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Greenwood (later called Mirkwood), Spring T.A. 2025.
The woodland kingdom was restless that spring. Legolas Thranduillion was an elfling of five, no taller than the knee of most warriors. Golden hair floated about his shoulders like a halo of mischief and utterly convinced he was very mature indeed.
He was the only elfling born in Greenwood during the Third Age—a rather dramatic child, if you asked any of the wood-elves in the kingdom. He spoke in the language of old, taught by his governess, Lady Valdethiel. A tall and slender elven lady with grey-green eyes and silver-gold hair braided elegantly to reflect her status. She was the last of an ancient line of tutors from the fallen kingdom of Doriath in the First Age. Her influence had impressed upon the young prince that every word must be spoken as though carved into marble. Unfortunately, this meant that even his smallest complaints rang out like royal decrees.
It began on an ordinary afternoon. The Dúnedain passed north-east on quiet roads, seeking counsel with the Woodland King about increased shadow and border dangers. Among them rode Aragorn, son of Aravir. The tallest of his rangers, solemn, grave-eyed, clad in worn travel leathers that spoke of hard miles and harder duties. He cut an imposing figure, especially to one little prince, Legolas, who peeked from behind a pillar within the great cavern‑halls of the Woodland Realm.
The prince tugged at his governess’s sleeve, “Lady Valdethiel.” He whispered fiercely, “Who is yon shining lord with hair brown as the raven’s wing in sunlight and gaze deep as starlit pools?” He gazed at the comely man, blue eyes were wide, filled with the earnest sincerity that only the very young can muster when they are about to do something profoundly foolish.
His governess, Valdethiel, was so used to her princeling dramatics, did not look up from the scroll in her hand. “That is Lord Aragorn, son of Aravir,” she murmured patiently. “He comes as guest and ally. Mind thy manners, Young Prince. Gawk him not.”
"Why do these strange folk bear hair upon their jaws? No elf hath such adornment."
“That, my prince, is hight a beard. Mortals wear it as nature’s gift."
Legolas glanced back at the man, palms pressed against his breast as though to steady the wild flutters of his heart. “Lo! My soul is smitten!”
Valdethiel nearly tripped on the hem of her gown.
***
The Great Infatuation reached its peak at supper that very evening. In a blur of golden hair, Legolas wriggled loose from his nursemaid and climbed to stand onto the empty seat next to Thranduil.
“Greetings, O noble captain of men!” cried Legolas before the entire court, his voice rose clear with all the ceremony of a royal proclamation. “I am Legolas of the Greenwood! Prithee, wilt thou wed me when I am grown?”
The hall went into a shocked silence. The harpist's fingers slipped. A serving elf dropped an entire platter of fruit. Thranduil’s goblet halted midair. The prince kept going.
“I am five summers old. Wise beyond measure. And mine governess saith that alliances must be forged early. Therefore, I propose thee wedlock. Immediately.” He grinned in triumphant confidence, voice echoing off the carved stones and lantern-lit pillars.
His king father glanced at Lady Valdethiel. She blinked and subtly shook her head, eyes silently insisting ‘that particular lesson was never part of the curriculum.’
Aragorn I blinked once, twice, at the small earnest creature. His face, so often set in lines of grave responsibility, now suddenly broke into mirth. His laughter rang out. A deep sound that startled even the grave councillors and the visiting rangers, yet somehow it filled the hall with unexpected warmth.
The ranger chieftain wiped his eyes. “Little prince.” He managed at last, leaning down so his stern face softened into kindness. “You are scarcely tall enough to reach my knee. Ask me again when you can draw a bowstring without falling backward.”
Legolas flushed scarlet, puffing his chest. “I shall grow swiftly! My heart is steadfast as the mountains! Mark thou my vow, O Captain lord. One day I shall be thy bride!”
Laughter stirred through the hall. Valdethiel pressed a hand to her forehead. Thranduil's wine goblet hit the table with a decisive thump. The elven king's face took on the look of one praying for sudden invisibility.
***
Having now publicly declared his intentions, Legolas decided that proper courtship must follow. He had overheard often courtly ballads about romance and devotion when Valdethiel thought he was sleeping. Thus, he was determined to do this correctly.
The very next day, the prince approached the Dúnadan Chieftain during a quiet moment in one of the outer garden glades. He clutched something behind his back.
“I have brought thee a gift, Husband-to-be” announced Legolas with a proud smile. His small voice quivered with importance. He produced a stick. Not just any stick, but a very important stick. Long, straight, and only slightly chewed by squirrels. It was his most prized possession. So in his estimation, should be a treasure worthy of kings. He thrust it toward Aragorn with both hands, bowing so deeply that he nearly toppled forward. “Accept this token of mine esteem!”
Aragorn looked at the earnest, golden-haired prince before him, taking the stick with all the gravity of one receiving a sacred relic.
“I... I shall treasure it,” he stammered. A laugh threatened to escape him, lodged in his throat. Behind, his vice-chiefs fared no better, lips pressed tight as they fought to look soldierly.
From a sunlit alcove above, Thranduil watched his son solemnly offer a garden twig to a mortal as if it were a weapon of renown. He pinched the bridge of his nose, “Why?” He murmured to no one in particular, “I should have sent him to Lórien for schooling.”
Yet the prince’s spirit was unspent. Buoyed by his triumph, he pressed on with even bolder gestures. He serenaded Aragorn from what he considered a safe distance. Which was to say, directly at his elbow during the private evening meal.
“Verily, thy beard is most impressive!” he sang, for he had not quite grasped the difference between a compliment and a serenade. “So dark and fine! I wish that beard were mine!” He paused, reconsidered.
“Nay, I wish that thou wert mine! Wed me now, or I shall cry. And shoot thee with my arrow—aye!” Legolas attempted a wink toward the man, but shut both eyes instead, then giggled behind his tiny palms.
Aragorn, to his credit, merely inclined his head with solemn grace. Lips were pulled very flat to stifle a laugh, then he said very slowly: “The sentiment is... noted, little prince.”
Thranduil spoke through gritted teeth. "Legolas. Get back to your chamber."
"But Adar!"
"Now."
As the pouting Legolas was plucked away by the red‑faced Valdethiel, she whispered—quite loudly—‘Prince Legolas! Compliments are given plain, not sung like tavern ballads. Especially whilst thy tunic is stained with jam!"
Aragorn leaned toward Thranduil, eyes sparkling. "Should I be concerned for my virtue, my lord?"
The Elvenking's glare could have frozen Greenwood in midsummer. "Do. Not. Encourage him."
...
Undeterred, Legolas' next move was offering the mortal chieftain to braid his hair but the man gently declined. He explained that he had pressing matters involving a cup of wine with the elven king.
Legolas then challenged him to a duel using a wooden sword and Aragorn agreed with the gravity of one accepting a sacred charge. He allowed the elfling to “defeat” him after a lengthy battle involving much enthusiastic flailing.
“Thou art my prisoner!” Legolas declared, grinning ear to ear, standing triumphantly over the fallen Chieftain. “Now thou must remain in the Greenwood forever!”
Aragorn lay staring up at the shifting pattern of sunlight through the leaves with a bemused expression. He paused for a breath as if considering his options, “I fear my people would miss me, little prince.”
“Then I shall go with thee!” Legolas announced, as if this solved everything.
Before Aragorn had to endure another duel, that was when Thranduil decided enough was enough. The Elvenking swept into the forest glade, robes flowing like storm clouds, determined to rescue the mortal guest from his son’s relentless proposals.
“Alas! My little prince would leave me so soon?" Thranduil sighed dramatically, feigning sorrow. "To wed a mortal before he had even mastered his letters? Verily, my heart is pierced with grief!”
Legolas froze, wide-eyed. “Nay, Adar! I would never abandon thee! Thou art my sun, my moon, and my jam supplier!”
Aragorn, trying to help, added gently. “Your father speaks wisely, My Prince. Perhaps let the seasons turn a few more times ere you make your petition once more.”
Still, the prince lifted his chin with stubborn pride. “Love knoweth no age, nor letters, nor jam stains! My heart is vast enough to cherish both Father and Husband!”
Lady Valdethiel appeared at his elbow like a stern shadow. “Thou art not even betrothed yet, my prince.”
Legolas gasped, spinning to face her with eyes wide in dramatic little fury. “But we could be!”
Thranduil groaned not very kingly, “This child will be the death of me.”
***
The next morning, Aragorn I prepared to depart. His horse was saddled. His men were waiting. Mist of their breath mingling with the woodland hush.
Then tumble of golden locks and boundless energy burst through the front gate just before the chieftain made to mount.
Legolas held out a clumsily woven crown of early spring flowers. “Take this token, that thou mayst remember thy betrothed when thou ridest afar!”
Aragorn crouched to accept it, settling the crooked crown on his dark hair with exaggerated dignity. “I shall wear it as a talisman,” promised Aragorn gravely. Mirth glimmered in his eyes still.
Behind him, his rangers exchanged knowing looks. Shoulders were trembling with laughter they dared not release. Yet even their amusement softened for they knew how farewells weighed on young hearts. Many of them had left children behind in the North. And in this tiny dramatic elfling, they saw a reflection of every child who had ever clung to them before a long road. Many rangers felt their heart unexpectedly stolen by the little prince’s fierce devotion.
Then Legolas sprang forward, wrapping his arms around the ranger’s bent form in sudden desperation. “Nay! Thou canst not depart! Who shall admire thee if not I?” protested the prince, small hands clutched at the travel-worn cloak.
In tender move, Aragorn released the tight hug and brought himself eye to eye with the distraught elfling. His weathered hand, rested gently on the child's shoulder. “One day, little prince. You will meet another mortal who steals your heart. And I suspect he will be just as bewildered by you as I am.”
Aragorn smiled as he carefully adjusting Legolas’s tiny braids. “But know this: if you would wed a Dúnadan, you must learn patience. Our years are long… but yours are longer still.”
Legolas nodded gravely, though his lip trembled. “Fear not! My love shall endure until the stars fall from the sky.”
As he straightened, he glanced over Legolas’s head to where Lady Valdethiel stood watching from the front gate. Her hands folded with grave composure. Their eyes met, inclining their heads in mutual respect of understanding between warrior and caretaker.
Then Aragorn mounted his horse and rode away along with his rangers. The flower crown was bouncing ridiculously upon his head.
Legolas sniffled, watching the Dúnedain faded among the woods. “Never shall I love again!”
***
That night, Valdethiel found her charge sprawled dramatically upon his bed. The prince was sighing like a bard in a tavern.
“Alas, my beloved rideth far!” He moaned. “The heavens themselves weep for our parting!”
Valdethiel tucked the blankets about him with weary affection. “Thou art five years old.”
“Yet my passion burneth eternal!” The prince declared, flinging an arm dramatically across his brow.
She chuckled despite herself. “Then perhaps, my prince, the Valar have destined thee for another Aragorn—one not yet born, but waiting far in the ages to come.”
Legolas’s eyes lit, the sorrow forgotten in an instant. “Another Aragorn? Forsooth? Then I shall wait, Lady Valdethiel! I shall wait a thousand years!”
The governess only shook her head, smiling into the dim crystal light. She knew not how strange and true his words would one day prove.
…
…
Nine centuries and thirty-seven summers later, short of the thousand Legolas had once vowed. Lady Valdethiel beheld a mortal ranger who had come to Mirkwood on a mission of diplomacy. In the wild he used the name Strider. He looked to be in his thirties.
“He is Aragorn son of Arathorn.” Thranduil told her then.
Stunned was not enough to describe the chill Valdethiel felt at the time. The ranger was not only bearing the same name as Aragorn son of Aravir, but also his stature was near enough to recall the first, though this one was more handsome still.
She watched as the man spoke with Legolas. ‘Intimate’ was not yet the right word. For the ranger’s gaze held more fond exasperation as though the prince were a puzzle that refused to be solved. Legolas himself remembered nothing of his childhood crush, yet Valdethiel, smiling into the crystal light, was convinced. This was the one foretold in jest so long ago, the Aragorn her little prince had promised to wait for.
And destiny had seen fit to deliver him before the thousand years were done.
END