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Chapter Text

The Fellowship was made of races from all over the realm of Middle-earth- men, hobbits, a dwarf, and even a Maia. Surprisingly enough, it was their elf who had the most trouble with communicating.

When Aragorn truly mulled it over, though, such was only logical.

All firstborn were wise, but unlike the peredhil of Imladris, who knew nearly every language under the sun and harbored many a traveller over silken sheets and lavender chai, Mirkwood was all but entirely secluded. Their kingdom lived shadowed by a shroud of leaves so thick that sunlight could not hope to penetrate, much less the weary wanderer. So, naturally, all with whom they interacted were other elves. Other woodland elves, that is.

Aragorn recalled what Elrond had said before the Fellowship’s departure. When the elven lord had pulled him aside in a marbelline alcove and spoke in a hushéd tone. 

“You are lucky to have the help of Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, though I advise that some may not take kindly to him, for he is the seedling of Thranduil, and for Thranduil is not kindly to some. I selected him for this quest as his knowledge of the earth and prowess of the bow will be imperative, this I have seen. I bid thee, as well, that eldar of the dark of Mirkwood may not be as linguistically sound as us from the House of Elrond, far west as Gildor Inglorion’s troop, though our kind is those with which you are accustomed. No, in Eryn Lasgalen, Westron is not practiced, and furthermore, not taught. Though… I suspect this you know to be true, having dragged the creature Gollum to their hallowed halls. Lelya, Estel, have patience, find hope in your party’s difference, and help where you can.”

What Elrond had failed to mention, though, was that he could hardly fall back to the rampart of Elvish when speaking with Legolas, for his Sindar accent was thick. So thick that he could slice through it with his longsword and even then be lost to the bramble.

That said, the Fellowship had been faring well (all things considered). Thankfully, Legolas was decently fluent in the mannish tongue to start, credit to his journeys in search of Strider (himself), the hunt for Gollum, and such before the hearing of the Quest of the Ring. 

But there were always hiccups: Unfortunate, yet unavoidable.

The Fellowship was finally winding down after a day of travel. A day of travel that had been less than ideal, per se. The rain had started early, and the rain had started hard. It remained that way long into the evening, utterly uncaring of their layers of leather and woolen cloaks. When the cloud-stained sky finally cleared, they found themselves uncomfortably, thoroughly, hopelessly soaked.

Now, they sat around a fire that had been built up by Aragorn (using the driest wood he could find) and lit thanks to wizardry. They were all shivering cold (except for the elf, but they never got cold, so that was beyond the point). Said elf was now combing through his hair, wringing it like a silken rag. It was almost unfair, truly. The way the firelight danced over the contours of his face, reflecting in his eyes like inset marbles of blue.

Aragorn sighed, turning back to the sharpening of his sword or whatever in Arda he had been doing.

Sweet Aulë, forgive me.

Somewhere across the fire, Merry and Pippin had taken to animatedly gossiping about Shire-tide happenings. Frodo and Sam were huddled under a single cloak. Gimli was grumbling something along the lines of ‘This is why we dwarves have the sense to build our homes underground. Rock’s not so soggy.’ Boromir had hung his breeches on a rotating pike over the flame like a campfire roast straight out of Mordor. Finally, Mithrandir was off Elbereth-knows-where, probably smoking.

What a beautiful, non-dysfunctional Fellowship.

“And then— get this!— Bluebell Bracegirdle got engaged to Popper Brandybuck— my second cousin, mind you,” started Merry before Pippin interrupted.

“Excuse my language, but— Hold your hashbrowns! I thought Bluebell Bracegirdle was seeing Bordeo Proudfoot!”

“That's just the thing, Pip! It was at the same time!” Merry talked with his hands as Pippin gasped, incredulous. “While they were engaged, Bluebell was sleeping with ol’ Mister Proudfoot— and my bet’s he’s not the only one! Y’know, I never cared much for Popper-Chop, honest, but still felt bad ‘cause he was the one to find ‘em.”

“A fianceé sleeping around with Proudfoots— er— Proudfeet?!" Pippin whistled, kicking his feet up with a dimpled smile. "That’s gotta be the biggest thing since my Old Took passed! Them Proudfeet are not pleasing on the eye, I’ll tell’ya that! Bet their fallout was realll ugly with that nice hobbit hole over The Water and lil’ Kitten Shmooks.”

Aragorn shook his head, huffing a laugh.

Legolas tilted his head, apparently also listening to the hobbits’ gossip. It was hard not to, in all honesty, with how loud they were. When the elf spoke, his accent was like crunching leaves on a forest bed, elegant but sharp. “I don’t understand. Why would Popper Brandybuck break ties over Bluebell Bracegirdle simply sharing a bed with another?”

Several members of the Fellowship turned to stare at Legolas. Aragorn stilled his whetstone, cringing.

There it was: Unfortunate, yet unavoidable.

Legolas noticed their stares. “What? It seems extreme— Popper’s reaction— does it not?”

Aragorn’s jaw clenched. Just slightly. 

‘Have patience, find hope in your party’s difference, and help where you can.’

“Do you truly know what that means, mellon nîn? To… sleep with someone?” Aragorn murmured.

The elf gave an almost indignant snort. “Of course I do!” Said Legolas, who did not truly know what it meant. “I may be lacking in some Western speak, but I know how to say that somebody is resting alongside another!”

“Sex,” Aragorn blurted, switching to Sindarin. “It means to have sex with someone.”

There was a moment of quiet filled only by the snickering of a couple cinnamon-curled hobbits and the popping of the fire as Legolas took this in. They didn’t have to know Elvish to know exactly what Aragorn was saying.

“Now, why did you not just say that?” Legolas asked, notably not in Sindarin. “Intercourse, to my people, is considered sacred, not to be hidden in riddle! And couples will often have relationships open to ‘sleeping around’ as you so deem it.” The prince had begun lacing his hair into one long braid, cradling (now dried) golden tresses down a single shoulder.

“Who knew the elves were freaky, aye?” Merry asked. Or maybe it was Pippin. Regardless, Aragorn shot them both a look as their snickering verged into cackle territory.

“Well, they’ve gotta entertain those long live somehow, I suppose,” said Boromir, glancing up with a lopsided grin from where he was now redressing his travel pack, and not helping at all.

“Exactly. Thank you, Master Boromir,” Legolas replied, also not helping at all.

By now, Sam, who had been listening to the whole ordeal (he was dropping eaves this time, sir), had turned as red as the tomatoes he would grow in Mister Bilbo’s garden. Aragorn was fairly certain that he himself had a faint brush of fluster himself, hearing such taboo topics spill from the fair prince’s tongue, smooth as honey.

Well, maybe crystallized honey, because the Sindar accent was anything but smooth.

“I’d say it is due time for rest,” Aragorn declared, standing up before more could be said (particularly by a certain elven prince, not to call anybody out, though). “Gimli, would you be so kind as to put out the fire? We cannot risk the Nazgûl’s gaze more than had already come to pass.”

The dwarf grumbled, but obliged nonetheless. Which was all Aragorn needed to see before he rose to look for Gandalf, pipe in hand.

Chapter Text

The rain returned the following day.

Aragorn wasn’t shocked, not really. He had expected it, if the foreboding clouds just that dawn were any indication. With no shelter or settlement in sight and the promise of trailing enemies, their only option was trudging forth through the mud and murk like a caravan of dejection.

Another wave of mist hit Aragorn’s face as he walked. His cloak served as dismal protection from the rain, lest he pull it down to his nose, which offered respite for a second. Until he couldn’t see, of course, and the wind tossed it back again.

It was as if Middle-earth didn’t want to be saved.

The mud was thicker than an Ironhill dwarf’s skull and twice as sloppy as the Withywindle- which was a comparison he did not merely toss about. Old Tom Bombadil could attest, for those banks were nothing short of a warzone of muck and mosquito breeding.

Torn from thoughts of Bombadillo and Goldberry’s lilies, Aragorn stopped to allow the others to catch up. 

Surprisingly, the hobbits were faring much better than most of the Tall Folk, simply because they wore no boots. Less tugging in that Valar-forsaken mud, realistically.

Unsurprisingly, Legolas was also taking the weather with a droplet of water.

The golden prince had always been graceful afoot, but now? He was seemingly weightless on the mud, enviably indifferent to the weather. Aragorn tried to ignore the way the rain trailed in rivulets down his alabaster face, or how the water clumped his eyelashes like a crown set of aquamarine gems. He really tried to ignore it- a valiant effort, surely- but Legolas was not easy to ignore

When Legolas caught the Dúnadan staring (because of course he did. His senses were so sharp he could be hunting a deer and hear it blink), he flashed a smile that could easily bring a king to his knees.

…Good thing Aragorn wasn’t a king yet. He bade himself keep walking, though, before he became a moth to a flaming pine.

The one faring the worst in the rain was Gimli. The dwarf’s beard- robust in its grandeur- had become something of a sopping pelt on his face, though that thought would be an insult to his honor if ever he heard. Gimli had cursed the sky more times than could be counted on both hands (and feet), as if he could command the rain into submission. Aragorn wouldn’t be entirely startled if the dwarf were to challenge the weather to a duel, unrelenting until rainwater bathed his axe like blood.

He huffed at the thought- a sound that resembled a laugh if you listened close enough. Like… fifth cousins, thrice removed.

Swiping a dripping wave of dark hair from his face, Aragorn led the Fellowship forward once more.

Until they stopped.

Again.

At this rate, everything from Osgiliath to the Vales of Anduin would be ashes by the time they reached Mordor.

“Why the halt, my friend?” asked Boromir, cloak nearly black with water. “If your packs ail you, hobbits, it would be no chore for me to shoulder them! Though, in this weather, I cannot guarantee any dryness.”

“No, no, not that! Just… did Legolas tell any of you where he has gone?” said Frodo. In turn, the rest of the Fellowship’s bedraggled eyes slugged to where their elf was leading his merry path just moments before, now empty.

No footprints; no Legolas.

“If I know anything of that pointy-ear, Laddie’s probably fawning over a group’a glowing funguses!” Gimli growled from somewhere behind a soggy mustache.

Aragorn called upon the patience of all Valar who lay witness, because- for the love of all things sweet and green- the dwarf was probably right. But, still, there was a chance that something sinister had been at play.

“I wouldn’t have any of us fret,” said Gandalf, coming to rest upon his staff. “For I have known Legolas Greenleaf a while, and Thranduil a great while longer. He is not of weak blood. I have faith that he will catch up, or wait for us- if far ahead is where he is.”

And though Aragorn was descendant of the Faithful Númenóreans of yore, he was not one to lay a teammate’s life in Fate’s hands-

He wasn’t one to take that chance. Not with Legolas- whose fairness could enchant even a block-headed cave troll if he set his mind to it.

With a hand on his hilt, Aragorn declared, “You lot may continue on, and I shall seek Legolas.” Before argument could be had, he added, “Know that I can trace this route like my own hand, thus reunion is no onerous task. I would much rather we remained a unit, so I bid that none of you must follow.”

The last part was directed toward Merry, inadvertently, who seemed intending to trudge after Aragorn through the thicket. The man was once again reminded of how Mithrandir’s words rang true:

“Do not underestimate the courage of hobbits.”

But now was not the time for displays of such bravery.

The man turned away.

Quietude was filled like an empty glass as the rain continued filling cracks and divots in the earth’s visage, and as Aragorn’s voice rang.

“Legolas! Nai i nîn? Legolas!”

Merely five seconds (perhaps less- Aragorn busied himself with worrying, not counting) had lapsed when there sounded a tell-tale rustling in the trees above him, shaking water from the leaves, much like the flicking tail of a rain-sodden horse. Directly onto Aragorn.

The Dúnadan sighed through his nose.

In the foliage a face appeared, upside-down and doe-eyed.

“What is the matter of, Ranger?” asked Legolas, hair draping about his face as he leaned over the edge.

“Foremost, are you unharmed?” Aragorn immediately asked- not by impulse, but genuine concern. “You disappeared unbeknownst to any one of us- without so much as a word!”

Legolas blinked. He flipped down from the canopy as if by second nature. Woodland elf, Aragorn supposed. Nature was their nature.

“I am well.” And the words rang true, for he looked well. Unailed, that is. “I did not mean to rouse any worry. I just saw through the brush a-”

“Save your words, Legolas,” chided Aragorn with a dismissive hand, harsher than intended, “so that you may not have to say them twice.”

Legolas looked taken aback for a moment, at his sudden firm tone.

Aragorn felt a pang, seeing the elf’s face marred of stagger, and added, “I was… I was simply scared for a moment that you may have been lured or taken by the evils that plague these lowlands.”

The prince’s face softened in turn to his vulnerability, and Aragorn stepped closer. His hand moved before he could stop it, brushing a wayward golden lock from his fair face. Foolish, reckless- yet the warmth of skin beneath his fingertips silenced all sense. He should have withdrawn. Instead, he lingered. Long enough to hear the elf’s sharp inhale as Aragorn's fingers brushed his ear, tentative yet resolute.

“Estel…”

The Dúnadan allowed his hand to drop and clutch Legolas’ shoulder, a gesture of much more familiarity. But mayhaps his thumb lingered longer than necessary, betraying the ache of his restraint.

“I am glad to see you well, Mellon. Let us rejoin the others- I am certain they are still close. Gimli could not have traveled far, at least, for he has exhausted his energy in curses.”

This coaxed a laugh from the elf, and it shouldn’t have stilled Aragorn's breath. It shouldn't have felt like the heavy clouds were parting to shine like a blessing upon that smile. It shouldn’t have. And yet, Legolas seemed to glow like the mithril Ring of Adamant.

Eru and Elbereth, he was in too deep.

“Yes, that would be best,” replied Legolas.

Even yet, for a beat, they stilled, staring without need for voice. Somehow, their eyes alone wrote every unsaid word, and Aragorn feared losing sight of the Quest if he read too deeply.

The moment they caught up to the Fellowship was the moment the barrage began. A bombardment of questions, seemingly without relent… though most were coming from two halflings, whose names didn’t need mentioning for one to know.

“Where did you scramble off to?”

“Fungi, I reckon?”

“No! My bet’s giant spiders.”

“My bet’s they kissed.”

“Why didn’t you say nothin’?”

“Gave Aragorn here a right scare, you did.”

“What happened?” 

A moment's falter passed in the glance of cerulean. 

“I mustn't be admonished, my friends, for I left in tow something worth the hiccup,” said Legolas, a hand to his heart.

“Oh! Must've been some elfy thing,” regarded Pippin, nodding solemnly.

“What do you know of elves, Pip? As far as I know, the only thing you're educated in is the stealing of mushrooms,” Merry chided, thick brows furrowed.

“A great deal more than you, Merry! You weren't there for Frodo, Sam, and I’s run-in with Gildor and ‘is troop. I heard a whole manner of stories over miruvor- rather elvish, innit? Must've been one of them visions, I reckon.”

“You're just proving me more right! Those Wood Elves don't have prophets!”

“Well, mayhap a lit-”

“Mahal’s arse! Let the blasted elf speak!” Gimli growled, cutting off the hobbits' perpetual banter. 

Aragorn watched with an exasperated fondness as Merry and Pippin poked at each other one last time, both trying to get the final word.

Legolas’ lips quirked, unbothered by the chaos swirling about him. As calm as a star in the night sky of bickering, he lifted his hands- cupped, careful.

From between his long fingers came a wet, indignant croak.

The Fellowship leaned forward in unison.

“…Is that?” Sam asked, blinking through the rain.

“It is,” Legolas nodded, eyes closed beneath thick eyelashes, looking entirely too pleased with himself and his new soggy froggy friend.

Aragorn, subsequently, was in utter disbelief. He ran a hand through his rain-weighted waves, nearly pitch black with water. “By all Valar, you mean to say… you led me on a wild goose chase through the Trollshaws for naught but a lumpy amphibian?”

“No,” Legolas said primly, as though offended at the very suggestion. He peeled his fingers apart to reveal the croaking culprit: a bulbous green creature with legs that looked more fit to launch it into the next land than rest politely in an elf’s palms. Water slicked its skin, shining like emerald glass. It croaked again, dually unimpressed by the company.

Legolas’ face lit faintly, almost proud. “This,” he declared, “is a squelchopper. And there were no geese involved in the chase, so I am unsure why you have suggested such.”

There was silence.

“A what?” Boromir asked, brows low and stern, as though Legolas had just accused Gondor of poor wine-making.

“A squelchopper,” Legolas repeated. “It is obvious.”

Another round of croaks. The hobbits exchanged puzzled looks.

“The loony lad means frog, clear as polished quartz,” Gimli muttered, low enough to almost be missed.

Legolas frowned. “Frog?” He tested the strange word on his tongue. “Frog. Yes. That is… yes, perhaps that is what you call cabor in the western tongue. But squelchopper is far more fitting! See how it squelches, and then-” He bounced his hands slightly, and the creature sprang, landing with a glorious wet plop in the nearest puddle. “…Hops!”

Pippin gasped as though he’d been handed the secret blessing of Eru Ilúvatar. “Oh, that’s brilliant! Squelchopper! I’m keeping that- Mine. Coined! You heard it here first, folks.”

Merry rolled his eyes so far back they might’ve spied his own thoughts. “You’ll be saying it in your sleep, I wager.”

“Probably. And it’ll be even funnier the 75th time!” Pippin shot back, grinning like a gold coin.

Sam, meanwhile, was crouching with a curious frown. “Well, he’s a healthy one, no mistake. You don’t see many of ‘em this far out from the marshes. What’d you go pickin’ him up for, Mr. Legolas Elf Sir?”

Legolas tilted his head, as though the answer were self-evident. “He was… there.”

It was a statement only an elf could make with such solemn conviction.

Aragorn fought a smile into his beard, though his earlier worry still clung like a burr to fleece. Legolas, so unruffled, so pleased with his strange prize- it was maddening. And yet Aragorn found himself softer for it. There was something so endearing about his lassig-like wonder; the way his face lit up over a creature so small and frankly, ugly.

It felt like Aragorn was old beyond his years and Legolas was young despite his years.

Gimli harrumphed, wringing out his beard as though the frog had personally offended him. “All this racket for a blasted squelchopper. If you ever vanish again for the sake of amphibians, pointy-ear, I’ll-”

But Gimli stopped. The frog- or squelchopper, depending on loyalties- had leapt onto his boot with a mighty, wet smack. Its throat pulsed, eyes bulbous and blinking one after the other, like the salute of a well-trained army.

The dwarf glared down, as though sizing it up for battle.

A breath of silence… then Pippin doubled over laughing, and Merry with him. Sam covered a smile. Frodo shook his head but looked lighter for it. Even Boromir’s lips twitched before he turned away as if Gondor’s steward’s son were above laughing at frog antics.

The rain poured on, yet for a moment, the air felt less heavy.

Aragorn let his gaze wander to Legolas, who watched the company’s laughter with a small, unreadable smile. A streak of gold hair clung to his cheek, and Aragorn wondered, not for the first time, if the elf knew just how he lit the world when all else seemed drear.

“Come,” Aragorn said, at last, though his voice was softer now. “If we tarry any longer, even the squelchopper will outpace us.”

That earned a genuine laugh from Legolas- light as wind through leaves. And for Aragorn, it was worth all the rain in Middle-earth.