Chapter Text

I

Aragorn

The pre-dawn light filtered through the trees in rosy golden rays as the inhabitants of the valley began to come awake. Though it was late in the year and well into the winter, the protected sanctuary of the elves felt only the barest hint of a breeze flit across the soft grasses and paved pathways. With the power of Vilya, Elrond was able to protect Imladris from even the worst storms. Not a single snowflake or burst of thunder would trouble the elves that dwelled within the borders of Rivendell save by his will. 

Aragorn gazed out at the peaceful courtyard that lay outside his open window. Elrond was good at that. Protecting people. He’d been barely a child of two years when he’d first come to the valley, borne by the arms of his mother, weighed down with grief for her lost love: his father. Elrond had taken them both in, raised Aragorn as if he were his own. He had grown and learned and never had to fear for his safety. Even some eighty years later, he still saw Elrond as his father, just as Elladan and Elrohir were his brothers, and Arwen… Arwen was something more. 

He shook himself from his thoughts and returned to packing. The Fellowship would be leaving just after daybreak, and it wouldn’t do for him to make them late. Aragorn mentally ran through what little else he needed to gather but gave up after only a few seconds. He couldn’t focus on anything but the dangers they faced. The danger he might have to face, far more real than any orc. The danger within him. 

Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He needed air. Aragorn rushed for the open doors of his balcony and nearly collapsed on the rail that ringed the outside. He could feel tears welling in his eyes. This fear was overwhelming. It was sudden and real and oppressive. The greatest danger to their quest was not the Ring, or Sauron, or orcs, or Saruman. It was him . 

“I should not go.” The words were whispered, barely loud enough to hear himself.

“Perhaps not.” said a voice behind him, startling him from his thoughts. Aragorn whipped around, quickly drawing a blade, to find a blond haired elf lounging relaxedly on the day bed, a book in hand. “But then who would lead us?”

“Legolas” Aragorn breathed out, and sheathed his hunting knife. “I -- how long -- you--?” He could not form the words, his thoughts a racing, jumbled mess.

The elf in question sat up slowly, closing the book and setting it to the side, but he could not hide a slight grimace of pain the action caused, and just like that, all of Aragorn’s own fears vanished, replaced with concern for his friend. 

The man rushed to his friend’s side, but was waved away. “I am fine, Estel.” He looked up and met his eyes. “You are afraid. What darkness plagues your spirit so?”

“Do you not fear?” Aragorn asked in return. “You must surely know what is coming! You’ve seen it all before! I just--” he stopped, unsure of his own feelings. He had not meant to become angry, especially not with Legolas. In his anger, he had turned away, but now turned back to face his friend. He did not seem upset by the outburst. His face was the picture of calm, concerned, contemplation.

“I fear many things.” Shimmering silver blue eyes regarded him softly. “You forget, Estel. I may be old, but I was not yet born when the Ring last faced destruction. I know not what we face, only that we must.”

“Iston… Dihen nin, Legolas. Sometimes I forget that even you are young among the elves.”

Legolas snorted and it reminded Aragorn that sometimes he forgot his friend was also a prince. “I do not often feel young, Estel. Often I feel as though I am far too old. Weary.” He shook himself, as if trying to rid himself of such dark thoughts. “But we cannot dwell on such things, or soon enough we will all be older than we appear.”

“Says the elf to the long-lived-ranger.” 

“Is it not true that with age comes wisdom?” The elf tilted his head to the side, as if in deep thought, but the smirk on his face betrayed his next words. “Certainly you would be counted among the very wisest of men at your age, for most men do not make it much further than seven decades by mortal reckoning.”

A moment of silence, then, 

“Are you calling me old?” Aragorn asked incredulously. 

“I believe the word I used was wizened, mellon nin.” the wiley elf retorted, “Though perhaps old might be a better term if you are already hard of hearing and so quick to forget.”

“Why you --!” Aragorn made to swat at his friend, but the elf danced away merrily, leaping up onto the railing of the balcony. The man turned so quickly to follow the movement he tripped over his own feet, much to the amusement of the blonde. “Pointy eared, good for nothing, woodland sprites!” he cursed as he got to his feet, but the sound was mostly drowned out by the crystal clear tones of Legolas’ bright laughter. 

“Careful,” the elf warned cheerfully, gracefully dropping to sit on the railing instead of perching precariously on his toes, “wouldn’t want your father to hear you say such things.”

“He’d likely agree with me,” Aragorn muttered, “and so would your father, while we’re on the subject.”

Legolas laughed again, and Aragorn was struck with amazement that even on the precipice of war, about to leave on the greatest, most perilous quest to be undertaken in his lifetime, the elf was able to retain his eternal joy. “Mayhaps, Estel, mayhaps.” He stood from the balcony and gracefully stooped to pick up his book from where it had been abandoned on the bench. “Now come, I do believe you’ve not yet finished your packing. It wouldn’t do for our healer to forget bandages or some such nonsense, now would it?”

“I’ll have you know that I packed several rolls of bandages the moment I heard you were to be accompanying us on the quest.” Heart significantly lighter, Aragorn followed his best friend back into his room to finish packing. It would simply not do to be late. 

Chapter Text

II

Merry

The morning of their departure, they all gathered in the courtyard in the pre-dawn light, early enough in the morning that there were only a few elves milling about. Merry hefted the strap of his pack further up his shoulder again as he watched them going about their business. He wasn’t sure how he was meant to walk all the way to Mordor when he couldn’t even carry his pack properly. He cast a glance at Pippin beside him, happily munching on an apple and again wondered if they really should stay back. Dangerous quests were no place for hobbits. He looked behind Pippin to where Frodo and Sam stood deep in conversation, the darker haired hobbit absently rubbing his shoulder. Surely there was someone else who could carry the ring? Someone with more worldly experience, better battle instincts, or at least someone who was taller?

He adjusted his pack again, a tin of pipeweed falling out in the process. Merry tried to catch it and missed, instead chasing after it as it clattered to the ground and down the few steps in front of him and came to rest not an inch away from an elven boot, but not before scattering its contents all about the ground.

Merry reached for the little tin, cursing as his pack slipped from his shoulders again, throwing him off balance. He certainly would have fallen had it not been for the slender hand that reached out to steady him. Legolas waited until Merry had regained his footing before retrieving the wayward – and now mostly empty – tin from the stones at his feet, offering it back to him.

“I believe this is yours?”

“Not that it’s much good now,” he muttered under his breath, and then louder, “Thank you,”

The elf inclined his head gently in acknowledgment and then gestured to his infernal pack as it again began to slip from his shoulders. “Having some troubles, Master Hobbit?”

“Oh, no, I just can’t, well,” he blushed, “I can’t get the straps tight enough. It’s too big.” He hung his head. The pack had clearly been designed for one of the big folk – probably an elf. Again, Merry wondered what he was doing here. He pulled the pack from his back completely and dropped it to the ground. “Might as well go unpack it anyway. No point in me going.”

“Why do you say that?” Legolas’ head was tilted ever so slightly to the side, sort of like a cat when it found itself faced with a particularly confusing situation. “I thought you were rather eager to join the quest.”

“I was!” Merry affirmed, “Well, I mean, of course I want to help Frodo because he’s like family, but really, I’m only a hobbit and we’re not meant for such things. I can’t fight or run very well, and I was already useless with the ringwraiths and now I can’t even carry my pack.” he rambled on and on. “I’m just a hobbit.”

He kept his eyes trained on the ground, ashamed to look up at the elf, until a hand came to rest on his shoulder once more – a different kind of steadying – as the soft green of Legolas’ leggings appeared before him. The elf crouched on one knee before him, icy blue-grey eyes gentle and kind. 

“No one and nothing is ‘just’ anything,” the elf assured him, “least of all hobbits.”

Merry looked skeptically up at the blond archer, still taller even when kneeling. “You don’t even know us.”

“No,” he agreed, “I regret that we haven’t yet had time to become well acquainted, but I do know something of hobbits. I am a friend of Bilbo, as you know.”

“Bilbo,” Merry said, “is an exception.”

“Perhaps now,” Legolas nodded, “but he is that way because his quest is over, and he carries with him all he learned and saw. I promise he was not that way when his journey began.” 

Merry wiped a tear he hadn’t noticed had fallen from his cheek. “What if I’m not like him?”

“I should hope you are not,” the elf said, “because you are not Bilbo Baggins, you are Meriadoc Brandybuck, and those are two entirely different people.” He reached for the pack Merry had dropped and fiddled with the straps. “I cannot tell you whether or not you should come on the quest. You are right in that it will be dangerous, but I can also say that you are not useless. As you are now, you bring much needed joy to Frodo, and to us all, and I have it on good authority that hobbit’s are excellent cooks, a skill that will be much needed as I refuse to suffer Estel’s poor attempts any more than I must.”

“Sam is better,” the hobbit refuted, “And I am useless in a fight.”

“Fighting can be learned, if that is what you’re truly worried about, but I would also remind you that between us, we have at least three accomplished warriors, and an additional wizard should things become truly harrowing.” He seemed to finish whatever he had been doing to the first strap and moved on to the second “If you should truly wish to remain here, no one will stop you or cast judgment. And should you desire even to return to the Shire, I’m sure Lord Elrond or I could arrange for an escort for your safety. Or,” Legolas set the pack once more between them, “if you wish to accompany us on the quest, we will be glad to have you.” The elf gave his shoulder one last squeeze and stood, making his way to where Strider and a few other elves seemed deep in discussion. 

Merry watched him go before turning his attention to the infernal traveling pack at his feet. It appeared that Legolas had tied some complicated knot in each of the straps. The Brandybuck hobbit looked once more behind him at Pippin, still eating his apple, and Sam and Frodo standing with Boromir now, Gimli not far off from them with Gandalf. He looked back at the pack.

“Elves,” he muttered with a sigh, and hefted the cursed thing back onto his shoulders. It settled there perfectly, as if made specifically for him. For the first time that morning, he felt the smallest bit of confidence. He could do this – he would. For Frodo.

If only he hadn’t spilled all of his pipeweed. 

With a sigh and a forlorn look at the scattered contents of the little tin, Merry made his way back to the rest of their gathered group, Strider and Legolas joining them shortly after. They said their goodbye’s and Elrond wished them blessings and good fortune, and then they were off. 

Just as they passed through the arched entrance of the courtyard, Merry felt something tap his arm. He looked, coming face to face with a familiar slender elven hand, and in it was clutched a little silver tin. 

Merry looked up to meet Legolas’ eyes. The elf held one finger to his lips in a gesture of silence and nodded his head at the wizard in front of them. 

The hobbit could hardly keep the bright grin from his face as he gratefully accepted the stolen gift and slipped it into his pack, nodding his thanks to the blond archer.

Perhaps this quest was something he could do, even if he was just a hobbit, so long as he had friends helping along the way. 

fine

Chapter Text

Gandalf

      Gandalf gave up trying to argue with Theoden and left the table (decidedly not in a huff). He did not recall things being quite so difficult when he was still Gandalf the Grey. His word had always carried some weight, and though the crowd still parted around him, it felt somehow different. He felt different. Like his death and rebirth had shaken something loose in him, though he did not know what.

      At a loss with what to do now that he had abandoned his futile attempts to counsel the King of Rohan (such a failure was an equally new and unpleasant sensation), Gandalf surveyed the hall.

      A few soldiers, some courtiers, and of course, the few members of the fellowship here in Meduseld. Worry for Frodo and Sam was still present and sharp in his mind, though it was accompanied by something else – doubt. The fate of the world rested on the shoulders of two little hobbits, and on his own to insure the other free peoples of Middle earth were still around should they succeed. There was nothing more he could do to help them now, save to look after their companions. Merry and Pippin seemed well enough, if still shaken from their brief captivity at the hands of orcs. They had readily taken to the hospitality of Theoden’s hall – and the ale even more quickly.

      Gimli and Aragorn still sat with the king, though they too had forfeited the argument of calling upon Gondor for aid.

      Only one member of the fellowship sat apart, though Gandalf knew it was not his friends he was avoiding. Legolas had hardly looked at him since their reunion in Fangorn, and he had said even less. Gandalf knew they had not always seen eye-to-eye, and that the incident with the dwarves all those years ago had left a stinging wound, but Legolas had rarely been hostile.

      Best to tackle the confrontation before others began to notice something amiss. He cautiously made his way to where the elf carefully inspected the arrows he had been given by the Rohirric soldiers, occasionally re-fletching or altering them in some way.

      “Are you displeased with me?”

      The elf did not take his eyes from his arrows for even a moment, but when he spoke, his words were quiet and calm, lacking in real warmth, but not cold either. “Have you done something I should be displeased with?”

      “Not recently, I should think.” the wizard said, at least, nothing he could think of. “Unless it is my presence here again you dislike.”

      “I am not unhappy that you live again, if that is what you mean.”

      Well, then he was truly at a loss. “You seem otherwise.”

      Legolas seemed to begin to say something before he thought better of it. 

      “Please,” Gandalf implored, “speak freely.” Despite their tendency to speak in riddles, – a practice he himself was not entirely immune from – the wisdom and advice of elves was often valuable, even when the elf was younger than himself, and especially when that elf was Legolas. 

      Legolas looked at him for the first time all day. “You are changed, Mithrandir. And in more than the color of your cloak.” He nodded at Aragorn and Gimli, sat at a table with Theoden. “Perhaps they do not see it yet, but you cannot conceal it forever.” 

      He knew that. He could feel the change, feel the differences in his own skin, like a robe poorly sized to the wearer. His difficulty was that he could not decipher what, exactly, had changed. “I am still Mithrandir, still Gandalf.”

      “Yes,” he nodded, “but who is that now?”

      “I do not know what you want me to say.” Truthfully, he was not sure he knew the answer himself. Before, he had always known himself – The Grey Pilgrim, a guiding force always sure of his next steps. Always solidly on the side of good, always sure of the next steps to take. Now he questioned every decision. His choices had once already led to his death, and now things were once more spiraling out of his control. Theoden would not listen to reason, and it might be the death of even more people if he could not be persuaded against his current course.

      Legolas only shook his head. “I do not expect you to say anything. Words spoken to me will not assuage your own questions.” Clear silver-blue eyes met grey. “But if you would seek my advice, you must ground yourself. The Valar, whatever their reasons, do not take any action lightly. If you are returned here, there is a purpose for it. Trust in them, and learn to trust yourself again.”

      Gandalf was silent for a moment, not expecting such from one who hailed from a kingdom that had long forsaken the Valar. Then again, he truly should not have been surprised at such things from Thranduil’s only son. There was a hidden depth in that family that always managed to come out when it was needed. So full of contradictions, the woodland elves. It was a quality he often admired, even if it was occasionally inconvenient to him. 

      “I did not think you held much faith in the Valar.”

      “I do not,” Legolas agreed, “but you are not I. My faith has little enough impact on your own beliefs. And if you find that the Valar are not enough – that trusting them is not enough – then trust in your friends, Mithrandir. They will see you through.”

      Would they? After he had led them so wrong before? “You among them?” 

      Legolas held his gaze. They had been friends, the wizard and elf, and though the connection had become somewhat strained over the years, they most often managed civility. Too often they had been on the same side of a conflict with too differing opinions. He dared not to hope yet for forgiveness for his part in the disaster that had been Erebor. 

      “I have always been your friend, Mithrandir, despite your meddling and frustrating habits. And I will remain so for as long as I am able. My friendship is not so fickle or easily lost as you believe. Nor is my father’s, though I would advise you not to test that for some many years yet.”

      Gandalf could not fight the smile from his face, even as Aragorn caught his eye from across the room and looked at him strangely. Strange indeed were the ways of the elves, to say so few words and bring yet so great a comfort. Or perhaps that was simply the way of Legolas. 

      “I should have known to come to you earlier.” 

      Legolas looked at him quizzically. 

      “You have a way about you that makes things clearer.” He grinned, “You and your father both, only you are nicer about it.”

      “My father is plenty nice. He only grows tired of speaking to those who do not listen.”

      “Perhaps this time, I have truly heard.” He stood from the table and dusted himself off. “I appreciate your counsel, Legolas.”

      The archer bowed his head and Gandalf left him to his task. By the time he reached Theoden’s table, he had a course in mind and the resolve to follow it through. He felt more settled in himself, more prepared to trust in the path laid before him and those who had set him on it. And should all else fail, he would trust in Aragorn, the hope of men and elves alike. He would trust in Gimli, sturdy and solid with his axe. He would trust in Legolas, whose hand never wavered on the bow and whose mind never strayed from truth. He would have to trust in Frodo and Sam to do what must be done. He would have to trust himself and his own hands to make clear the way for them, but he had a path now, and a steady mind to follow it.

Chapter Text

      “You expect us to cross that?” Pippin stared in disbelief at the maze of mud-slick stones, ankle deep muck stretching on in front of him as far as he could see. 

      “That is our path.” Gandalf dictated, but Pippin didn’t think he imagined the look of displeasure on the wizard’s face when he took his first step and his entire foot sank nearly up to his shin. 

      Strider too, looked unhappy with the path, and he wasn’t exactly known for overwhelming cleanliness. Pippin was incredibly pleased when the man turned to Legolas, standing just behind him to the right, as he always seemed to be whenever he was around. Surely he would be able to find another way. “There is no other way around?”

      The elf tilted his head to one side, as if pondering the question. Pippin had to wonder at that – Legolas always seemed to think a great deal about each thing he said. Frodo had proposed that he was only puzzling out how to say it in the common tongue, which he supposed was possible, though none of them truly knew. The elf was hardly around, always scouting ahead or behind, and often spoke elvish if at all even when he rejoined the company. 

      “The Bruinen is still flooded,” he said, voice tinged with an accent unfamiliar to the hobbit, but still clear and even toned. “The low grounds between the river and the mountains will have suffered equally.”

      The hobbits exchanged looks – they were the reason the river had been flooded. Pippin didn’t regret it, of course. It had been necessary to escape the Nine, but he still wasn’t looking forward to tromping through the muck as a result. He was certain the mud would be nearly to his waist in some places. One wrong step, and he was afraid he’d drown in it. 

      “Estel,” Legolas gestured to their right, Strider following his gaze. “We might avoid the worst of it.”

      The man nodded and looked to Gandalf for confirmation. The wizard only huffed and extracted his muddy foot from the ground. “You might’ve pointed it out sooner.”

      The man and elf shared another glance. Pippin could have sworn Legolas’ lips twitched ever so slightly into a smile, and a spark of hope ignited within him. Perhaps Legolas was not so serene and stoic as he appeared – Pippin could use some mischievous company on this adventure, surrounded as he was with so many serious people. 

      They followed Gandalf in the direction Legolas had pointed until they came to a spot of land slightly raised. The ground here was covered in large, flat stones the smallest of which was still double his height in length. The rocks spanned the entirety of the gorge, making a clear, if somewhat slippery, way across the flooded plains.

      Boromir shook his head in disbelief. “But what are they doing here?”

      Aragorn smiled in response, giving the elf beside him a fond look. “My brothers had them moved here years ago to help the Dunedain cross during the wet seasons. I believe they grew tired of the rangers appearing in Imladris soaked to the bone, shivering, and coated in mud up to their waists.”

      The wizard glared at their resident elf. “You knew this was here.”

      Legolas met his gaze evenly. “I knew Elladan and Elrohir had organized such a thing, but I did not know where or if the structure remained.” He stepped lightly forward, right into the muck, but his boots hardly sank even an inch. “I do not often come this way, Mithrandir, as you know.”

      Gandalf harrumphed and set off down the stone path without another word, Sam and Frodo close behind, conversing in hushed voices. Gimli, too, followed the wizard, muttering something about elves under his breath. 

      Pippin remained behind. He did not like the look of the rocks. He shared a glance with Merry, the only other member of the fellowship who knew of his fear of heights, but waved his cousin ahead. He’d been in the midst of a conversation with Gimli, and Pippin didn’t want to be the cause of ending it prematurely. 

      Aragorn waited until those that had gone ahead were well out of earshot before he turned an accusatory look on Legolas. “You knew this was here,” he repeated. 

      Legolas smiled this time, a real, honest smile born of true amusement. “Arwen brought me this way a few summer’s back.” He said, “The stones are good for dancing, when they’re dry.”

      The man shook his head, but he too was smiling. “Sometimes I wonder if you are not related to them.”

      “Im era u, tun cin era gwanur nin, Estel,” (I am not, but you are still my brother)

      Strider’s smile only grew. “Faila nin? U nin gwadors?” (Just me? Not my brothers?)

      Legolas laughed, and the sound reminded Pippin of a light rainfall after a heat wave, gentle and welcome and crystal clear and bright. “Cin tur cheb hain.” (You can keep them)

      The man laughed and clasped Legolas’ shoulder briefly before pulling away. “Come, Pippin. We should catch up, lest they leave us behind.”

      He set off down the path, and the hobbit scrambled to follow. Pippin turned back once to see Legolas a few paces behind, his eyes set on the sky but a spark of mischief remained. Perhaps this quest would not be so tough, if he had a kindred spirit or two along with him. And it would be much easier to cheer Frodo on the bad days if he had some help. 

      He tried very hard to keep that thought in his mind as they walked along the stone path, slowly getting higher off the ground where flooding had washed away the dirt and mud. Pippin didn’t like heights – ever since he’d fallen from a tree when he was younger, high places always made his chest tight with fear. He tried to convince himself that he was safe. He would not fall. He was here for Frodo. He repeated the words to himself each time his foot slipped or his toes cramped from gripping the rocks. He was not alone. He was here for Frodo. He was not alone. He would not fall. Of course, all of his thoughts, positive or otherwise, went out the window when his foot slipped from the stones and he couldn’t right himself in time. 

      One foot went over the edge, then the other. He flailed his arms, but there was nothing on the smooth, slippery rocks to grab hold of. He was sure this would be it. He was going to fall. He was going to fall from a rocky ledge and drown in a pit of mud and no one would know. Gandalf might even be glad he was gone – no more having to deal with a ‘fool of a Took’. 

      He shouldn’t have come along anyway. He made jokes, sure, and Merry liked having him around and he did his best to cheer Frodo and help where he could, but he always messed up in the end. 

      His waist went over the edge, and Pippin shut his eyes. 

      Something latched onto his arms, and he jerked to a stop, hanging half over the edge. Pippin dared to open his eyes a crack, and saw Legolas crouched before him on one knee, one hand firmly grasping each arm. 

      “Careful, Master Pippin,” He said, “We don’t want you to fall.”

      Pippin could have broken down right there, and the second Legolas pulled him back up onto the ledge, he wrapped his arms around the elf, trying to remember how to breathe. He didn’t care that it was inappropriate. He didn’t care that he was an adult and should know better. He hadn’t fallen. He was not alone. 

      Legolas rested a hand on his shoulder and let him breathe, a steady, silent presence to calm him.

      “Legolas?” Strider sounded worried, but he hadn’t come back towards them. 

      “Hano na, Estel.” Legolas called back gently, “Min na-uir.” (Go ahead, Estel. I will follow.)

      Pippin didn’t know if the man said anything else. He stopped listening, focusing only on his own two feet planted solidly on the stones and the feel of his heart still beating in his chest. He hadn’t fallen. Legolas’ arms were still wrapped around him. He was not alone. 

      Neither hobbit or elf said anything for a long time. Probably too long. The rest of the fellowship had probably left them behind by now. Finally, Pippin pulled away, careful to keep a safe distance from the edge of the rocks. Legolas let go without protest, though one hand remained on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

      “I-” He took a deep breath. He had not fallen. He was not alone. “Yes.” he said, “Yes, I’m alright. I only slipped and it’s quite a long way down and I’m sorry to have-”

      “You need not apologize, Pippin.” Legolas said gently. “You did nothing wrong.” 

      “I fell.” He said numbly.

      “Almost,” Legolas nodded, “These stones are slick. It is not your fault. And if you had fallen, well, it is not so far. We simply would have had to go in after you.”

      Not so far! Well, maybe not for an elf. Pippin was sure he never would have made it and he said as much. 

      “Pippin,” Legolas looked him in the eyes, “do you trust me?”

      “Yes,” he said simply, entirely unsurprised to find he truly meant it. Legolas had that way about him, he supposed. 

      The elf smiled and led him cautiously a step or two closer to the edge. “Look,” he said, “What do you see?”

      Pippin was hesitant, and the same fear threatened to claim him again, but he looked. “I see … oh.”  Below the ledge, only a few feet down, a frog hopped about, happily leaping from muddy spot to muddy spot, leaving the smallest footprints everywhere it went. The ledge was not so very high after all. 

      “The things we fear,” Legolas began, “often appear much more frightening when we face them alone.”

      “I am not alone.” Pippin said, and this time, he believed it. 

      “No,” Legolas agreed, “You are not alone.”

      “We should catch up to the others.” He set off again, careful of his feet, and only a few steps in front of Legolas, but less fearful. He had not fallen. He was not alone. “Don’t want to get left behind.”

Fine