Warnings: AU, emotional turmoils (but nothing graphic, as suggested by the rating above)

Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Drama

Pairings: none

Place&Time: Aman, Fourth Age

Notes: Some aspects of this piece of story are AU, but mostly it sticks to the canon books. The present tense signifies the present time, while the past tense signifies past experiences or events and pieces of memory. There are references to the Silmarillion here, but hopefully said points will explain themselves along the story. I am sorry if there are double (or even triple) letters in some words; it is the fault of the rubber keyboard, and I have no time to run the cursor left and right for the screen reader to read every letter. I apologise also for any other mistakes you might encounter in this piece; I scrapped my first attempt and made this one, but I did not have chance to prove-read it before submitting it to the site. This piece iss for Teitho July 2009, but also in the honour of some previous themes in this contest, namely “Games People Play”, “Family”, “White Lie”, and “As Time Goes By”.

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“Welcome to Tirion, my friend.”

Legolas jerks from his reverie and reflexively reaches for his twin knives. He remembers where he is only at the last moment. Albeit, his greeter seems to suspect what he has been about to do, judging from the latter’s knowing smile.

Before him stands a young ellon of perhaps a hundred years old. The ellon’s eyes are blue, yet his hair is dark grey, almost black, signifying a mingled lineage.

And presently those sky-coloured orbs are twinkling brightly like Elbereth’s stars.

“Thank you, my friend,” Legolas stutters while sketching a belated bow which he hopes is not insulting.

After the passing of his beloved friend Gimli, barely fifty years after the two companions’ small ship landed on a quiet shore of the Lonely Isle, Legolas was bidden by Olórin, whom people in Middle-Earth called Gandalf or Mithrandir (among the Wizard’s collection of names), to spend a time calming himself down in the Gardens of Lórien; or better, in Nienna’s dwelling by the Outer Sea. Now he is on his way to Lórien, but Olórin has designed for him to lodge in Tirion awhile before continuing his journey. So here he is, welcomed by a youth on the citi’s western gates.

What should he do now? The Maia has never left him a specific set of instructions or even directions for this sojourn among the ‘true’ Ñoldor – who did not set foot in Middle-Earth in the First Age before the War of Wrath. “A good company will be waiting for you on the western gates. You will recognise him as surely as he will you,” was all Olórin said.

True, people might easily recognise him, given his blue-green eyes uncommon among the Vanyar, Ñoldor and Teleri. But how to recognise his to-be host? Is this cheery young ellon the one Olórin was talking about?

There is only one way to find out…

“Olórin the Maia said that I would meet someone he had appointed on the western gates of Tirion,” he opines hesitantly. “Please forgive my rudeness… But are you the person he mentioned?”

The younger ellon laughs gaily. “Probably,” he beams. “We can only guess. I was told by the same Maia that I would be interested with what I would find here this morning, so I came.” He shrugs then, looking a little rueful. “He is always being mysterious. I guess you perceive him likewise, given your hesitance.” The jovial grin becomes a roguish one, although Legolas can see that his companion is hiding a secret from him.

All the same, warmth spreads throughout the Silvan’s body. He should be offended by the other ellon’s familiar manner in interacting with him. However, he instead finds such casual and unrestrained demeanour refreshing, making him feel like home. It banishes some of the cold feeling that has settled in his heart, body and mind since Gimli’s death.

It reminds him of someone also; someone in a long-gone time, in a place he will never be able to visit again save in reveries or dreams.

He does not realise when the younger ellon hooks an arm around his, nor when said ellon gently but persistently drags him away from the gates of the bustling city. He is living in another age, another place…

“Ada Elrond told me you are a prince,” a Secondborn boy of ten summers proclaimed unabashedly, and without introducing himself first too. The youth’s eyes sparkled with open curiosity and awe. “Is that right? How does it feel, being a prince? Do you go to battles, like the stories Master Erestor told?”

The unexpected battle under the shadows of the Lonely Mountain, the Battle of Five Armies, had been concluded along with its subsequent problems. Legolas was visiting Rivendell for a relaxation from the horrors of war, a respite before he resumed cleaning up his beloved home forest from what orcs left after the slaughter of their kind in the recent battle, and also the ever-encroaching spawns of Ungoliant. The Silvan Elf, Thranduil’s youngest child, had just arrived on the front porch of the Last Homely House, expecting a welcoming party which usually consisted of Elrond, his family, and his board of advisors.

Now that he was confronted by a chattering youth belonging to the race of Men, thus, he could only blink. He was given no room to reply or greet the boy properly, anyway. He felt just as helpless when the child dragged him into the house, unceremoniously, after introducing himself as Estel… And there was no one saving him from the sunny youngling.

Strangely, all the same, he did not wish for anyone to save him from his current position. He, being a king’s son and a captain of one hundred battle-hardened warriors, had never been approached in so familiar a fashion by people other than his family, yet he was not feeling uncomfortable in the least. In fact, his weary fëa found repose in the embracing warmth the little Man exuded. Those bright grey orbs were so captivating; intelligent but endearing at the same time.

`Now I have him.`

Legolas blinks rapidly. His blue-green eyes widen when the view before him comes into focus. He has been walking into the city, guided by his welcomer, and now an edifice the fruit of the Ñoldor’s finest workmanship is looming before him.

He turns his head to his right, noticing that an arm is wound around his. His gaze lands on the ever-bright blue orbs of the younger ellon.

He remembers those eyes, but they were not blue.

“Estel,” he breathes. His guide blinks.

Legolas blushes. “Sorry,” he mumbles and looks away. “You only reminded me of… my friend.”

He steals a look at the youth by his side through the corner of his eye. To his surprise, the latter is grinning with unflappable confidence. In fact, if the half-Nando were to venture a bold statement, he would say that those blue eyes are laughing at him.

`Ah… Little impertinent one… You behave so much like my Estel. If only you knew how much pain you are causing me through that unique brand of impishness…`

Warm fingertips alight softly on his right cheek. Legolas starts. The coiling and throbbing pain in his tight chest remains, but his mind is no longer living in the past. When he traces the fingers to their owner with his gaze, his clouded eyes meet those of his guide. Gone now the laughter he has perceived in those cerulian pools, replaced by solemnity and concern; yet, despite all, he can still sense the unwavering confidence in the younger ellon. The unassuming youth is like an anchor to the tempest-trapped ship which is Legolas’ mind.

“Pardon my presumption, but I think you are not fit enough for surprises. I will introduce you to my family later, then,” his guide states, smiling. Legolas nods numbly.

The implication of the words only registers in his conscience when they are already ensconced on the edge of a fountain pool. They have not strayed far from the way leading to the palace-like building, but the garden in which the fountain is situated is bordered by trees and hedges; quiet and tranquil.

“Surprises? Your family?” he repeats with some bafflement and trepedation. His heart sinks upon the gleeful look springing to bloom in his companion’s countenance. Aragorn always sported that look before a mad scheme or a wild prank… which would end up disastrous, usually.

“Oh, this and that.”

A lazy wave of a hand.

The loosened tie around Legolas’ chest squeezes again. He grimaces. `Why do you have to imitate my gwador, little squirt?` he thinks despairingly.

Yes, the same, even to the way the blue-eyed Elfling-like tilts his head to the side, signaling a wordless question. So inquisitive, so innocent…

“What is your name?” trying to change the direction his thoughts are heading to, Legolas asks. The fair skin on his face colours a soft shade of pink for a moment on the squeaky note in his voice. The lump in his throat is to be blamed for it.

Amusement glimmers in his companion’s bright eyes. “Erin,” the youth says simply.

Legolas raises an eyebrow. “Woods?” he confirms, intrigued.

He gets neither a yes nor a no for the answer. All that the youth says is: “My mother is a Sinda and my father is a Ñoldo.”

Legolas is reluctant to press on what he views as a trifial matter, but unfortunately he has no other thing to talk about that will occupy his time and mind. So, when Erin challenges him to make a durable ship from leaves and small twigs, he complies without any qualms. After all, he has been playing that game since he was a very small Elfling.

When Erin signals that they may begin to construct their ships, both Ellyn shoot out to different directions, hunting for good leaves and sslender but strong twigs. Then they sit sprawled with their backs to the rocky edge of the fountain pool, and start to construct their vessels. Legolas’ hands are light and deft, dancing agilely on the wide green pieces of leaves he has gathered, connecting them with one or two lengths of twigs each time. Albeit, when he chances to look to his side, he finds that Erin is a worthy opponent. The latter’s fingers are just as soft and practiced when dealing with the fragile construction.

`Estel was like that. I wonder who taught him. It is a Wood-Elf’s game. And who taught this Ñoldo too?`

`Why am I always thinking about what iss past?`

Legolas stopss working and inhales deeply. Hearing the sharp, long breath, Erin haltes also. “Something the matter?” the youth asks. “Do you not like this game? I thought you would enjoy a light moment, given your troubled mind.”

Legolas shakes his head. “No, my friend. Please forgive me. I love playing this game. I always played it with my family and friends. I only…” His voice peters out into the cool air.

Shaking his head once more, he hurriedly resumes building up his ship. Judging from the rustling sounds beside him, Erin is doing the same.

But now, when the gates to his memories are no longer closed, another person comes into Legolas’ mind.

“Bend the tip of the leaf a bit. Slip it between that arrangement. Yes, that way… Add two more in like manner. Ha… Nnow you have a half circle. Now, to strengthen it, pierce its ends with a twig – but carefully, my son.”

An elleth’s voice, crooning with pride, excitement, patience and warmth drifts into his ears. It has been more than two millennia ago…

A pair of much-larger hands guided his small clumsy fingers. A small boat, looking more like a bird’s nest than a vessel, lay half-made on his lap. The feminine body pressed to his back shook with fits of chuckling when he failed again and again in his attempt to connect a recalcitrant twig with the other. But she was not mocking his failures; nay, she never did.

She never did, until her death on the hand of orcs when he was twenty years old.

“Friend, should we just forsake this game?”

His fingers freeze. Legolas looks up, horrified when he is aware that his vision is blocked by a film of tears. “I am sorry,” he whispers to the patch of grassy dirt beyond his outstretched legs. Looking down again, he stares at his creation.

It is ready.

But he is not.

No. He must be ready. His companion would grow more suspicious about him if not.

“Erin?”

“Yes?”

“Can we test our little vessels now? I… I will do it for my mother. She taught me about this impossible feat yéni ago.” A small bitter smile flits across his face, touching his dry lips. He tucks his leggs under him and wheels around, his creation on the palm of his hands.

That is when he catches the pensive look on Erin’s face. The expression seems alien to him, plastered on the jovial youth’s face. Before he can utter a word, however, the younger ellon has beaten him to it.

“It is not a shameful thing, crying for your loved ones or yearning for them.”

Legolas cringes. The statement bites deeply into his heart. “What do you know about loss, young one?” he rebukes the other ellon, although the tone comes out harsher than he has intended. “You have never been in Middle-Earth, where death oftentimes is as sure as breathing. You are still quite young also.”

“Am I?” his companion retorts softly, but the voice is not that of Erin; it is deeper and richer, as though belonging to someone powerful. Legolas recoils both physically and mentally. His heart hammers in his chest.

Their eyes meet, and Legolas takes a ssharp breath. Those blue orbs still gglitter brightly, but now there is an unfathomable depth to them, and also a sharpness belonging to a seasoned warrior. The youth seems to grow in stature before his very eyes, although Erin does nothing except returning his stare.

“I thought whom Olórin meant to have me see was my old friend, my gwador,” the young ellon (whom now seems more like a grown-up, experienced one in Leggolas’ eyes), murmurs. A sorrowful smile passes across his grave visage. “I found a new friend in you, though. Please do not tell me that this feeling of mine is a foolish one.”

That is the last blow to the Silvan. Legolas looks away. “What do you wish me to do?” He finds out himself addressing the younger Elf as his superior, but he oddly feels no shame in doing so. For one, Erin’s confidence is still intact, and it is what supports him, encompassing him in a feeling of safety and reassurance.

“You are living in the past, Oropher’s kin. There is nothing you can do with the past except to learn and treasure it. My gwador and I spent two ages doing so, but at least it was better than doing nothing at all. It is never easy, yet itss worth surpasses the toil.”

“Oropher’s kin,” Legolas repeats in a daze. How can Erin recognise him while he cannot do sso to the other ellon?

“Oropher often joked about having a half-Telerin, half-Vanyarin blood, hense his silvery gold hair. There were not many people who had tresses of this colour, and he was immensely proud of it.” The blue orbs soften. The smaller fingers of the younger ellon leave a ghost of a touch on some stray blond strands on Legolas’ temple. Erin smiles whistfully. “Foolish. Foolish was he to strike the forces of Sauron without aid. But he is happy now, living with his kin in the woods outside this crowded city.”

Legolas blanches. Feelling faint, he leans back heavily to the rough surface of the pond’s edge. Who is Erin to speak so intimately of the Last Alliance? How can he look so young whereas he has lived for two ages?

Despite his dazed state, all the same, a reddish hue creeps to his cheeks when Errin mutters, seemingly to himself, “Good that I did not tell him my proper name, then. At least now I can show Ada that this habit of giving people shortened names is not totally worthless.”

The remark (which would sound amusing to Legolas in another situation) also wakes the Silvan from his stupor. Looking to the discarded ‘leafy’ ship on the palm of hiss limp hand, he proposes hesitantly, “Should we test the vessels now?” `My lord?` he adds to himself. His numb mind is not available for much thinking, yet he does not need evidence from facts he has learnt throughout his life to respect what his companion has been revealed to be so far.

“There is a place better to launch our sships on, rather than this stagnant water,” Erin grins. He appears to slowly go back to the person Legolas has known to be his welcomer and companion in the unknown community of the Ñoldorin city, and the Silvan is grateful for it.

They slip out of the garden soundlessly through a narrow gap in one of the hedges. Legolas has never suspected that it is there. For the sake of his pride of being a Wood-Elf (who is supposed to be attune to nature), however, he refrains from letting out any remark about what he begins to view as Erin’s secret personal escape route. He follows the steady gait of the other ellon through the more-shaded area of the garden, until they arrive on the bank of a small stream, almost the size of a brook, which is fenced on either sides by closely-growing trees. The watery vein is hugged by stone-strewn earth banks, which makes it emit an endless pleasant song of bubbling and tinkling. It is even quieter there than the part where the fountain pond is located. Somehow, it is more peaceful, and Legolas finds his disturbed fëa soothed, lulled into repose.

He only stirs from his relaxed stance when Erin stoops down. Later he sees that the youth has taken a dry dead branch from the ground and is currently contemplating it. He does not have a chance to ask, though, before Erin asks to borrow one of his twin knives, saying that the latter would like to carv something on the branch. Legolas is tempted to ask what the half-Ñoldo intends to carv, yet then he decides that it will be more prudent to wait and see if Erin would like to share a look of the carving with him. The Silvan has not forgotten how imposing the seemingly-naïve-and-jovial youth can be, and he does not desire to bring out that side of the mysterious ellon sooner in spite of his nagging curiosity.

His patience is rewarded well. Erin proffers the branch to him after a time. Now the small piece of wood has been trimmed and shortened to barely the size of the ellon’s green vessel, and there are three words etched to one side of it: “Erin for Eros”.

“Is Eros the name of your brother?” Legolas asks while scrutinising the smooth creation his companion has produced in such a short notice. He wishes he could make one for Aragorn and put it in his leaf-made vessel to be floated on the stream. But no, it would be a fruitless thing to do. Aragon is dead. He and Gimli have departed Middle-Earth shortly after he had witnessed Arwen’s passing later that year. Her death banished his last – foolish – hope that Aragorn is only resting, for he knew she would not go if without her husband for whom she had given up her immortality.

“Estel,” he breathes, his whispering tone strangled. He starts when a warm hand alights on his. When he looks up from the carving at which he has been staring unseeingly, he finds that Erin is reproaching him gently through the latter’s gaze. He blushes. He has been caught ensnared in his past, again. “Sorry,” he says lamely. He does not know why he says sorry to Erin for, yet he feels that he is obliged to heed the latter’s advice – which he has just failed to do.

Erin shakes his head but does not inquire further about what – or rather, who – has plagued his thoughts. The youth instead answers his question. “Eros is not my muindor. He is my gwador, although in the past I often wished that we were also bound by blood. I think he yet lives in Middle-Earth now.” He takes the branch back from Legolas and sets it with care within his vessel. He arranges the piece of wood so that the writing faces out, clearly visible, then binds its ends to the vessel with two lengths of cleaned stems of vines he has picked from their vicinity. Meanwhile, he says, “If you would, you could do the same. I saw a good branch nearby.”

“Is it not a childish game, my lord?” Legolas blurts before he could rein his tongue. He winces. “Pardon my rudeness, Erin,” he states hastily.

The offended person chuckles. The two sets of eyes meet again. Erin the youngling has once more transformed into a mysterious kingly Elf-lord. Legolas gulps.

“Children have the purest hearts and biggest faith on everything, two aspects lost in adults but treasured by them. Ironically, adults seem reluctant to try to gain back the children in them.”

Legolas bites his lips. He has no adequate reply for that. His mind is not presently fit for philosophical ponderings as well. Thus, he is grateful when Erin transvers his attention back to his vessel and to their game. “Let us put the ships on the water, then, if you have no offering to be put in your vessel,” the youth suggests. In a more humorous tone, he adds, “Let us see whose ship is faster.”

“It is not fair. Your ship iss burdened by the carving while mine is not,” Legolas points out even while he is crouching, ready to carry out Erin’s suggestion. Erin himself only laughs, grinning enigmatically in the meantime, and follows his movement.

Legolas gapes when the ships are finally let loose to journey down the small stream. The two of them ride the current side by side, just like when they have firstly set out. Erin would not give a reason why when, curious and not a little impressed, the Silvan asks about it.

The youth escapes possible pestering by following the trip of the ships by way of the narrow embankment. Having no other choice, Legolas trails after him. But while Erin slips rather easily by the bushes and under the low branches, Legolas has to struggle against those obstacles, not wanting to leave his pack of all the worldly belongings he has behind.

The silence that ensues gives the Silvan ample room to himself. And just like other times since he has met Erin on the western gate of Tirion, his thoughts wander back across the Sundering Sea to the land of his birth, where he has been raised, made friends, and lost them subsequently. His mind traces his life since his Elflinghood to the present. But unlike before, there is no bitterness in his heart. Somehow he feels as though he has released his burdens and placed them within his little vessel now bobbing nearly-parallel to him.

If he stretches his imagination, the constructions of leaves and twigs would look like horses racing across the plains of Rohan, Aragorns and his when they were in pursuit of the kidnapped Merry and Pippin the hobbits all those years ago. It could still be vessels too, but canoes rather than ships, paddled each by him and his siblings across a lake deep in Northern Greenwoods in a merry race against each other.

Ah… His eldest brother did something to the canoe he and Legolas were in back then. Can the trick be applied now?

Legolas haltes and stoops down carefully over the water, reaching for the side of his vessel. He straightens up instantly, before his plan could be realised, when he hears Erin chuckling. Not quite meeting the latter’s eyes, he grins sheepishly.

The younger ellon does not comment on his thwarted action, though. Rather, he informs his to-be guest that they had been better come inside his house now since the day is old and Legolas must be tired. Only then Legolas realises that they are now in an open area, and very close to the edge of the garden too.

“Where is your house?” hiding his unease at his own distracted state, the Silvan asks.

“It is the building we visited this morning,” Erin replies simply. Leggolas looks flabbergasted; he would laugh at himself now if he saw how comical his face appears.

“With whom do you reside there?” Legolas, against his knowledge of manners, croaks out.

Erin smiles, amused, but he pauses before at last opines, “I live with my extended family there. Come, I will have you see my great-grandfather Finwë first, then I will show you to your chambers and—“

“Who is there?” Legolas hisses. Someone has just stepped on a twigg nearby, but the person is obscured by the stand of trees behind them.

The two Ellyn do not have to wait for long. Another ellon, dressed as casually as Erin but also with an air of dignity and nnobility, pads out of the cover. “It is not wise to startle a Green Elf, so I gave you a warning of my coming,” he announces with a grin – dangerously close to being a smirk. “I am Fingon son of Finggolfin. Welcome to Tirion, Legolas son of Thranduil. I hope my son has not bothered you too much. He has been waiting to make a good friend for long.”

Legolas opens and closes his mouth like a stranded fish. His head feels light all of a sudden. Then blackness consumes him, and he knows no more.

“Ada…” Erin whines half-heartedly even while he is catching the Silvan’s limp form before it could hit the firm ground. “I did not give him the whole truth because of this. Now you ruined my effort, and my plan of telling him bit by bit too.”

Fingon just laughs. “Come along now, Ereinion. Tyelcormo is waiting for you. You forgot that you promised to ride with him today in your excitement on Olórin’ss criptic news.” He takes the unconscious Legolas from his son, then strides across the patch of grass to the road. Ereinion tails him with Legolas’ pack slung over his shoulders, muttering something suspiciously like “Flashy and dramatic” under his breath.

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Additional Notes:

I made Legolas’ reactions as close to a sensse of reality as possible. Truth be told, I intended to mention the writing on the carving in Sindarin; but sadly (and shamefully), I do not know what is Sindarin for “for”.

Well, and while we are on the subject of language too… I made Ereinion call his father “Ada”, not “Atto”, because he was raised in Middle-Earth, where Quenya was banned in most places back then in the First Age.

I used “Silvan” more often than “Silvan Elf” because I figured out that, in a community of Elves, the second word would be hardly needed. I did not refer to Legolas as being an Elf-prince because his title would not matter much in Aman.

The Elves refusing the summons of the Valar some time after their awakening are called by many names. Firstly they are called the Avari (the Refusers), then the Nandor (the back-turners), the Moriquendi (the Elves of Darkness), and lastly the Laiquendi (the Green Elves), before the ‘Englishised’ terms like Silvaan Elves and Wood-Elves we find in the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings.