockets. He took out a small handful of nuts and berries he had collected during their walk and began to eat them, pretending not to notice the camp's occupants behind him as he took his turn at watch. The fruits were bitter, being old, but it was something and the full feeling after eating them was satisfying.

Boromir was at it again, not having noticed that he had eaten of the forest fair. "Where is the elf's dinner?" Boromir was saying, as if he didn't know. "Are you not going to ask one of your hobbit friends to stand up for you tonight? Or will you get your bed-friend Aragorn, with his over-stuffed piety, to regale me for your childish tattle telling? Oh, no!" he said in mock alarm. "You're on your own. They are not in the mood to play your game tonight. Is it just me who will cajole the spoilt child to eat? Come on, elf. Don’t be rude. You have a tongue. Use it. Say it, pleeeaassee.”

Aragorn threw his empty plate to the ground and stood up. Before it was just an annoyance, now it was personal Every insult to Legolas cut his conscience to the quick and he could remain silent no longer. "That is enough!" He grabbed Legolas by the arm and opened his shirt to reveal the white scar on his throat. "You see this? I inflicted this wound, when Legolas was but an unborn struggling to survive in his dead mother's womb. It was me who left him to live this life so that you, a worthless man of Gondor and an exiled dwarf of Erebor, would have something in life to look down on and jeer at. So, come out and thank me. I gave you something to make you feel bigger and better than you are. You want someone to blame, blame me. You want someone to regale at for my brother's inadequacies, regale me. I am the one who left him mute. Every insult you throw at him, cuts me. Every jibe and name you call him, strikes at my heart. And I am the one who deserved it, but my actions were honoured by the Woodland Realm. I saved a life, and here you are taking away the pride, the self-esteem I tried, so hard, to build up to take away the pain I felt knowing that I had left him like this," Aragorn's voice broke a little at the last as he gazed at Boromir with undisguised anger and hurt. "So go ahead. Give me your best and your worst. I deserve it. Legolas does not."

There was sudden silence in the camp, and Boromir lowered his eyes.

Frodo felt the elf’s thoughts go silent within his mind, and he slowly stood up. He crossed to where the elf sat, himself shocked and hurt. He placed a tiny hand on his shoulder and Legolas flinched. Frodo watched as the elf fingered the line on his throat; it was barely visible, just a silver line in the firelight. “You didn’t know, did you?”

Legolas lifted his eyes and shook his head.

“Your father never told you?” Aragorn asked. He swallowed down the old guilt. It felt like dried out chicken. “I was only six years old. There was no time find someone else. Your mother was dead. I had to . . .cut you out . . .there was blood everywhere and the smell . . . The orcs would have smelled it . . .and your voice was fading. I had no choice.”

Legolas looked at him and stepping up to him he fingered the brooch of the House of Mirkwood still pinned to his lapel.

“The king kept telling me that it was alright,” Aragorn continued, the memories still fresh in his mind. “And I never thought . . .until we met again in Mirkwood, you were full grown . . .I could not stop myself from remembering that I had done this to you. I have died every moment of every day knowing that the harshness you suffer is all my fault . . .I am sorry, Legolas. How could I think to call myself your First Sword, your brother . . .”

Legolas looked him deeply in the eye and lifted his fingers to the pulse point in his throat. Aragorn could feel the steady thrum of the elf’s heart beneath his fingers. There was a question in his gaze. “I feel a heartbeat.”

Legolas pressed the back of his hand to his cheek, and still the question remained.

“Your skin is warm. You are alive.”

Legolas smiled gently and blinked, releasing a tear. Aragorn watched it slowly roll down his cheek and gazed into his grey-green eyes. There was no anger, no pain or hatred there, only love and gratitude. He watched him mouth two words, thank you, his hand to his heart.

Aragorn repeated the gesture, but unable to speak passed the lump in his throat. They clasped each other for a long moment, finally giving Aragorn the peace he had never dared seek. Here, now, it was given freely. “Boromir, give your oath-brother something to eat, and don’t make him wait again.”

Boromir said nothing, but moments later, Legolas was eating.

They were, for good or bad, in Moria, but while some of the group blamed Gimli for bringing them into a graveyard to their deaths, Legolas comforted him with a pat on his shoulder. Gimli was not to know, and he was still hopeful that some dwarves had survived. Legolas shared that hope, but the tunnels and caverns were so quiet, too quiet.

The first three days went quiet well, until they came to the three arches and Gandalf came unstuck. The tunnels had been altered so much that he did not know which way to take. Legolas took a moment to share a pipe and some weed with the hobbits. His blend of leaves was far stronger than anything they had. He shrugged a little as they coughed at the puffs they took hit the back of their throats, and grinned. Tears filled their eyes one by one and they passed the pipe back. Aragorn chuckled softly.

Gandalf had finally made some headway in their conundrum and chosen a path and they made their way down the steep, powder-dry steps into the darkness below. It was not dark for very long as up ahead there was a shaft of sunlight coming from somewhere. It was here that they discovered the fate of the entire population of Moria.

Legolas could smell something, a strange smell that had tainted his senses every day of his life. He stood close beside Aragorn, who offered a measure if comfort to the grieving dwarf. "We have to get out of here, We cannot linger," he whispered.

To Boromir's surprise, he could actually hear the words. He raised his eyes and regarded the elf for but a moment, and whatever he felt for Legolas, he could do nothing but agree.

The orcs were upon them within seconds, and little time was left for reflection after the attack had been repelled. They were running for their lives along tunnels and halls that had once been abandoned. Now the walls. ceiling and floor abruptly came alive with twisted squirming bodies. Thousands upon thousands of them were bleeding out of the cracks and gaping maws in the once beautifully carved halls of Khazad-dum.

"Make for the bridge," Gandalf urged them from behind.

Suddenly Boromir was teetering on the edge. Before he could even yelp in fright, an arm curled about him and pulled him back up the steps. Panting with the terror of having almost fallen several thousand feet to a certain death, Boromir nodded at Legolas' concerned gaze.

Taking another route down towards the bridge brought yet another break in the walkways. Legolas leaped the distance easily, and Gandalf discovered that he still had some spring in his step yet.

Boromir managed to throw a few hobbits across before jumping himself. Gimli was next, but as he leapt the steps gave way and he missed the edge. Legolas reached out and grabbed the first thing to hand, the dwarf's beard.

He had never heard a creature cry out so much, but he refused to let go. Giving the hirsute face a rough tug, he brought the muttering Gimli to his side and held him there, to be sure he would not fall backward into the abyss.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," the dwarf muttered under his breath. Legolas smiled softly, and looked up. The stepped had collapsed some more and now Aragorn and Frodo were trapped. His eyes widened in alarm as he realised the thousands of tons of dwarf walkway was moving towards them at an alarming rate. Suddenly Aragorn was in his arms and he held on. He could feel the stone moving beneath the Ranger's feet, but they did not dare look back. They turned and fled.

Legolas' bow sang in response to the orcs all around them. They were almost there, the bridge was now ahead of them and despite their weariness they kept going. I brief glance over his shoulder showed him that Gimli was right behind him and all four hobbits were close upon his heals.

Suddenly Legolas turned cold and looked again. Without thinking he screamed. "Gandalf!"

Frodo's voice filled the void left by his hiss of breath. Boromir grabbed the hobbit to stop him from returning to the bridge where Gandalf fought a battle of wits with the Balrog.

A loud cracking sounded through the hall as half of the bridge collapsed. Frodo cried out again as Gandalf dangled from the end of the bridge, his feet having disappeared from view down in the darkness beneath their feet.

Legolas tensed and turned, trying to run back to save Gandalf, but there were hands in his way, clinging onto him with an ever increasing grip. Legolas thrust the hands from him, but Gimli was not about to let go. Digging in his heals he dragged the silent elf away. Desperate not to lose him, knowing that any slight movement on the bridge would bring it all down, Gimli threw his arms around Legolas' tiny waist and pulled him backwards towards the East Gate.

Gimli more or less dragged him away into the day light and they collapse on the rocks holding each other. Legolas struggled, but finally relented in Gimli’s arms. He could feel the wracking sobs shudder through the elf’s body, but there was no sound except for the hiss of breath. The elf's tears dripped and splattered on the leather of his tunic. Legolas could not even cry, but he was screaming. That broke Gimli’s heart.

Frodo could take the noise in his head, the screaming, the torment. He kept walking, he had to get away, leave it behind. He needed his own pain, he needed to get away from the cries of anguish that assaulted his soul. And yet, no one else could hear it.

“Frodo!”

He feet stopped long before his heart was ready to. He turned and gazed back at the man who had sworn to protect him. He could not protect Gandalf, and he could not protect Legolas. My dear Aragorn . . .you cannot hear his suffering. Can you not, at least, feeling it?

Frodo knew how much Gandalf meant to the elves. He was Maia, a god, to them, but to Legolas he was so much more than that. Gandalf was the only person Legolas could speak to openly, they could communicate mind to mind. Frodo had heard them, and he could hear Legolas now. No one else could communicate with Legolas that way, not even Frodo, a Halfling. As much as he wished it were different, he could not help Legolas. The elf truly was alone.

They had run most of the way there, and upon reaching the Nimrodel they were breathless and exhausted. Legolas signed something and removed his boots.

“Legolas says, take off your boots, and bathe your feet. The waters will heal . . .”

“We know,” Boromir cut in emptily. “Aragorn, I what you’re doing is for our benefit, but you are not helping Legolas by translating everything he says. Let him speak for himself.”

Aragorn almost lashed out at him, but the man of Gondor moved away too quickly. For all his arrogance, Boromir was right. He was not doing Legolas any favours.

Legolas waded into the water, and splashing the calming water onto his face, covering his eyes with the cool liquid to hide the fact that his tears had yet to cease. Aragorn noticed it, the almost imperceptible shake of his shoulders as he stood there, ankle-deep in the water. Aragorn followed him into the stream and rubbed a hand across his shoulders. Without thinking Legolas turned they embraced.

“Are they really bed-friends?” Pippin asked quietly, watching them.

Behind where the hobbits sat a heavy shield hit the ground with an even heavier sound. “No, they are not,” Boromir replied. “That was my anger, little-one, and something I should not have said.” He was angry and in pain, and a fair portion of that was aimed at himself. “Legolas and Aragorn are brothers, a rare elven bond, one that is spoken of only in legend in Gondor.” He regarded the four upturned faces with a defiant glare. “I am a man with many faults. Do not make the mistake of repeating what I have said of Legolas. I was wrong. I cannot believe I was so blindly stupid not to have seen it before.”

It was some minutes before Aragorn and Legolas came out of the water and climbed up the banks to sit in silence. A voice rose and it was several seconds before it registered that Aragorn was singing of the Lady Tinúviel. The lilt rose around them like a blanket, surrounding them with comfort and rest.

Beside him Legolas sang along with him, his mouth moving, but no sound to lift the words to heaven. Aragorn stopped singing to watch him and was a long while before Legolas realised he had fallen silent. Legolas’ eye turned to them for a moment before he got to his feet and walked away.

Legolas was singing with his heart, and it had moved them all to tears, realising that even without a voice his heart still sang, still loved, still mourned the death of one so fair as Tinúviel. Aragorn still could not forgive himself for what he had done. Even though it had saved Legolas’ life, it burned him that he had left Legolas voiceless for eternity.

Boromir rose quickly to his feet. “Legolas,” he called. “Come back.” Legolas half turned, waiting resignedly for another round of insults.

“I am sorry . . .for everything. Everything I said was unjustified, even before I got to know you. You are the most honourable, most rewarding companion, and kindest soul that I have ever had the fortune to know. I hope you can find it in you to forgive me and give me a second chance . . .to be the friend you deserve to have.” Boromir watched him turn a little more towards him and registered the surprise in the elf’s eyes. “Please,” Boromir repeated. “Come and sing for us. I-I would like to hear more.”

It had not taken long for their presence to be noted, and luckily, or not so luckily, they had been found by elves, but these were no kin of Legolas’. They were High Elves, and not very welcoming of one of lowly birth as an elf of the tribe of the Sindar.

Legolas and Frodo climbed up into the mallorn trees to meet with the owner of the voice. It was Haldir, Captain of the Galadrim, a stern and less than approachable elf of Lorien. He was less than accepting of Legolas’ disability than his presence within the borders of Lorien.

“What were you doing in Moria to begin with?”

Legolas signed his reply. “We entered Moria at the behest of Gimli, son of Gloin.”

“Gimli? Gimli is a dwarvish name.” Haldir drew his sword and sneered. “I should kill this dwarf for even thinking of taking one of our Woodland Kin into the dark of Moria, and say nothing of the Ring-Bearer . . .”

Legolas set a hand to the captain’s chest. “Haldir,” he whispered softly. “Gimli is not to be harmed. He was not aware that the city of Khazad-dum had been overrun by orcs and goblins. He had lost all his kin, . . .and we . . .we are all suffering.” Even in a whisper, his voice broke, and the tears in his eyes were unmistakable. “We lost . . .Gandalf . . .Mithrandir . . .is dead.”

Haldir stared at him, hoping he had misheard, hoping it was a lie, but he knew there was no falsehood there. Haldir sank in his boots as the grief washed over him, his sword slipping from his fingers to drop, tip-downward, to the floor of the flet. Outwardly the March Warden was impassive, but the single tear that rolled silently down his cheek told a different story.

“I will send word to the Lady immediately,” he voiced quietly, his own words unsteady.

Later that night beneath the boughs of the mallorn tree that bore that Haldir’s flet, Legolas sat beside Gimli, more to stop an opportunistic elf attack than an orc one. Legolas doubted that it would happen, but even so, he made the lame excuse that he would sit with the dwarf and share the watch with him.

“Orcs might come,” he signed.

Gimli nodded. After a while he spoke quietly. “Legolas, may I ask you something?”

Legolas indicated for him to do so.

“You sign most of the time, but . . .you can also whisper. I - er- don’t want to sound rude. It’s just curiosity, mind, and you can tell me to mind my own business if you don’t want to answer. I’ll no take offence.”

Legolas suddenly started shaking. Gimli looked up to find him laughing. Legolas pressed his fingertips to his lips and opened the hand out to him, an invitation to speak.

“Well, er, I wondered how loudly you can speak. Oh, it’s a stupid question, really. It’s just a . . .”

Legolas smiled gently and covered the dwarf’s hand with his own. Leaning close he whispered, “I can speak, but this is about as loud as it gets. They say my voice is like the breeze through leaves in summer, or like the whisper of Tinúviel, but I will say only this. It is the sound of my soul, reserved only for those whom I trust, who I would risk my life for. For any other, it is my hands that speak for me.”

Gimli gazed at him, long and steadily. “And here you are talking to me,” he noted. “Here we are; I, a dwarf, you an elf. Our two races are not allies by any stretch of the imagination, and yet you choose to bestow upon me the rare gift of your sweet voice on my unworthy ears.” Gimli turned away for a moment. “You saved my life in Moria, stood should to shoulder with me, when you did not have to. You agreed with me in trying that road, to pass through Moria and avoid the Redhorn Pass, and as a result you lost the most sacred being to elves, and yet, you do not blame me, do not show me contempt, or anger.” He sighed. “Gandalf,” he said softly, almost as if to speak to the wizard, but nothing followed it.

After a while Gimli spoke again. “Never in my life have I had the honour of meeting such a being as you. After all that I put you through, and you were there for me, above the call of duty and far beyond it.” Gimli pushed a hand into his pocket and fished out a small piece of mithril he had picked up in the abandoned colony of Khazad-dum. “It would do me the greatest honour if you would accept this small gift.” He passed him the crudely but lovingly fashioned miniature breastplate, adorned with the family crest of Oakenshield on its upper surface. “My chosen kin, my brother, Legolas.”

Legolas brushed his fingertips across the beautiful piece, and swallowed. He smiled and lifted it with reverence, cupping it in his palm. “Thank you. It is I who is honoured.”

Haldir did not like this one bit. He was annoyed. A dwarf in Lorien, of all things. He stopped the march towards the city for a moment and drew the blindfold from the dwarf’s head personally. “I apologise, Master Gimli,” he said. The Lady wishes that you see our fair lands freely and unhindered.”

Haldir’s dislike for the dwarf was nothing compared to the dislike for Legolas. He was unprepared for it, and uite ashamed of his men’s reaction. It seemed to the captain that he was the only Galadrim who was pleased to see Legolas, and it had nothing to do with the news he had brought. His men would rather have killed the mute, but Gimli drew his axe along side Haldir's sword. It was not a good day for Wood Elves.

Haldir then made a greater error than distrusting Gimli, he signed to Legolas. Legolas was too surprised to glare, and Gimli knew by the droop of his shoulders that it had hurt more than it had angered him.

Gimli suddenly growled, his hair suddenly on end like a cat in a fight. “He’s mute not deaf, you idiot!”

Legolas tried very hard not to grin. My brother, he signed to Haldir, and for the first time Haldir noticed the brooch pinned to his jerkin.

Haldir apologised, most sincerely. Legolas stepped up to him and set his sword hand to the captain’s shoulder, an elven greeting of kinship. “I know you do not think of me as equal, but I am here as the son of a king, not as an enemy. Let us put old enmity aside. I am strange to you, and I understand your discomfort.”

Haldir smiled and clasped his shoulder in return. “Legolas, of our Woodland kin, welcome to Caras Caladhon, heart of Elvenden on Earth.”

In Lorien, Gimli sat beside Legolas listening to the lament and held him gently. He was shaking as he sat there, listening to the singing above their heads. Gimli knew the signs, Legolas was so distraught with loss that he could not cry, and could not sing to lessen the pain.

“You are by far the fairest, the most beautiful brother I have ever had,” Gimli said softly.

Legolas turned his huge eyes to the dwarf. “I am the only brother you have ever had,” he replied.

Gimli shrugged with a grin. “Why quibble over details?”

Legolas smiled a little and lifted his eyes to the multitude of voices far above them.

“What do they say?” Gimli asked, his eyes following the elf’s gaze for a moment before looking back to catch the signed reply.

“It is Gandalf’s Lament.”

Gimli gazed up into the canopy of the mallorn trees. “To my shame I know very little Quenya. Could you translate these words?” he asked softly.

Legolas began to whisper the words of the song translating them into Westron, but stopped too soon. He swallowed and let out a shuddering breath. “I cannot. I do not have the heart to tell it. The grief is too near.”

It was several weeks before he could finally tell him what the words were. They had lost Boromir and two of the hobbits before Legolas could find distraction enough to dull the ache, but with Gandalf back amongst them again, it seemed superfluous. Even so, on their ride towards Edoras Legolas recited for Gimli the lament sung in Lorien.

Having resigned Pippin and Merry to the protection of Treebeard, they undertook the task of aiding the King of Rohan, and a difficult task it was. Legolas was bemused by the reaction of the Rohirrim. They not only accepted him as an equal, but doted on him as a sickly child. Several women offered to care for his every need, an offer made by more woman than he can handle at once. The overwhelmed elf looked scared as yet another hot meal was brought before him.

Gimli smiled gently, deciding that it was time to rescue him, with a warm, comforting laugh. “Not to worry, little brother. We will go outside for a breath of fresh, mountain air, and you will feel better.”

“I am fine,” Legolas replied. “It is just so unexpected, to be accepted like this, when all my life I have been rejected and shunned.”

Thoeden was amused, but, strangely, not condescending. "I apologise if we offend,” he said gently. “We care for our own," he said. "Even those horribly injured and maimed by war are not turned away. I am curious as to why a dwarf would care for one such as an elf. Is it not true that a dwarf would kill those who are unable to function normally?"

Gimli straightened. "It is true, we have little time for handicaps, but Legolas is my friend, my indravang gwador. I do not go anywhere without him, and he without me."

Legolas smiled and pressed his open hand to his chest and then to Gimli's, a universal symbol of brotherhood. "My brother," he whispered.

Theoden nodded and smiled. “In these dark times, it is the bonds of fellows that will keep our people alive. The fate of us all will depend on how strong these bonds are. I welcome it, as do my people. It matters not that you have no voice, it is your eyes, your arm and your beating heart that will save us. Of that I have no doubt.”

Legolas gave his all to protect the king during the battle at Helm’s Deep, honouring the respect he had not earned but had been given simply for being. That had moved him more and had spurred him more than any other event in his long life of endless battles. His life had been one long battle, to earn recognition, to earn a meal, to earn respect, even the tiniest of acceptance. It was sad, knowing that he was leaving Rohan, but his spirit-brother Aragorn had duties elsewhere, and he would follow.

They were to take the Dimholt Road, the road of death. Legolas knew the risks, but Aragorn had the Sword of Kings in his hand, the power in his veins and the will in his heart to succeed. No bunch of dead guys were going to kill Aragorn, and not take his brother with him. Legolas mounted the beautiful horse he had been gifted, and Gimli sat behind him. For some time there was silence between them, almost as if Aragorn was waiting for something, even though he was in motion.

He knew, Legolas could tell before they had even reached the crest of the hill. Aragorn knew what was coming, and yet it was only Legolas’ ears that could hear it. The ground rumbled with it; the approach of thousands of horses.

They stood unmoving, silhouetted against the mountains as the host rode towards them. Two white horses were at their head, ridden by fair elves of the line of Fingolfin. Without a word, Aragorn reached into his tunic and retrieved a piece of folded cloth. Lifting his arm above his head he unfurled the banner of Kings.

Elladan pulled his horse up beside his brother's, the two banners flying aloft, together, one of Arnor and one of the royal house of the kings of Gondor. Aragorn cast his eyes over the men below him, gathered on the plain. "I travel the Grey Road," he cried out. "For Gondor! For Isildor! For Middle Earth!"

All around the army of Arnor, shocked men of Rohan watched them pass, their horses facing the Dimholt Road in silence. Not one man of Arnor stayed his hand; they followed without question, honouring the call of their true king.

Legolas and Gimli exchanged a questioning glance, wondering where the army had suddenly appeared from, but the sons of Elrond were saying nothing, and Aragorn was saying less. The time for questions had passed. Finally Legolas could accept that silence was good.

El fin

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