Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and was written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.

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~ Chapter 5: Renewed Acquaintances ~

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“I may not be able to hear the trees as you do, but that does not mean I will not understand their message!”

Gimli’s words echoed through Legolas’ mind as he sat slumped in his chair.  The Elf stared uninterested at the glass of wine before him, wishing he could somehow erase the past few weeks and start anew.  He sighed in frustration and rubbed his temples—a very un-Elvish trait he had picked up from Aragorn.

‘What would I tell him?’ the Elf thought, ‘That the trees sing of a strange gift?  Or perhaps that the calling of the Sea—which I feel so strongly in these summer days—is somehow...  off.’

Legolas could just picture Gimli’s reaction if he were to tell him “the Sea sounds amiss and heartsick.”

‘First, he would emit that grunting snort,’ mused the Elf, ‘then would promptly remind me that I cannot hear the Sea from this distance.  After that, he would warn me of the ‘dangers’ of too much time spent wandering among the trees and suggest I have my head examined. ’  A small smile danced upon the Elf lord’s lips at the picture, then quickly faded. 

“Ai, Gimli,” he spoke aloud, “Forgive me, but I fear I cannot fully explain such things to a mortal.  You would not understand, though I do not doubt you would try your best.”

The sound of heavy footsteps snapped Legolas from his revere.  ‘I am expecting no visitors from either Gondor or Ithilien,’ he thought, and curiously made his way to the door.

“My Lord.”  The grey-eyed young man bowed respectfully before offering Legolas a wide grin.

Legolas blinked and quickly sized the man up.  He looked distressingly familiar, though from where Legolas could not immediately place.  The tall youth was outfitted in the traveling clothes of a Minas Tirith palace guard and could be no older than twenty-one years of age.  He began to fidget under the Elf’s sharp gaze.  Legolas recognized the nervous habit at once.

“Bergil?”

The guard grinned even wider and blushed.

Legolas smiled genuinely.  “It has been at least five years since I saw you last.  Though such time is short by my kindred’s measurement, it has certainly left its mark upon you.  How you have grown!”

Bergil had long held the Elf lord on a similar level of worship as that of Aragorn, though Legolas’ pedestal was wrought with the mysticism and awe commonly bestowed on the Elves by the Secondborn.  The young guard found himself staring at the Elf in wonderment.  Legolas was exactly as he remembered and had not aged a day.  The only indication of his many years were his bright elven eyes: endless pools of wisdom which spoke of countless battles and an unbreakable spirit. 

“How old are you?”  The words blurted from his mouth before he could stop them.

Legolas cocked his head and raised his eyebrows in surprise.  “Far older than you, child,” he laughed merrily. 

Bergil felt a rush of color rise again to his cheeks.  “Forgive me, Lord Prince.  I am currently working on curbing my impudent tongue.”  He winced.  “It is an on-going battle.”

The musical laughter of Legolas filled the room a second time.  “Nay, think nothing of it Bergil.  It is most refreshing to hear one who speaks his mind.”

“Yes, but it often lands me in the most unpleasant situations.”

Legolas grinned in agreement and Bergil found himself remembering why he liked the Elf lord so much.  There was a certain youthfulness about him, despite all the great and terrible things he had seen.  ‘It must be a special Elven ability,’ thought Bergil, ‘to remain so young when you are so old.’

“How fares your father?” asked the fair Elf, his back facing the guard as he poured a second glass of wine.  He offered the goblet to Bergil, who took it gratefully.  Several years ago, Legolas had been requested to train the soldiers of Gondor in the art of archery, and Beregond had been one of his more gifted students.

“He does well.  Two years ago Lord Faramir appointed him captain of the White Company, and he has recently taken to breeding horses.  I suspect he will further his interest in the horses once he retires, but that is a ways off.”  Bergil took an experimental sip from the glass in his hand.  The wine was intensely sweet and dry, and though he had not drunk a great deal of wine in his short life, Bergil suspected it was highly potent.

Legolas watched amusedly as the young guard swiftly brought the goblet away from his lips and attempted to choke back a cough.  ‘I must remember that others are not used to the heightened tastes of Eryn Lasgalen*.’ 

“I doubt your visit is not without purpose, Bergil.  What news bring you of the White City?” he asked, his face growing somber.

Bergil set the glass down on a beautifully crafted wooden table.  “Corsairs, my Lord.  A great fleet rests idle on the shores of Belfalas.  King Elessar thought it best to warn the surrounding lands of their presence.”

“Corsairs?”

Bergil jumped, startled by the sharpness in the Elf’s voice.  “Yes,” he said slowly, wondering what caused the Elf to react in such a manner.  “The Corsairs of Umbar.  But they have yet to show any signs of aggression or mischief.”

Legolas frowned.  The news struck the same chord of discontent he felt when the trees shared their nightly gossip about the strange sea stone.  ‘Once again, I am at a loss to explain my intuitions, but I shall heed them nonetheless.’

“When do you return to Gondor?” 

Bergil fidgeted and wondered if he had accidentally offended the Elf.  Was Legolas asking him to leave?  “I was given no restrictions on time, My Lord.  I have only just arrived.”

“Will you be ready to depart by this evening?”  Legolas did not miss the look of surprise that sprang to Bergil’s face but chose to ignore it.  Some things were completely lost on mortals and he had not the patience to even attempt an explanation.  “We must reach Minas Tirith as quickly as possible.”

“We?”

“Yes,” answered the Elf briskly.  “You and I.  We shall depart ere the sun sets this evening.  Aragorn must be warned.”

Bergil was utterly confounded.  “But he already knows of the corsairs.  He sent me to tell you of their presence.”

Legolas sighed.  Any Elf could sense the underlying threat looming over Gondor in light of the corsairs’ sudden appearance, how was it possible that others remained so blind? 

*     *     *

“The woman rests fitfully,” Arwen announced to her husband as she gracefully walked into their chambers.

Aragorn pursed his lips and turned his attention back to the locked wooden box the crazed peasant had thrust into his hands.  Tiny fish and curling waves had been intricately carved into its sides.  It was quite stunning. 

“What do you suppose—“

“She instructed us not to open it.”

Aragorn tested the weight of the box in his hands.  “She is also mad.  Arwen,” he continued before his wife could object, “how am I supposed to go about destroying this...  mystery evil...   if I do not know what it is?”

The queen sighed in defeat.  “To that I have no answer.”  She sat down on the bed next to her husband and allowed her shoulder to rest against his.  “She claimed it brought death to her daughter.”

“Perhaps it is a dagger of some sort?”

Arwen reached over Aragorn’s arm and began tracing the pattern of curling waves with her delicate fingers.  He watched as her face clouded and she quickly withdrew her hand. 

“Aragorn,” she spoke softly but with great urgency.  “Whatever rests within this box has a strange feel about it.  I do not sense evil…”  She trailed off, furrowing her flawless brow and biting her lower lip.  “But, it has a most peculiar longing.”

“Longing?”

 “Yes,” she replied almost dreamily, “as one longs to see the stars... or travel beyond the sea to the Undying Lands.”

Aragorn felt a pang of guilt stab through him.  Arwen would never live to travel beyond the sea.  She had forsaken that rite of passage long ago—for him. 

He stood up abruptly.  Striding over to the dresser table, he set the box down and pulled out a small dagger he kept hidden in his boot.  With one upward stroke, the lock that held the wooden box shut skittered across the dresser top and bounced unceremoniously to the floor.  Intuition warned Arwen to turn her back, for she dared not face whatever secret the box held.  Aragorn cracked his knuckles and inhaled deeply.  Placing his hands on either side of the box with the utmost care, he cautiously lifted the lid. 

Swirling blues and greens dazzled his eyes as he stared at the sparkling jewel before him.  It shone with an inner light that danced and flickered upon his face.  Rendered completely speechless, he reached out and scooped the stone up as though it would fall and shatter into a thousand pieces.

Unbeknownst to the king of Gondor, he would never live to regret such an act more.

*     *     *

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A/N: * “heightened tastes of Eryn Lasgalen” –Legolas grew up on those famous Mirkwood (actually, it was Dorwinian, wasn’t it?) vintages.  Just because he moved to Ithilien doesn’t mean he’s switched brands (or so I claim).

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