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Sunlight glinted and winked in the small waves of water lapping against the banks of the river, and Legolas sighed in appreciation as he leaned back against the tree trunk to better savor the sight. The air, heavy with the scent of pine boughs and branches, soothed him and blended seamlessly with the calls of the birds overhead, the squirrels chattering as they darted through the underbrush, and the frustrated mutterings of the Fellowship's dwarf. The boiling intensity of Gimli's initial frustrations had slowly subsided into indignant grumblings, now nearly inaudible to most ears - but elves had better ears than most.
Legolas could not help the smile curving his mouth at the thought, but attempted gamely to suppress it into a mild quirk of the lips. There was a distinct possibility that the good dwarf still - somehow - blamed him for the overturning of their canoe. Tossing his head at the faulty logic, Legolas snorted with laughter as his face was engulfed with waves of damp hair.
It had hardly been his fault that Gimli had decided to throw himself down into the hull of the canoe, the sudden rapid movement of all his armor and helmet throwing the balance off entirely and catapulting them both in the water (the dwarf's sputtering that the elf's enthusiastic gesturing at a flock of birds flying overhead had tipped them in the first place, Legolas felt, was as unfounded as it was waterlogged). Once the two had managed to paddle their way gamely to shore, the canoe half-sinking all the while, Legolas had offered to assist Gimli in drying out his cumbersome weaponry. This kind gesture had been answered by Gimli's hand reflexively twitching toward his axe, and Aragorn had felt it necessary to separate the two briefly to keep the Fellowship from whittling itself down even more.
Legolas had wrung his clothing and his hair a few times vigorously before leaving the rest to the breeze to finish drying. They had a while to travel yet, and the idea of bearing the forest with him, even simply in the smell of pine preserved in his clothing, gave him a great deal of comfort. His hair fell in a curtain in front of him and he noted with interest how the pale gold had darkened into a shade of honey.
Honey, he mused, the memory of rich sweetness curling on his tongue. Perhaps that will sweeten friend Gimli's sour mood – and lighten the hearts of our fellow travelers as well. Having finally had the fortune of forming a friendship with the stalwart dwarf, he would be bereft if it would wither before its time because of a simple accident.
The elf unfurled from his seated position by the tree and stood up, relishing the slight clicks in his spine and shoulders. He checked the cloak and tunic that he had placed over the lowermost branches, still dripping but no longer sodden, and left them to the care of the tree with a murmur of gratitude. Casting his gaze from side to side, he could see Aragorn returning with firewood, Boromir standing guard at the water's edge, and the hobbits crowding around where Sam was unloading his pack in preparation for the meal. Gimli's grumbling rumbled not too far from where the hobbits discussed the finer points of seasoning, but his scowl had smoothed out into a furrow of concentration as he meticulously worked through the links of the damp chainmail he had removed.
Satisfied that all was well in the camp, Legolas stepped away to scout – and to seek out some honey.
As his strides took him further from the quiet bustle of camp, Legolas immersed himself in the sights and smells of the forest. Although he could find joy and fascination in the constant motion of the river or feel his heart soar when scaling the tops of hills and mountains, he felt most at home and settled when surrounded by trees. Patches of sunlight warmed him through the canopy of branches, and the dirt beneath his bare feet centered him. He took the opportunity to rest his hand against several trunks as he passed, speaking softly to them without words.
You are safe, they murmured back. Only you and those with you are here.
The trees spoke true, and he encountered no enemies on the way back to camp. Unfortunately he also encountered no honey.
Somewhat dejected, Legolas trekked back towards the sounds of his friends, ears picking up the faint sounds of kindling popping and crackling. He had resigned himself to returning to the group empty-handed, when he fortuitously happened upon a bush just on the outskirts of the camp. Red berries gleamed among the bright green of the bush's leaves, and Legolas' mouth near watered at the memory of eating such berries on long nights of guard duty in Mirkwood.
A good peace offering, he assured himself, and he began to nimbly pick berries from the bush, taking care not to disturb any leaves. Wrapping the berries in a large leaf that had fallen from a tree branch above his head, Legolas returned to the others, a triumphant grin tugging at his mouth.
"What do you have there?" Merry piped up as Legolas walked towards the hobbits.
The elf peeled back a corner of the leaf to let them take a peek. "For the meal."
“Ooh,” Pippin exclaimed, “those look good! Mind if I sneak one before dinner?”
“I leave that to Master Samwise,” Legolas replied respectfully, tilting his head towards the hobbit busy at the fire.
Predictably, Sam flushed both with pleasure and bashfulness at being addressed so by an elf. “Now, sir,” he said shyly, “there’s no need to be calling me that.”
“There is every reason,” Legolas countered, smiling. “You are the master of meals.”
Sam somehow managed to flap one hand self-consciously at them while never pausing in the stirring of the stew.
“Please,” Pippin wheedled. “I would never want to spoil your dinner, Sam, but I didn’t have elevenses today.”
“You haven’t had elevenses since we left the Shire, Pip.”
“Ah!” Pippin cried, a hand to his chest. “Don’t remind me!”
Sam snorted. “Very well,” he agreed. “I don’t think there’s enough berries to quell that appetite of yours, at any rate.”
Pippin preened, and Legolas bit back a chuckle as he poured a few berries into Pippin’s awaiting palms, and then into Merry’s.
“Look a bit like cherries, don’t they?” Merry asked. “Although they’re the size of blueberries.”
“Or smaller,” Pippin agreed. “I don’t think I’ve had these before – do you recognize them, Frodo?”
Frodo tilted his head in thought at the fruit in his own palm. “They look like…something in Bilbo’s stories, but I can’t remember what exactly. Sam, do they look familiar to you?”
Few things could deter Sam from cooking once he’d started, but a summons from Frodo was one of them. Taking the stew off the fire and tucking it among the embers, Sam accepted one of the berries and peered at it curiously. “Not something I recognize, I’m afraid, Mister Frodo.”
“Maybe we’ll recognize the taste,” Pippin suggested, and he tilted his head back, ready to unceremoniously shove the entire handful of berries in his mouth.
“Hold!”
Neither elf nor hobbits had heard the approach of the now armor-less dwarf, but they certainly noticed him as he rushed into their midst. The sudden rushing forward startled Pippin so that he squawked, berries falling out of his hand as he lunged sideways into Merry, who crashed into Frodo, who landed on Sam, resulting in a heap of hobbits at their feet.
Legolas, who had nimbly sidestepped out of the way of the collision, swung his gaze from the groaning hobbits to where a red-faced Gimli steamed. “What troubles you, master dwarf?”
“What,” the dwarf sputtered, “what troubles– is it not enough for you to try and drown me, must you now try to poison the hobbits?”
Legolas blinked. “What?”
…
Gimli rocked back and forth from his seat on a fallen log, ruddy with laughter as Legolas felt the tips of his ears pinken. “Have you never heard of poison, sheltered princeling?”
“Of course I have,” Legolas snorted indignantly, “and I am hardly sheltered, master dwarf, I’ve been fighting in battles longer than you have been alive.”
If Legolas had hoped this would impress Gimli into awed silence, he would have been sorely disappointed.
“I am shocked you have survived this long,” Gimli chortled around his pipe, “and not known that baneberries were poisonous!”
Legolas glanced at the others; the hobbits, none the worse for wear, spooned baneberry-free stew into their mouths as they watched Gimli laugh, and Boromir arched a bemused brow as he steadily worked out a dent in his shield. Aragorn, whom Legolas had hoped would understand, given his in-depth knowledge of most things Elvish, attempted to keep straight-faced, but Legolas could see the traitorous smile tweaking the corner of his mouth.
“Poison,” the ranger interjected lightly, “affects the First Born differently than others. Poison from a blade can prove deadly, but there are few things that will poison an elf by being eaten.”
“I most sincerely apologize, my friends,” Legolas bowed his head, hand placed over his heart. “I did not mean to endanger you.”
Merry grinned and nodded, Pippin garbled something likely encouraging but entirely indecipherable through his mouthful of stew, Sam ducked his head while saying something muffled and soothing, and Frodo smiled reassuringly. “Think nothing of it, Legolas.”
“But I must,” Legolas insisted.
“Indeed we all must,” Aragorn agreed, “we all need to be on our guard.”
“Or else we are as likely to be felled by our stomachs as by an orc!” Gimli nodded, smirking.
In lieu of the dessert Legolas had hoped to provide, they were instead treated to an hour-long lecture by Aragorn on which plants to eat and which plants to avoid. Legolas leaned forward intently, eager to learn what he could, but the lecture had to be cut short when Pippin fell asleep and toppled, snoring, off the log.
Aragorn quickly wrapped up the lesson by instructing the hobbits that, when finding something strange, to first check with Sam before eating it. If he didn’t know, to ask Gimli, or Boromir, or Aragorn. And to not, under any circumstance, ask Legolas.
Pride smarting almost as much as his pinking ears, Legolas waved the group off as he took first watch. Gimli’s rumbling laughter continued until it dissolved into light snores, and Legolas sighed to himself.
Well, he assuaged himself, at least I succeeded in cheering friend Gimli up.
…
“How about this?”
Aragorn looked up to where Legolas was dangling upside down from a nearby tree, a large leaf between his hands. “Not poisonous,” he answered, “but not particularly edible either.”
Legolas hummed thoughtfully before swinging his legs from the tree branch and landing lightly on his feet. The two of them had gone out to scout ahead for any possible orcs before venturing out on the water, and Legolas, not content simply with the lecture of what-mortals-should-not-eat given at the campfire, was taking full advantage of Gimli not being within mocking earshot to learn more.
Legolas leapt onto a nearby cluster of rocks and peered carefully around them.
“See anything?” Aragorn asked.
“No,” Legolas answered, and then his eyes gleamed with interest. “Ah!” he cried, and darted off just out of sight.
“Legolas!” Aragorn whispered, confident the elf could hear. “What do you see?”
Nothing answered him except for the wind whistling through the trees and the faint sounds of the world waking around him. The moment dragged, and Aragorn’s hand crept slowly towards his sword.
“Legolas?” He repeated, in a slightly louder hiss.
“Peace, mellon-nin,” Legolas called back, and his figure stepped briskly and lightly back into view, “all is well. I just saw something that merited attention.”
“Yes?”
Legolas reached out between them, and his hand opened to show a spotted mushroom. “Is this poisonous?”
Aragorn sighed.
…
“Aragorn!” Legolas cried out, throwing out his arm to the side, nearly tipping the canoe with his gusto. “What of that? Is it foul or fair?”
Spitting water from the rapids crashing around them, Aragorn replied, “What do you see?” Glancing as quickly as he could despite the sprays of water causing his hair to hang limp and damp in his face, he could see nothing particularly foul or fair. He could barely see the paddle clutched in his hands.
“The red petaled flower!” Legolas replied, gesturing wildly once more to the shore, eliciting indignant yelps from the dwarf in his canoe. “Over – ah, alas, it is gone from sight. What a pity.”
Dwarven curses rumbled deep, audible even over the rush of the water and the exultant cheering of Merry and Pippin as they encountered another rapid. “A bigger pity it would be,” Gimli near bellowed, "if I were to drown before my time rather than on the field of battle. Fool elf, steer!”
…
Stew, o stew, we welcome your cheer,
Warming us well on a night cold and clear,
Filled with blessings from the earth,
Bubbling richly on the hearth.
Boromir looked up from where he had been polishing his sword, and cast his gaze across their camp to where Legolas crouched, gleeful and singing over the stewpot. Sam, as always, hovered closely around his pots and pans and offered quiet suggestions about what spices to add, fingers reflexively twitching around the ladle in his hands.
The Wood-elf had been vacillating between chagrined shame at nearly poisoning the hobbits and a near manic enthusiasm at learning what flora could prove fatal to his mortal companions. Aragorn had borne the bulk of his inquisitiveness, accustomed to both Legolas and also the curious mindset of elves, but Boromir had also been drawn aside during practice sword fighting with the little ones to examine some berry or leaf nearby. Gimli, feeling he had contributed enough by nearly drowning in Legolas’ pursuit of knowledge, offered no further education on plants, and the Wood-elf, showing the wisdom of his years or simple self-preservation, did not ask.
Now, he had subsided into his usual good cheer, serenading his stew with a lilting tone that floated up to the stars.
“I feel,” Legolas began sagely, sitting back on his heels to give Sam full reign of the meal once again, “that I have learned a great deal over these past few days. What stories I will have to tell my kin, of all the bounties of the earth forbidden to our mortal friends.”
“Do you mean that other elves don’t know this?” Merry asked, carefully tucking away his sword as he and Pippin finished sparring. Boromir beamed with pride at the improved swordsmanship as he bent back over his work.
“I cannot speak for the knowledge of other elves,” Legolas replied, “for there are plenty wiser than me.”
Sedately smoking a stone’s throw from Boromir, Gimli rumbled a laugh.
Legolas continued. “However, none of what I have seen on this earth has proven fatal, once eaten, to an elf.”
“So,” Pippin asked, wide-eyed, as he sat near the fire, warming his hands, “have you eaten all the things you’ve been asking about?”
“Very nearly,” Legolas answered, “or I have known of elves that have.”
Pippin hummed thoughtfully, then leaned forward. “What do pine needles taste like?”
“Master Pippin!” Sam squawked.
The elf’s brow wrinkled in thought. “Aromatic,” he replied, “nearly crisp but not quite. When you bite into them, it sends its aroma to the top of the nose and mouth. Like a blend of cinnamon and tree bark.”
“What does tree bark taste like?” Merry asked.
“It depends on the tree,” the elf explained, “and from where on the trunk the bark came. Near the branches, it carries the subtle taste of wood and the faint taste of fruits and leaves. Closer to the roots, the flavor of the wood can be nearly overpowered by the taste of earth.”
“What is the taste of earth?” Frodo had joined in.
“Thick,” Legolas replied, licking his lips in thought, “crumbly at the tip of the tongue when dry, and richer at the back of the mouth when muddy.”
“I do not suppose,” Gimli drawled, smirking around his pipe, “that a dainty elf has ever dared to taste rock.”
Legolas drew himself up indignantly, although mirth glittered in the corner of his eyes. “Certainly I have, master dwarf!”
Sam chimed in. “What does it taste of, sir?”
“...Earthy, but harder.”
“And what,” Pippin piped up, “of baneberries? What do those taste like?”
“Ah!” Legolas sighed reminiscently, “those are a treat! Especially on long nights seeking orcs or hunting for game. Crisp and plump, the juice dances across the tongue like fire, rejuvenating the most weary of spirits. If only you could taste them,” he bemoaned. “Some of my kin say it must be like arriving in Valinor.”
Gimli roared with laughter. “Likely it would send us there if we tried!”
“But Valinor– oh.” Realization dawned, and Legolas joined in his friend’s merriment, laughter like bells accenting the dwarf’s rumbles. Merry and Pippin’s snickers soon joined the din, along with Frodo’s quiet chuckles and Sam’s snorts of amusement. Boromir barked a laugh and looked over to where Aragorn stood guard while slowly shaking his head.
Armed with a bow, he would trust Legolas with his life. But Aragorn decided, as the group’s leader, that he would never trust him alone with their dinner.