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For all the powerful sparring partners Legolas had been paired off with and bested, he still found himself surprised by the astounding strength of the visiting Lothlorien marchwarden, Haldir. They had been asked by Captain Tauriel to perform an unarmed sparring match for the newest members of the Mirkwood guard, as she thought it would be a good observation exercise. Legolas had a sneaking suspicion that she rather enjoyed watching the two elves strike each other with nothing but thin linen trousers covering their lower halves, but despite Tauriel’s questionable intentions, the recruits seemed to be well invested in the match.
“Come on, Legolas, you could have floored him there!”
The marchwarden had an unfamiliar fighting style to Legolas. Each movement was deliberate, almost slow, but carried heavy impact that fit the elf’s strong build. It was entirely unlike the swift style the Mirkwood elves practiced, and there was no sign of the dance-like weightlessness that Legolas had been taught. Haldir hardly seemed to move every time he dodged one of the prince’s punches, and would easily deflect any elbow or palm strikes with a short sweep of his muscular arm.
Backing up to give himself room, Legolas aimed a spinning kick at Haldir’s head, narrowly missing his mark. As his foot came down in front of his opponent, he felt the marchwarden grab his ankle, and he was yanked forward. He barely dodged a fist to the face, jumping into a complex twist that freed him from Haldir’s grip. Taking advantage of the momentary pause in Haldir’s defense, he leapt forward, hooking his arm underneath his opponent’s, using his center of gravity to swing them both down.
The ground was not soft, but Legolas ignored the pain in his hip, wrapping his legs across Haldir’s torso and pulling his right arm above his head. A strained grunt signaled the elf’s discomfort, and Legolas kept him successfully pinned for 5 seconds, earning the cheers of his Mirkwood kin. He released Haldir and stood, brushing the dirt off of his leggings.
“Have you not the courtesy to offer your hand?” asked Haldir, one eyebrow raised judgmentally as he pushed himself up.
“Ah, apologies,” said Legolas, holding his hand out. Haldir took it and stood, glaring at a scrape on his elbow. The guard recruits swarmed the two, clapping Legolas on the shoulders and laughing. Beredhos, one of the youngest scouts, reached out to pick a twig from Haldir’s hair, but his arm was immediately slapped away.
“Alae!” exclaimed the marchwarden, a look of angry surprise flashing across his brow. “What brazen disrespect do you Mirkwood elves teach each other?”
“What? You have a twig!” Beredhos said, his head tilted in sincere confusion. Legolas had heard that the familiarity that Mirkwood elves had with each other was unusual, but he did not think that simply touching another elf’s hair was so offensive; in Silvan culture, it was considered a social obligation to fix another’s hair if it was noticeably unkempt. As Haldir shook his head and stomped off, Beredhos frowned and looked to Tauriel, who shrugged.
“Enough lazing around, it’s your turn to spar with each other,” she said, waving the recruits away from Legolas. After giving the young elves orders to pair off, Tauriel handed Legolas his tunic and belt, along with the clothing Haldir left behind. “Perhaps our modest visitor would like these back.”
A laugh escaped Legolas’s throat, surprising him.
“Not that he really needs them,” he replied, earning a raised eyebrow and a smile from the guard captain. She waved him off, and he started back to the guard barracks where he assumed he would find Haldir.
The marchwarden was in the baths behind the barracks, sitting on the carved stone edge with his legs in the water. His bare back was no longer marred by dirt or mud, but smooth and broad, straight with discipline. The scrape on his elbow had been cleanly wrapped. Running water was all that Legolas heard as he approached Haldir, who did not even turn to greet the prince.
“You’ve forgotten these,” said Legolas, setting the folded clothing next to Haldir.
“Hmm.”
The lackluster response was somewhat surprising to Legolas. He recalled an eloquent speech the marchwarden had given to the king the day before, suddenly feeling vaguely offended.
“Should you care to thank me, I will be in the dining hall.” Again Haldir did not respond to Legolas, instead simply lifting his chin slightly. Legolas narrowed his eyes in growing frustration. “I would advise you to leave before the guard arrives, they might be a bit too joyful for you.”
Haldir smirked at the prince’s sarcastic tone, and Legolas no longer felt vaguely offended, but outright insulted. No elf in Mirkwood had the guts to treat their prince with even mild disrespect, and he was used to his people apologizing immediately if he showed even the tiniest trace of discomfort. It was his turn to stomp away in anger, and he did so, walking quickly out of the barracks and to his personal chambers.
Once Legolas had changed into clothing suitable for being seen in public, he made his way to the high community dining hall where many elves had already gathered, chatting among themselves as the cooks prepared to set out the first course of nuts and dried meats. Several of the elves greeted Legolas warmly, placing their hands over their hearts in a formal gesture that would normally be out of place at a casual meal such as this, if not for Legolas’s status as royalty.
After passing through the dining court, Legolas found his father seated at the head of their table, a glass of wine already in hand. Next to him sat the queen, waving her hands in an animated conversation with one of the visiting Lothlorien ambassadors.
“Legolas, you’re late,” said Thranduil softly as he gestured for a servant to pour the prince a glass of Dorwinion. “What kept you?”
Legolas nodded thanks to the servant and took a sip from the glass. He had never been as fond of the drink as his father, but he learned long ago refusing it would simply bring undue stress to what should otherwise be a relaxing end to the day.
“I had to get cleaned up,” he replied, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. Interrupting her own conversation, his mother smiled at him.
“From what? Did you bring home one of the beasts we are to eat next meal? I do love a good slow-roasted buck,” Amdirel practically sang, her eyes glittering. Servants had brought out the first course, setting the long tray in the center of the table.
“I was sparring for the guard recruits.” Legolas quickly stuffed a fig into his mouth, bracing himself for admonishment.
“Why do you insist on demeaning yourself and your reputation for simple scouts?” Thranduil sighed, his exasperation clear in his voice. Amdirel gave her husband a look and patted his hand.
“There is nothing demeaning about sparring with a recruit,” she said, winking at Legolas. “They could stand to learn quite a bit from our little battle-starved leaf.”
“He is hardly little anymore,” replied the king, amused, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth before his voice turned serious again. “He has a duty to uphold our good standing, and rolling around in the dirt with an elfling scout is not doing me any favors.”
“I may be a scout, but I am no elfling, my king.”
Legolas glanced up to see Haldir walking toward the head of the table. He had re-braided the sides of his hair into a neat, semi-formal style, mimicking the trend of the season in Mirkwood. This was a smart move on his part, Legolas noted, as he knew his mother would appreciate the elf’s attention to fashion. Still, the prince had not forgiven him for earlier, although he knew in the back of his mind that there was really nothing to be upset about.
“So it was you who enticed my son,” said Thranduil. He took a drink from his nearly-empty wine glass and tilted his head. “Who was the victor, if I may ask?”
“Tales of the Mirkwood royal family’s physical prowess do not do them justice, for Prince Legolas bested me with an ease I had never encountered,” the marchwarden replied as he took a handful of dates from the tray. Amdirel smiled wider.
“Legolas has yet to be defeated in a sparring match. I thought for certain a Lorien visitor would be able to keep him down,” she said. “You should see him on a hunt. There is no better archer than he.”
“Save for the one who taught him.” Thranduil gave his wife a rare loving glance before returning his gaze to Haldir. “Try the figs, they are divine alongside Dorwinion.”
The meal progressed as it normally did, with Legolas only speaking up when his talkative mother asked him a question about something trivial. Eventually the final course was served and finished; the musicians in the dining court had started playing as they always did after the last meal of the day. Amdirel needed little encouragement to get up and stand among her subjects, singing along with the joyous tune, beckoning for Thranduil to join her. Soon only Haldir and Legolas were left at the dining table, neither daring to look at the other. It took a fair bit of courage for Legolas to finally speak up.
“Is there anything you would like to see while the folk are occupied?” he asked, standing and placing his hand on the back of his chair. Haldir stood as well, but did not make eye contact, keeping his gaze on the opposite wall.
“What is there to see?” he asked. Legolas felt the vague offense once again.
“Do you offer my home insult?” he demanded in a voice that held more harshness than he had intended. Finally Haldir looked at him, but he was not smirking as the prince thought he would; he looked genuinely confused.
“Not in the slightest, my prince. I am willing to see what sights you care to show me.” The marchwarden bowed his head. Legolas felt his petty indignity fade at Haldir’s apparent change of heart; perhaps he had mistakenly judged the visitor on simple cultural differences. He motioned for Haldir to follow him, and the two slipped past the small crowd of elves singing and dancing to an old tune that Legolas knew to be one of his mother’s favorites.
They walked along the snaking path that led to the open-top observatory. The wooden structure had stairs carved into the roots and trunk of a massive tree, and at the top was a balcony-like platform that was encased in branches and leaves. Legolas climbed up slowly, feeling the cold air of the ending dusk brush his face. He turned to see Haldir behind him, running his hand along one of the sanded branches, seeming to appreciate the smoothness of its surface.
“Come, see the sky,” said Legolas, crossing the platform and leaning on the railing. Haldir followed, moving quietly, eyes turned up to the clouds. The sunset had left a lingering wash of orange and pink over them, which mixed with the blackening sky and the lake’s violet-grey mist, creating an astounding scape that would last for only a few minutes more.
“Does this happen before every twilight?” Haldir asked, his voice soft as his gaze flitted across the skyscape.
“Yes, but my people generally only see it once or twice a year, during festivals. It is tradition to be participating in after-meal merriment right now.” Legolas let himself admire his company’s appearance. He had courted many neri and nessi on this balcony, but none with silvered hair, and he noted the way it reflected the colors in the clouds. Although Haldir was no impressive elvish beauty, he was not at all ugly, and he had a quiet intensity that Legolas found intriguing.
“Is standing around and staring at clouds what you consider after-meal merriment?” replied Haldir. The feelings of intrigue were quickly dashed as the marchwarden’s face formed that infuriating smirk.
“I am aware that mortals consider the Eldar aloof, but you seem to have a streak of malice in you,” said Legolas, forcing himself to look away from Haldir. The brightness of the sky was fading, and the first stars had made their appearances.
“Malice? Perhaps you are just too sensitive, my prince.” Haldir leaned back on the railing. An inkling of desire fluttered in Legolas’s stomach, frustrating him. He did not expect to have any affection for this elf, one who smirked at princes and could not handle his hair being touched. “Although, you don’t have as much sense in you as I thought you would.”
Confused and offended once again, Legolas scoffed and crossed his arms.
“And what sense am I missing, Haldir O Lorien?” he asked. The marchwarden simply glanced at him, the smirk fading momentarily, then returning as he lifted his hand to flick a tiny dried leaf off of Legolas’s shoulder.
Silence followed, the only sounds being the night creatures stirring from their slumber. Twilight had finally fallen, the bright colors of before replaced by deep blues and black, dotted with the bright lights of Varda. Legolas recalled a story his mother had told him when he came of age. She said that in addition to kindling the stars, it was Varda’s duty to send the light of one down into the hearts of an elven pair as they courted, sparking love and joy in them. It would not always feel exactly like joy, however, as stars do not always shine true, but twinkle and glitter through fog and clouds.
Again Legolas gazed at Haldir, trying to pinpoint what it was that flickered in his gut, and why he could not bring himself to walk away. After a solid minute of the prince staring, Haldir finally met his eyes.
“Do you need something from me, Legolas?” His voice was soft again, and the smirk had disappeared, a serious expression taking its place. Legolas opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth, and he just stood there for a few seconds with his lips parted. It must have looked like an invitation, as he found himself pressed against the marchwarden in a kiss. Haldir’s fingertips brushed against Legolas’s neck, sending a strange chill through him, and he recoiled slightly. Haldir pulled away, his eyes suddenly somber.
“It seems I am the one without sense,” he whispered, pulling away from Legolas. “I am sorry for my impulsiveness.”
Confused, Legolas took the marchwarden’s wrist and shook his head.
“I am not angry,” he said, leaning forward. He felt a great need to be locked in embrace again, and he laced the fingers of his other hand through Haldir’s hair. It was the marchwarden’s turn to withdraw, but he only did so for a moment before tilting his head down and meeting Legolas’s lips again with his own. This time Legolas felt the marchwarden’s tongue brush his own. The heat of their breath on his skin was a stark contrast to the cold air, and Legolas allowed his eyelids to flutter closed.
Haldir wrapped his arm around the prince’s torso, pulling him in tight, and the two elves stayed in each others’ arms as night creatures sang, sharing Varda’s starlight in peaceful joy.