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Chapter Text

Three days they had run without pause—through sun, shadow, and stone. The air in Rohan tasted of dust, despair, and distant rain. Aragorn II, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, greatest tracker of his age, currently resembled less a king and more a particularly grimy, determined badger. He laid flat on his belly in the coarse grass of the Eastfold, pressing his ear firmly against the chill earth, eyes squeezed shut in fierce concentration to feel the tremor of hooves.

Minutes bled into each other. Gimli, son of Glóin, shifted his weight, axe head resting on the ground, his beard braided with authentic Rohan dust and his mail shirt making sounds that suggested several pieces might be contemplating mutiny. In the last hour of their constant running, the dwarf kept muttering increasingly creative threats against whoever had invented the concept of ‘urgent pursuit across open plains.’

“Anything, Aragorn? Do the grasses whisper their path?” His voice was a mask of impatience and concern for their missing hobbits.

“Patience, Gimli,” the ranger murmured.

Legolas, in stark contrast, stood poised like a silver birch, gazing serenely towards the horizon, the fading light catching the gold of his hair. He looked, Aragorn thought sourly, as if he were contemplating a particularly pleasant sonnet rather than tracking a horde of murderous Uruk-hai. Exactly the sort of thing that made a man contemplate the philosophical benefits of elf-strangling.

He heard them – faint, rhythmic, distant yet approaching: the heavy, swift beat of many horses. Aragorn surged upwards, brushing dirt from his tunic, his grey eyes sharp. “Horsemen,” he announced, his voice rough. “A large company. Riding hard. From the North.” He scanned the rolling plains, straining to see what the earth had whispered. “I think five… no, six miles out,” he murmured to himself, shifting his weight, every sense fixed upon the vibrations in the soil. “Friend or foe? Their number... difficult to say from this distance and their formation...”

Gimli hefted his axe, scanning the horizon nervously. “How many? Can you tell? Are they Rohirrim? Or more of Saruman's filth?”

Aragorn shook his head slightly, still focused. “The earth speaks of many hooves... hundreds, perhaps. But the formation... it muddles the count. Perhaps one hundred… no, more. One hundred fifty—”

“Two hundred strong and five,” said a voice behind him, mild as if commenting on the weather. “Riders of Rohan. Their horses are weary, yet swift. Their leader... he hath hair like spun gold beneath the sun.” He tilted his head slightly. “Bears a helm crested with white horsetail. He looketh eastward with grim intent.”

Aragorn froze mid-brush, dirt still clinging to his cheek.  He slowly turned to stare at the elf standing three paces away. Gimli's bushy eyebrows shot up towards his hairline.

“Two hundred and five?” Aragorn repeated, his voice dangerously calm. “Yellow hair? You saw this?”

“Indeed,” Legolas replied, blinking those impossibly blue eyes. “They crest the rise yonder, even as we speak.” He gestured vaguely northwards with one elegant hand. “The banners of the House of Eorl are clear. Also, their leader’s horse prefers to favour its left foreleg.”

Aragorn followed the gesture. Sure enough, a dark line was just becoming visible on the distant ridge. He looked back at Legolas, a familiar, bone-deep exasperation warring with sheer disbelief. His mouth opened, closed again. “And when, exactly, were you planning to share this?”

“When thou hadst done communing with the soil, which thy worthy efforts sought answers through the song of the earth. To interject mine own sight unbidden would have been a discourtesy to thy diligent art.” Legolas spoke, his words smooth and old-fashioned, every syllable precise - hardly surprising, considering his one and only governess had hammered such diction into him centuries past.

Gimli choked, a sound halfway between a cough and a guffaw.

Aragorn closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, while muttering something very unpoetic in Westron - that even Elrond would disapprove. Images flashed unbidden: days spent running and meticulously deciphering faint hobbit prints amidst the churned mud of the Emyn Muil, muscles aching, hope dwindling. And then, just as he finally caught the trail, Legolas—ever the elf—declared, “The foul creatures bear our cherished halflings towards Isengard. The foul smoke of Saruman's fortress taints the western wind.” As if it were the most obvious thing in Middle-earth.

The dwarf recovered, wheezing slightly. “By my beard! Is he... always like this?” Gimli rumbled, gesturing at Legolas with his thumb. “Sees the world laid out flat like a map and forgets the rest of us are stumbling about blindfolded?”

Aragorn opened his eyes and glanced at Legolas – the prince who had accidentally saved his mother, accidentally derailed his courtship of Arwen, accidentally become a Ranger, accidentally captured Gollum while Aragorn hunted for 7 weeks in the Dead Marshes, accidentally saved the Ringbearer, and accidentally joined the Fellowship – standing there, beautiful, oblivious, and utterly, infuriatingly literal. A lifetime of similar 'accidents' flashed before his eyes.

The ranger then turned his eyes at Gimli. A wry, long-suffering smile touched his lips, chased by a warmth that surprised even him. He shrugged, the gesture encompassing decades of bewildering, frustrating, and utterly indispensable companionship.

“Almost all my life, Gimli,” Aragorn answered, his voice softening despite the lingering exasperation.

Aragorn had learned that Legolas was – how to put it kindly – a trial. Not by intention, nor by malice; the elf was courteous enough, in his way. But he seemed to live by rules no mortal man could fathom, answering questions only if asked in precise form, speaking of the present moment as though it were a scene in a tapestry, and offering information vital to survival only after Aragorn had bled for it.

It was not that Legolas was slow – far from it. Aragorn had seen him loose three arrows in the time it took a man to draw breath. Nor was he ignorant; his knowledge of plants, beasts, and the strange magics of the forest ran deep as any lore-master’s. No …  it was simply that the elf’s mind seemed to wander elsewhere entirely, attending to the curve of a leaf or the sound of water as though the fate of the world hinged upon such things, and the rest of reality could wait its turn.

And so it was that Aragorn, hardened Ranger of the North, had already spent far too many years in the company of this strange prince, alternately marvelling at his skill and grinding his teeth at his obliviousness.

“Almost... all... my... life.” He repeated it again to Gimli. Though he would never admit it aloud – there was something oddly companionable in Legolas’ company. Even now, as the Rohirrim drew closer with the promise of meeting, Aragorn found his irritation slowly cooling into a fond smile. His next words remained unspoken.

‘And likely, Valar help me, for all the rest of it too.’

The great, accidental adventure was far from over.

Thus began the tale of how one spoiled, oblivious Wood-elf managed to accidentally insert himself into every pivotal moment of Aragorn’s life – and how a ranger, an exiled king of men, despite himself, would one day fall in love with him.

Chapter Text

Third Age 2933, Anduin River

Legolas Thranduilion was, in his own mind, the most responsible of elves. Of course, his father’s guards, half the palace, and his despairing tutors would have said otherwise.

On this particular day, The Prince of Mirkwood, long since grown into a graceful enigma of 897 summers, was causing his father an incalculable amount of stress as he had wandered far from his father’s hall. Again. Not in rebellion. No. He just simply followed the call of quiet things: birdsong, riverlight, the hush of forgotten places. (He was just bored)

With the effortless grace of one who had mastered the habit of being in places he was not expected to be for centuries, Legolas wandered along the river-path. No escort. No permission. Not the faintest trace of guilt.

He led his faithful steed until he found what he sought. There, beneath the late afternoon sun, stretched wide the banks of the Anduin like a silver ribbon.

He had come to bathe.

“Verily,” Legolas murmured to himself as he was slipping out of his tunic beside the reeds, “the waters call to me as a lover’s sigh. Who am I to deny such sweet entreaty?”

He stepped into the shallow, humming an old lullaby older than most kingdoms. “Lo,” he declared to the running waters, “see how the Anduin glideth wherein I may rinse both heart and sinew. Only the trout may bear witness, and they have no quarrel with my toes.”

And yet, as he lay adrift upon the current, Legolas mused on the injustice of his childhood: not a single other elfling had drawn first breath in Mirkwood during the whole of the Third Age. He alone had borne the burden of watchful governesses, tireless guards, and lessons steeped in ceremony. Lady Valdethiel had schooled his tongue to sound like some minstrel lost in rhyme, for she deemed it “noble.” He had suffered endless coddling. Was he, then, not entitled to steal a quiet hour in the Anduin’s embrace?

The prince was utterly at peace, pale limbs shimmered in the light and the river barely rippled beneath his feet.

Alas, the peace was short lived. His keen ears noticed the distant screams.

Several leagues away, Gilraen, the wife of Arathorn son of Arador - the 15th chieftain of the Dúnedain, was running for her life. Her breath came in ragged bursts.

“Just a little further, my love,” she whispered to her son clutched in her arms, Aragorn – two years of age, wide-eyed and silent as the wind whipped past his dark curls.

Behind them, the snarls of Orcs echoed through the trees.

After her husband was unjustly killed during an ambush, Gilraen had been separated from her kin. Her sword was lost and her strength was failing.

Ahead, she glimpsed the river’s edge. If they could reach it, perhaps they could hide or at least delay the outcome that awaited them.

A shadow loomed.

Gilraen barely had time to register the Orc lunging toward them before it suddenly collapsed with an arrow protruding from its eye socket - exploded in a shower of black blood.

Gilraen whirled and found herself confronted by a remarkably tall figure stationed midstream – submerged to the knees with bow in hand, water cascading off his bare torso. Never before she had encountered an elf so strikingly ethereal.

“Strange quarry, to hunt in fair daylight,” he mused aloud. “I had thought thee but errant stags. Yet lo, thou art fouler.”

Another Orc charged. Without turning, Legolas nocked an arrow and fired over his shoulder. The Orc fell with an arrow through its throat. A third crumpled before it even saw him. Swift as summer lightning his arrows sang, each note deadly true, until the survivors shrieked and fled into the trees.

The elf then looked at Gilraen.

“Art thou in need of aid, Lady of Sorrow?” he asked politely, as if the setting were a formal gathering rather than a post massacre.

Gilraen, still holding Aragorn tightly, could only gape, caught between gratitude and bewilderment.

The toddler, however, was furious. With the scowling intensity known only to very small children, the boy fixed his gaze upon the elf. “No!” He shrieked, tiny fists shaking. “No, no, no!”

Legolas blinked at him.

“Good master,” he said gravely, addressing the toddler as though he were a visiting dignitary, “why dost thou glare so? Verily, I did naught but dispatch thine assailants.”

The boy’s face scrunched further, cheeks puffing, dark brows lowering. And then, as if summoning all the outrage in his tiny body, he reached out one small hand and smacked Legolas square upon the bare chest.

Legolas recoiled as though struck by thunder.

“Ha! A blow most mighty!” he cried. “Surely this child is heir to Gil-galad himself, for his palm carrieth the wrath of Mandos!”

The boy’s mother, though exhausted, nearly choked on a laugh.

“Peace, my lord… he is but two years of age. You must forgive him.”

“Two years?” Legolas echoed, aghast. “By Elbereth, he doth scowl with the wisdom of five hundred!”

The boy scowled harder.

Gilraen, trembling still, managed to straighten her shoulders. “My thanks, stranger. I am Gilraen, widow of Arathorn. This is my son.” Her arms tightened protectively around the glowering child. “The orcs pursued us for many days. Our escort is gone. I don’t –”

Legolas nodded sagely. “Ah. ‘Tis fortunate I was bathing.”

It was then that Gilraen realized he was almost bare, save for a pale linen loincloth covering his crotch. (It was one of the prince's governess’s teachings about the modesty of bathing outside: “Lest river spirits grow curious,” she had warned, with a severity that brooked no debate.)

Considering the presence of a two-year-old toddler, that 'small covering' was an important mercy. Still, Gilraen turned away quickly, cheeks flushed at the sight of so much exposed skin. The moment was surreal—half rescue, half scandal.

Legolas stepped ashore with easy confidence of one who had never needed to rush in his life. He regally shook his hair, sending water droplets flying in all directions, glimmering under the late sun. Unhurried, he gathered his tunic from the stone where it rested, moving with that quiet, ageless grace Elves seem to possess without effort.

“Here. Thou art weary. Take thou this garment. It is warm, though less so for having been recently removed.” He draped his moss-green cloak about Gilraen’s shoulders, then asked, “Whither dost thou journey?”

“Rivendell,” Gilraen said weakly.

At this, Legolas brightened.

“Why, lady, thou art in fortune! For I was even now considering a jaunt to that selfsame valley. I shall escort thee thither without delay.”

He turned, sweeping one arm in a graceful gesture, as though the path to Rivendell lay clearly marked by golden lanterns. “Come, noble lady and puissant babe! Let us tarry no longer where stench yet lingereth.”

Gilraen stared at him. Aragorn, still incensed, babbled what sounded like a curse in toddler-speak.

Legolas patted his head. “Fear not, small one. No further Orcs shall trouble thee.”

Aragorn responded by attempting to bite his finger.

Thus began the most peculiar journey.

***

When at last they arrived into the hidden vale, Legolas still humming to himself, Gilraen all but collapsed with relief. Elrond Half-elven himself came forth, grave and steady.

“Legolas?” the Lord of Imladris said, staring at the unlikely trio. “Why are you here? And why are you… wet?”

Legolas executed a perfect bow. “Lord Elrond. I found these mortals beset by Orcs. As I was nearby, I thought it prudent to deliver them unto thee. Take them, for they are thine by fate’s design.”

Elrond’s gaze flicked to Gilraen, who looked like she had been dragged through a war, then to the child in her arms. The boy stared at Legolas with the simmering wrath of one who had decided, in the manner of all toddlers, that something was intolerably unfair.

Then he turned back to the blond elf, “You… happened upon them.”

“Aye. Whilst bathing.”

“Why would you bath so far from Mirkwood?”

“I craved new winds and stranger waters.” Legolas spilled his reason, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

Elrond’s lips twitched, none could say whether it was in amusement or disbelief, “I see.”

Gilraen, finally finding her voice, said, “My lord, he saved our lives. I owe him everything.”

Legolas waved a hand dismissively. “‘Twas but a trifle.”

At this, Aragorn finally exploded. Pointing one chubby finger at Legolas, he shouted with all the fury a toddler could muster: “BAD!”

The room fell silent.

Legolas blinked down at the child. “Dost thou dislike me, small one?”

Aragorn nodded vehemently, his tiny hand grabbing a lock of Legolas’s shining hair. He tugged, hard.

“Mine!” he declared.

Legolas gasped, more scandalized than hurt. “Unhand thy claim, small mortal! Forsooth, thou hast plucked at my tresses most cruelly!”

Gilraen hurried to pry the boy away, mortified. Elrond, however, simply pinched the bridge of his nose.

Gilraen flushed, half-apology, half-disbelief. “Forgive him, my lord… he knows not—”

“Lord?” Legolas’s brows arched, playful. “Nay, call me naught but Legolas.” He inclined his head with courtly drama. “At thy service.”

Gilraen offered a grateful smile. “Then… Legolas, I thank you. You have saved us.”

“Think not upon it,” he said lightly and smiled.

Elrond, deciding he had endured enough, said, “Legolas, thank you. We will take care of them from here.”

With another elegant bow, Legolas turned to leave. “Then I shall take my leave. Fare thee well, Lady Gilraen. And to thee as well, small… scowling child.”

And with that, the Prince of Mirkwood strode away, humming softly to himself once more, leaving behind one grateful mother and a toddler who would grow up harboring an undying grudge against elves who rescued people without even breaking a sweat and flirted with his mother (he thought).

Thus began the strangest of tales: the story of how a spoiled Wood-elf, in search a pleasant swim, accidentally rescued the heir of Gondor—only to be called “BAD” for his trouble.

***

Later, back to Mirkwood’s hall, King Thranduil nearly overturned his wine goblet when his wayward son finally reappeared.

“Where have you been, Legolas?”

“Oh, Ada! I just rescued a mortal babe with most valiant scowling.”

Thranduil stared at his son in silence for a long moment before pouring himself another wine. His one and only elfling was always like this, regardless. Some things, he decided, were better left unasked.

Chapter Text

The High Pass of the Misty Mountain, T.A. 2945

Young Estel, the heir to the throne of Gondor and Arnor - though he didn’t know that part yet - just slipped out of Rivendell past midnight. Fourteen of age and already sick to death of being coddled like a fragile little boy. Bow bouncing on his back, heart hammering with pride. Tonight, he would prove himself capable of hunting alone. He had been trained by the best warriors of Rivendell. Now, he could track, shoot, and wield a blade better than folks twice his age. He is confident.

The boy crouched low in the brush. He was squinting at the ground with the eyes as sharp as an eagle (or so he liked to think). A triumphant smile formed on his lips. There! He had found what he was sure were orc tracks - deep claw marks and churned earth.

Oh! How he could almost hear the glory songs sung later: Estel the Bold, who uncovered the hidden lair of the enemy singlehanded!

He ignored, of course, the more mundane evidence: paw-prints like spades dug into the earth and a burrow with clumps of fur snagged on a root. Orcs did not make dens of packed mud, nor did they shed brown fur. But Estel’s imagination was far stronger than his reasoning.

In truth, it was a badger den.

Unaware, Estel crept through the dark, following the trail with grim determination. He imagined himself returning at dawn with a prize, Elrond proud, Glorfindel astonished, the twins forced to admit his skill.

Instead, he stumbled upon a bridge.  A shadow loomed under the arch. Not a campfire, nor tents, but something.

And then it snored.

Its chest rose like a forge bellows, drool dripping to the stones below. Its breath was thick with rot. Grey skin. Nails like chipped stone.

A troll.

Estel considered retreat, just for a breath, but then pride struck like a spur in his ribs. He was no child. He was a hunter of orcs. He would not run.

Then his step dislodged a pebble. Estel froze. His mouth went dry. The troll’s eye snapped open.

“Oi,” it rumbled. “Late-night snack.”

Before Estel could move, the troll’s massive hand swooped forward and seized him by the ankle. Upside-down the world swung, his bow clattering uselessly to the dirt.

“Release me, foul creature!” Estel shouted, flailing with a knife far too small to matter. “Or... or I shall sing so terribly your ears will bleed!”

The troll blinked, unimpressed. “Wot’s a sing?” The monster squinted at him, voice slow as mud. “Nyum. Eat raw… or stew?” It scratched its belly with its other hand, clearly debating recipes.

“I’m very stringy!” Estel offered desperately, trying to remember everything Elladan had taught him about troll-fighting. Unfortunately, most of those lessons had assumed he would not be dangling upside down at the time. “Terrible eating! Probably poisonous! I had mushrooms for breakfast!”

“Mushrooms is good for stew,” the troll mused. “But where’s me pot? Left it at the cave. Maybe just raw then. Crack the bones first? Or save ‘em for soup later?”

This was it. Estel the Bold was going to die, not in a glorious battle but as an ingredient of Troll’s cuisine.

Meanwhile at the high above, Legolas Thranduillion wandered beneath the stars. He had long since ditched his Mirkwood escort to pursue something far more worthy: a thrush whose song carried seven distinct trills. His governess would have called it a noble study; Legolas called it pleasant whimsy.

So intent was he on the bird that he almost missed the sound of human shrieking.

Almost.

The noise was from the shouts of a mortal child and the guttural growl of a troll.

Legolas sighed. “Alas.”

He padded to the ridge and peered down, serene as dawn. A troll dangled a boy upside down, discussing cooking methods.

“Prithee, good troll,” Legolas called, voice clear as silver, “why dost thou harass yon mortal child? ‘Tis uncouth, aye, and discourteous. Wouldst thou not seek a worthier feast - mayhap a boulder, or a thicket of moss?”

Both troll and boy craned their necks upward toward the lilting voice drifted down from the ridge. Smooth, amused, and entirely misplaced for the dire scene. There upon the slope stood an elf, golden hair shimmering like a banner in the breeze, bow half-raised as though the moment were a leisure practice in archery. The troll blinked up. “Wot? Elf? Huh. Tastes like grass.” It dropped Estel unceremoniously into the dirt and lunged upward instead.

Estel scrambled on his knees, hacking up a bit of dirt, and glared at the elf. “No, no, no, do not antagonize it!”

Legolas sighed like a picture of tragic patience. “Ah, mortals, how oft dost they cry warning when wisdom is already at hand.”

He drew his bow in one smooth arc, loosed an arrow with a flick so graceful it flew with perfect precision directly up the troll’s left nostril.

There was a moment of perfect silence. The troll reared back, eyes went wide, mouth opened. And then—

“AAAAA—AAAAA—AAAACHOOOOO!”

A torrent of slime was spraying across the moss and onto poor Estel, who sputtered and gagged.

Before the beast even had a chance to shake off the pain, Legolas fired another arrow, this time straight at its hairy foot.  The arrow pierced through the thick skin, and the troll - already off balance from its explosive sneeze - slipped on the now-slimy moss, pinwheeled its arms in a manner that would have been comical if Estel wasn’t covered in its bodily fluids, and crashed backward onto a large stone with a sound like a small earthquake.

The troll lay still, unconscious.

***

Legolas descended the slope like moonlight flowing downhill, expression serene. He stopped before the boy.

Estel, dripping with dust and troll snot, staggered upright and attempted dignity. “I HAD IT HANDLED!”

He did not, in fact, have the troll handled. But teenage pride is a powerful thing.

Legolas looked him over, unbothered. “Verily, thy screeching would have felled mountains. Yet mine arrow was swifter.” He produced a handkerchief with courtly grace. “Here, thou art covered in troll mucus.”

Estel snatched the handkerchief, muttering. “I nearly stabbed it. I was close.”

“Aye,” Legolas intoned gravely, though his eyes sparkled, “as close as a babe unto a wolf’s maw. And thy threat to sing was a stratagem most cunning, indeed!”

Estel scowled. He loathed those sparkles. Before he opened his mouth for some dignified retort, only for the troll to stir. With a furious roar, it lurched back to its feet.

The boy froze. “It is awake.”

“Elf,” the troll snarled, murder in its tiny eyes. “Gonna squash you. Gonna squash you and make elf paste and—”

Legolas did not hang around. He seized Estel by the collar, like one would scoop up a kitten from reaching a butter, and tucked him under one arm, ignoring the boy’s muffled protests.

“Unhand me!” Estel howled. This is humiliating!

“Pray, cease thy squirming,” Legolas said mildly, already running. “Thou dost make thyself difficult to transport.”

“I do not need to be transported. I am fourteen! Practically a MAN!”

The troll thundered after them, crashing through trees, rage probably waking every squirrel within five miles across the valley. Legolas led the chase deliberately, every turn angled toward the eastern cliffs. The horizon was already paling.

At the cliff’s edge, the troll raised its club, bellowing.

Legolas waited until the creature was almost upon them, Estel could smell its breath, which was somehow worse than being covered in its mucus, and then, with casual ease, jumped.

Not forward. Up.

Legolas leapt high over a mess of thorny brush, Estel still tucked under his arm like carry-on satchel.

The troll, eyes completely blinded by fury, barreled forward - missed the bush, missed the edge of the cliff, and apparently missed everything except the open air.

The first rays of dawn crested the horizon. Sunlight struck the beast mid-fall.

Its roar froze in its throat, its limbs stiffened, and before it struck the riverbed below it had already hardened into lifeless stone.

The valley fell silent, save for Estel’s indignant sputtering from under Legolas’ arm.

“Put me down!”

Legolas set him gently on his feet, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes. “There. Thou art unbroken.”

“I didn’t need your help.”

“Indeed? Then I shall return hence, and leave thee to thine own valor.” Legolas hummed as if considering it, then added brightly: “Yet lo, the troll is now a statue, and thou art still breathing. Methinks fate favors thee today.”

Estel seethed. However, before he could retort, Elrond’s patrol arrived - Glorfindel at their head, Elladan and Elrohir close behind. They found:

• One fuming adolescent dripping in troll snot.
• One humming elf adjusting his quiver.
• And the remains of a troll-turned-statue decorating the valley below.

“Legolas?”

The elf, Legolas, smiled. “Greetings, Glorfindel of Flame and Fury! And behold — my brothers of laughter and lament, Elladan and Elrohir!” Elladan grinned. Elrohir gave a mock salute, eyes already gleaming with mischief.

“I chanced upon this child in some distress.”

“I was not in distress! Never will!” The adolescent scowled, arms crossed.

Elrond himself rode forward, face pale with controlled fury.

“Estel,” he said, voice deadly calm, “we shall speak of this later.”

“I was tracking Orcs.”

“Those were badger tracks,” Glorfindel said dryly. Behind him, the twins tried to hold their laughter.

Legolas, ever helpful, added, “And lo, a troll did seize him.” Estel’s glare toward him intensified.

“Why are you covered in slime?” Elrond asked the boy.

“Troll sneeze,” Estel pointed his chin toward Legolas. “Of all its body parts, he chose to shoot at its nostril.”

Elrond sighed then turned to Legolas. “Once again, we owe you our thanks, Prince Legolas.”

The said elf tilted his head, puzzled. “O goodly Lord Elrond, wise among the wise, whose brow doth bear the weight of ages! Sayest thou ‘again’? Methinks I did but wander these paths and found a troll most uncouth. I offered courtesy and correction.”

Elrond’s lips twitched. “Twelve years ago, you rescued a young woman and her infant son from orcs near these same mountains. Do you not recall? You left them in my care.” The lord gestured to the boy, “He is Gilraen’s son. Estel is his name. My foster son.”

Memory dawned across Legolas’ features like sunlight cresting the treetops. “Ah! The mother fair, who didst tremble as a fawn. And The scowling babe! No wonder thy expression seems so familiar.” He reached out to ruffle Estel's hair but quickly paused mid-motion, eyeing the glistening mucus. “Thou art taller now.” He said instead. 

Estel crossed his arms, cheeks burning. He felt the ground vanish beneath him. That elf? That ridiculous half-dressed rescuer Mother whispered of? HIM?

Elrond’s gaze shifted. “Estel. You will thank Legolas.”

The boy’s throat locked. His pride battled with the weight of command. Finally, in a voice as thin as reed-grass, he muttered, “...Thank you.”

Legolas bowed deeply, as though the muttered words were a sonnet sung. “Nay, sweet child, thank not I. Thank rather the wind, which bore my arrow swift; and the sun, which turned that yon beast to stone; and perchance the sneeze of fate itself. For, ‘twas but chance! I was tracking a thrush most rare with seven distinct trills when I heard thy most valiant scream.”

“A bird,” Elrond repeated flatly.

“Aye. I have not yet found it, but the search hath been most enlightening.”

“And you just... happened upon my son being attacked by a troll.”

“Indeed. ‘Twas most fortuitous. The creature bore him aloft in unseemly manner.”

Elladan clapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking. Elrohir gave up entirely and laughed outright. Even Glorfindel - ancient, golden, and usually unshakable - let the corner of his lips twitch.

Estel wanted the earth to open up and swallow him.

Elrond closed his eyes briefly, as though communing with the Valar for patience. “Come, both of you. Let us return home before any more... incidents occur.”

Estel glared at Legolas. He kicked a pebble with unnecessary force. He didn’t know which was worse - being rescued, or being remembered as “the scowling babe.” His inner thoughts raged: Ugh. I hate him. He is pretty. And smug. And pretty. I hate him.

***

The midday sun hung high over Rivendell felt like a personal insult to Estel. He jabbed the handkerchief at his shirt like a flag, trudged across the arching bridge, boots scuffing the stone with each step. His mood was foul – not just from the lingering scent of troll-snot, but from the memory of humiliation still clinging to his pride like damp wool.

He then rounded the bend and spotted the source of his frustration. It was the infuriatingly graceful elf, Legolas.

The elf, radiant as dawn after his own bath, was humming in the courtyard, one hand lifted as if in greeting to a butterfly that had landed on his finger. Estel internally fumed, ‘Of course! That strange elf would talk to a butterfly. Does he think himself a painting?’

He approached Legolas, “You treat me like a child.”

Legolas cocked his head, genuinely surprised. “Prithee, thou art a child and wert in imminent peril of being devoured.”

“I was formulating a plan,” Estel insisted, his voice tight. “You did not even give me a chance. How old are you even, to be so high and mighty?” If words could have been daggers, he would have been a battlefield.

Legolas puffed up with obvious pride. “I shall have thee know I am nine hundred and nine summers this year.”

For a heartbeat the world stilled around the pair. Estel blinked, then spat, “Nine… what? Nine hundred? Yet you still get scolded by your Ada?”

Legolas drew himself straighter, affronted artistry in every line. “Thy tone is most ungracious. I am ancient with dignity.”

Estel, who still could not shake the indignation of being babied, crossed his arms. “I bet Lord Elrond is older and wiser than King Thranduil. He would never be so unreasonable. Look how he raised El and Ro better than him.”

Legolas bristled the way only a noble elf could - very slowly, like a flower offended by dust. “Thou darest speak thus of mine father?” His voice took on an edge that suggested his governess had also taught him the art of aristocratic offense. “King Thranduil hath immense wisdom and grace. Verily, he is a valiant warrior and hath seen seven thousand summers. Malign him not!”

The new number hung in the air between them. Estel’s expression turned into an incredulous snort. “Seven thousand?”

“Aye,” Legolas affirmed. “Seven thousand and– “ (he consulted an entirely unnecessary mental ledger) “ –some centuries hence.” He puffed. “He is ancient, wise, and doth possess unparalleled hair care.”

Estel stared, and then, unable to resist teenage cruelty: “If he is 7000 and you are yet a 1000, then you are practically a babe.”

For once Legolas did not merely arch a single elegant eyebrow. He went full splutter. A flush of high indignation colored his fair cheeks. “A babe?” he sputtered, his elegant speech fracturing for a single, glorious moment. He took a swift step forward, his hands flexing.  “If I am an infant in thy eyes, then I am granted the infant’s privilege of a tantrum. I am allowed to choke thee where thou standest.”

He moved with a mock-threatening flourish that, if taken seriously, might have been alarming. Estel’s jaw clenched, nailing his feet on the ground so hard less he would stumble backward over a low bench.

Before anyone could decide the world had finally tilted into chaos, two long shadows fell across the clearing.

“Now, now, brothers.” Elladan’s voice was dry as riverbed stone. He and Elrohir stepped forward with twin amused grins, Elrond’s sons and Rivendell’s most convenient referees. Elladan circled Legolas in a loose headlock, “Greenleaf, you will not throttle our little Estel, no matter how much he deserves it.”

Elrohir stepped in front of Estel, blocking his path with a grin that mixed fondness and warning. “And you, little brother, must stop poking the royal badger. He has very sharp teeth.”

Legolas, caught by the firm restraint of the patient half-elf, visibly deflating into something like chastened dignity. Elladan finally released him with a final affectionate hair ruffle. “Now, both of you, behave. Or we will tell Ada you were fighting over who is the bigger elfling.”

“Forsooth,” Legolas said, straightening his cloak and offered a small, wounded bow. “The insolence of mortal children is a trial far greater than any troll.”

Estel’s eyes narrowed. “I told you I am not a child,” he snapped. “I have studied swordplay, tracked beasts, read half the library, speak three tongues, and can recite the Lay of Luthien backwards.”

Legolas tilted his head, “And yet thou art still shorter than my quiver.”

Elladan and Elrohir, though standing apart, exchanged a glance that translated roughly to oh good, this will only get worse.

***

Indeed, it got worse.

The following days in Rivendell saw a strange new tournament unfold. It had not known such noise in decades.

It began with something simple, Legolas and Estel seated across from each other at the evening meal. The rest of the company was scattered around, lost in their own chatter, but these two? Absolutely locked in a showdown over what, honestly, looked like a pretty forgettable stew.

“I can name every herb in this stew,” Estel declared, pointing with his spoon. “Athelas, rosemary, sage...”

Legolas took a sip of water, like he was savoring the finest Dorwinion wine instead of whatever passed for riverwater in these parts. “Well then, I shall tell thee true. I know the very meadow where each herb did first sprouted, I know the number of sunlit days it drank in, and the very song the earth sang when the roots were torn free.” He set his goblet down, making it click softly, almost like punctuation on his boast. “The sage was particularly sorrowful.”

Estel scowled into his bowl.

The competition escalated quickly by the next day.

Estel and Legolas both reaching for the same practice bow in the armory.

“I touched it first,” Estel declared.

“Nay, thou didst not. Mine hand was swifter than thine mortal eye could follow,” Legolas countered serenely, which of course made it infinitely more irritating.

Elladan and Elrohir were watching from the doorway, already grinning.

“Settle it with a contest,” Elladan suggested. “Archery. First to hit the center thrice.”

Elrond, walking past, paused mid-step. “Please do not—”

Too late.

The target was set. Estel knew archery was clearly going to be Legolas’ domain. But Estel was determined, his jaw set with the stubborn pride that was apparently hereditary among the descendants of Isildur.

“Twenty paces,” Estel declared, nocking an arrow. “Center target.”

His arrow flew true, striking just left of center.

Legolas didn’t even seem to aim. His arrow split Estel’s down the middle, embedding itself in the exact center of the target.

“That’s, that doesn’t even, how is that fair?” Estel threw his hands up. “You have had nine hundred years of practice!”

“Verily, ‘tis not mine fault that thou wert born in a time most inconvenient for the gaining of skills.”

“I wager a week of polishing weapons that Legolas can shoot an apple from your hand, Estel, before you can even blink,” Elladan announced cheerfully.

“I wager Estel will finally best him in something, if only by annoying him into surrender,” Elrohir countered, clapping his foster brother on the back.

Elrond rubbed his temples.

Behind him, Glorfindel who was passing by the archery range and on his way to breakfast, took one look at the scene, turned around, and walked away with the purposeful stride of someone who had lived far too long to get involved in whatever this was.

Next was where they competed over who could climb a certain tree fastest. Estel, strong and determined, scrambled up the bark with gritty resolve. Legolas, a literal proud wood-elf, simply walked up the trunk as if gravity were a mild suggestion, reaching the top branch before Estel was halfway.

Next, they attempted to skip stones on the Bruinen. Estel managed four skillful skips.  Legolas’ single stone skipped fourteen times, danced on the water’s surface, and came to rest perfectly atop Estel’s sunken final stone.

Then came a race down the length of the meadow. Estel pumped his arms furiously, hair flying, while Legolas seemed to float over the grass like some smug swan.

Estel collapsed at the finish line, panting. Legolas hadn’t broken a sweat.

“Thou art quick for a mortal child,” Legolas conceded, which made Estel want to hurl a rock at him.

“Again!” Estel snapped.

“Again!” Elladan and Elrohir cheered.

Elrond muttered something about raising five children was never in the plan.

By supper, they were racing to see who could eat more bread rolls. Estel managed four before nearly choking. Legolas, after delicately nibbling his third, simply announced, “In mine household, we do not measure strength by gluttony.”

Estel accused him of cheating. Legolas countered that dignity was victory enough. The twins declared it a tie, mostly because they were laughing too hard to count.

The most foolish competition was over who could remain silent the longest. They sat on a low wall, glaring at each other. Minutes stretched. The air got so thick with tension. At last, as if the Valar was already tired to watch further, a small, fluffy caterpillar dropped from a tree and landed on Legolas’ knee. He observed it for a moment, then spoke without breaking his gaze from Estel.

“Thine face is twitching,” he noted calmly. “It resembles a startled squirrel.”

“You started talking first,” Estel burst out triumphantly, pointing a finger. “You lose.”

“I spoke not to converse but to state a truth of mine observation. Thy twitching is a fact of nature, like the wind.”

“This is ridiculous!”

The competitive chaos in Rivendell showed no signs of stopping. Now, it had moved to who could identify the most birds by song alone. The constant bickering and one-upmanship finally forced Lord Elrond’s hand. He summoned his sons with a weary sigh.

“This has gone on long enough,” he stated. “The air tastes of adolescent pride, and it is spoiling the peace of my valley. Speak with them. Separately.”

***

Elladan found Estel first, sharpening his knife with a little too much force. “Your rivalry with the Woodland prince is becoming a ballad of its own, little brother,” he began, leaning against a pillar. “And not a very good one.”

“He started it,” Estel muttered, not looking up. “He treats me like a child.”

“Perhaps, but he is like that with everyone else, even to his elders. It is not personal, he was raised by a governess who apparently believed speaking like you are in an ancient epic was the height of manners.” He paused. “But that is not what I want to talk about.”

“Estel.” Elladan’s voice softened. “You two are more similar than you know. You both lost your mother. But you have memories of Lady Gilraen. You know the sound of her voice.” He paused, letting the words settle. “Legolas never knew his. He has only a single painting in the long halls of his father. He has nothing else. So when you mock his father, you mock the only parent he has ever had. Be kind, Estel. His pride is a shield for a different kind of hurt.”

Estel’s hand just… froze, the whetstone halfway along the blade. He stared into the metal, his own face staring back at him.

Elladan caressed the boy’s shoulder, “Valar know he can be maddening. But maybe... don’t mock his father? Thranduil is doing his best, just like Ada did his best with you after Gilraen passed.”

He said no word, yet something in his shoulders eased, the anger kind of leaking away.

Meanwhile, Elrohir sought out Legolas, who was perched high in a birch tree, sulking with immense grace.

“Your poetic jabs are losing their artistry, Little Leaf,” Elrohir called up. “Calling his hair ‘a bird’s abandoned nest’ was a little weak.”

Legolas sniffed, looking away. “The truth needs no embellishment.”

“The truth is,” Elrohir said, his tone losing its playful edge, “you are baiting a boy who carries his own grief. Estel’s mother, the Lady Gilraen, whom you once saved… she died when he was only ten years old.”

Legolas’ head snapped up, genuine surprise in his eyes. “The Lady Gilraen? But... she was hale when last I-” He paused, calculating. “Twelve years past, when I didst rescue them. She seemed most robust.”

“Grief took her,” Elrohir said quietly. “After Arathorn’s death, she never recovered. So when you treat Estel like a child, you remind him of all the years he lost, of the mother who cannot see him grow.”

Legolas looked down, his blue eyes wide with sudden understanding. The wind rustled the leaves around him. “I… I knew not of this,” he said quietly, his archaic speech softening. “That is a sorrow no child should bear.”

Elrohir smiled slightly. “You know how that feels, do you not? Always being treated as the baby of Mirkwood?”

Legolas’ expression flickered with recognition. “Verily, ‘tis most... vexing.”

“So maybe ease up on him? He is prickly because he is hurting. And because you’re honestly really annoying when you win at everything without trying.”

“I do try,” Legolas protested weakly.

Elrohir just looked at him.

“Perhaps not... visibly,” Legolas admitted.

***

Much later, under a moon that seemed to listen in on old grievances and fresh beginnings. Estel and Legolas wandered alone, almost by accident, and eventually met from opposite direction by the same garden wall. The air between them was different, the hush wasn’t sharp anymore, gone was the bristle of competition.

Estel spoke first, his voice low. “I should not have spoken ill of your father.”

Legolas inclined his head. “‘Twas unkind of me to jest at thy… most determined efforts. Also I should not call thee a child. Thou art... thou art no longer a babe, though mine eyes recall thee thus.” He paused, struggling with words that weren’t handed to him by ancient poetry. “I should not have carried thee as I did. ‘Twas expedient, yet discourteous to thy pride.”

Estel’s lips twitched. “You did save my life. Even if the troll snot was... traumatic.”

“The mucus was most regrettable.”

“Regrettable? I’m still finding bits of it in my hair!”

Despite themselves, they both smiled.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The air felt softer, like the garden itself was breathing easier.

“I have heard of thy mother. She was a lady of great courage. To have lost her is a great wound.”

Estel nodded, “A truce?” he offered first.

“A true truce,” Legolas agreed. “Not of rivals, but of… understanding.”

They shook hands – Estel with too much force, Legolas with too much grace – and both immediately tried to outlast the other in firmness of grip.

Elrond, watching from the balcony, sighed heavily. “Valar help me.” Because deep down, even without using his foresight, the lord knew: this was only the beginning.

***

The next morning, Legolas prepared to ride out, hair gleaming like spun sunlight. He bowed to Elrond, after assured the lord that he would continue his search for the seven-voiced bird before returning to Mirkwood.

Elrond, who’d learned long ago that attempting to redirect Legolas was like attempting to redirect a particularly determined river, simply sighed and made Legolas promise to at least avoid any more trolls.

“Verily, I shall endeavor to circumvent such creatures in future,” Legolas agreed solemnly.

He saluted the twins and gave Estel one last teasing look.

“Fare thee well, young Estel. May thy aim grow true and thy tracking lead not to badgers.”

Estel glared. “That was ONE TIME.” He folded his arms, determined not to care.

Legolas mounted his horse and rode away, humming.

Estel’s eyes, traitorous and lingering, followed him until he vanished into the trees.

Elrohir nudged him with a wicked grin. “You shall miss him.”

“I shall not” Estel retorted, too quickly. “He is still infuriating.”

“Of course,” Elrohir said, his smirk gentle.

However, after a span of breath he muttered, almost too low to hear, he asked the twin. “Do you… do you know when he is coming again?”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged identical grins.

“Who?” Elrohir asked innocently.

Estel scowled. “You know who.”

Elladan pretended to think. “Hard to say. With a prince of Mirkwood, one never knows.”

Elrohir clapped Estel on the shoulder. “With Legolas, it could be days if he gets bored. It could be months if his father assigns him a patrol. It could even be years if his whims carry him elsewhere.”

Estel huffed, turned away sharply, and muttered, “Good. I hope it is years.”

But his gaze was still fixed on the path where Legolas had vanished, scowl softening despite himself. The prince’s handkerchief was still tucked in his pocket, never intended to give it back.