Summary:  A doubtful, suspicious man learns how difficult times shared often lead to unexpected friendships. 

A/N:  This ficlet was written in response to Prompt #34 (Enemy) issued by the aragorn-legolas yahoo group.  (Post LotR.  This story takes place in Ithilien about ten years after the end of the War of the Ring.  It is written under the supposition that there were scattered human settlements and farms which sprang up throughout Ithilien, even though the northern part of that land had been given over to the elves.)

Disclaimer:  Legolas and the setting of Middle Earth belong to JRR Tolkien.  I own only the OC’s mentioned and make no profit from the writing of this story.

Chapter 2:  The Enemy of My Enemy

“Ye cannot wait any longer.”  The soft, implacable voice spoke from behind him.

A gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder.  “If ye persist in this foolishness much longer, Conn, we will lose everything.”

The tall, dark-haired man standing in the doorway turned and glared at his diminutive wife before resuming his watch over the rapidly rising river.  Ten long, back-breaking years…a productive farm and Holy Valar!...their home – sacrificed to a three-day deluge of rain and a river gone wild.

“Let Thomas saddle up,” his wife, Lara, pleaded.  “If he leaves now, he should reach help by late this evening.”  She shifted the babe on her shoulder to a more comfortable position.

“Please, love.”  Her breath hitched as she fought a losing battle with her tears.  “Ye cannot do this alone.  Ye are only one – and the boys too young to be of any real help.”  He turned at the sound of the crushing fear in her voice, one large hand lifting to brush her cheek, then cup the sleeping child’s head tenderly.

“And what if they refuse, Lara?” he whispered.  “They are not like us…”

“Stop it, Conn!” she interrupted fiercely.  “This fear…yes, it is fear!  Do not deny it!  This fear ye have is unfounded…and not true!  They fought alongside ye and yer men and the King during the war!  How can ye doubt their very nature, ye stubborn man?  They are NOT the enemy!”

She gestured towards the river.  “THAT is yer enemy now!”

He grimaced.  Seeing it, Lara pressed her point home.  “Send our son now, Conn.  Before it is…”

“Papa!”  The shrill voice of their youngest boy rose above the river’s roar as he dashed across the yard towards the house.  “Riders comin’, Papa!”

Eight-year-old Aidan came to a splashing, gasping halt at the foot of the steps.  He pointed to the dense woods north of the house as nine or ten horses emerged from the trees and began making their way slowly across the field.

“Find yer sister and get inside with yer mother,” Conn ordered tersely.  “And send Thomas to me.”

He watched Aidan rush off, then brushed past Lara, retrieving his sword in its sheath from the top storage shelf by the door.  Strapping it quickly to his lean waist, he turned to leave.

“Conn!” his wife cried out.

“Get the children down into the root cellar, Lara,” he snapped.  “NOW!”

She watched helplessly as he strode down the steps.  Aidan and his little sister, Indis, came pelting across the yard into the house.  “Oh, Conn…go carefully,” she breathed, one final prayer offered up before leading her children to the safe place below the house.

“Who are they, Da?” Thomas gasped, running up to join his father, a pitchfork grasped tightly in his hand.

Conn placed a steadying hand on Thomas’ shoulder.  “Can’t tell yet,” he answered abruptly, squinting at the approaching riders.

Suddenly, he could see one detail rather clearly.  “No tack,” he murmured.  “Elves…”

Thomas glanced up at his father’s grim face.  “From the Prince’s settlement?”

“Most likely,” his father replied, drawing his sword and standing braced and ready.

The group of riders came to a prancing, blowing halt well away from the pair in front of the house.  A tall, golden-haired warrior dismounted and walked towards them, his hand raised in greeting.

“You must be Conn,” he called.  “My lord Faramir speaks highly of you and of your service to Gondor during the war.”

He bowed slightly.  “I am Legolas Thranduilion of northern Ithilien.”

Conn nodded curtly to the elf.  “What can I do for ye, my lord?”

The Prince studied the cold, closed face of the man before him, noting the ready sword.  “My foresters have located a deadfall blocking the river further downstream.  I have sent them to deal with it, hopefully restoring the river to its boundaries.  We feared you and your family might be threatened by the rising water.”

Cool, gray eyes scanned the flooded fields below the house, noticed the inadequate barrier of dirt-filled sacks.

“I see you mean to block the water before it reaches the house.”  The elf studied the man’s face again, appeared to make a decision.  “We fight a common enemy here, Conn.  Let us help you.”

Conn stared into the eyes of a being he knew had been alive longer than he could fathom and met only kind concern.  He lowered the sword slowly, sudden shame flushing his pale face.

Prince Legolas smiled, those cool eyes warm with understanding.  “We are not so different, you and me.  Come, let us fight the waters together.”

Overwhelmed with relief and a growing remorse, Conn turned to his son, sheathing his sword and unbuckling the belt.

“Take this in, Thomas.  Get yer mother and the little ‘uns.  Tell her…”  He paused, looking back at the dismounting elves and their fair-haired leader.  “Tell her help unlooked for has arrived…and it has pointed ears.”

Soft sounds of amusement from the elves mingled with his son’s delighted laughter as they turned to face the river together.