Of Baby-Clothes and Third Cousins (Once Removed)

by SapphicLoser16

Summary:

“Ach, elf, you’re making it seem like he’s wearing some fancy unmentionables. As long as Frodo hasn’t been parading around in an indestructible negligee there is no shame in the truth. Out with it, you pointy-eared devil.”

“Bilbo said it belonged to an elven prince long ago,” Legolas sighed. He was certain he was flushed bright red as Gimli’s beard– he felt as if he were being set on fire from the inside.

“Yes, he did say that.” Frodo’s brows pressed together, now with confusion. “Am I supposed to know the names of all elven princes from ages past?”

“No,” Legolas said slowly. “But, I, ah, suppose on your journey you have met… one.”

(In which the Fellowship figures out, amongst other things, the origin of Frodo's mithril shirt.)

Notes:

Imagine you watch a guy get stabbed but it turns out he’s fine because sixty years ago his uncle was gifted your bulletproof baby clothes by his dwarf situationship right before he went biblical-level crazy who then passed it down to this mini stoner (who just got stabbed) (and then immediately saved by your Kevlar onesie). wouldn't that be fucked up or what

Legolas did not want to ask– and if he were to ask, what would he even say? And if he were to somehow string the perfect strand of words together, how would Frodo react? Valar, even if Frodo knew and answered with model temperament, how would he even begin to explain it to the rest of the Fellowship? The loss of Mithrandir was still so close to his companions’ hearts, and though he did not feel the same as them (he did not know what to feel, or even if he felt about it at all), it would do no good to ask superfluous questions. Yes, it was best to let the whole thing go. It was a stupid, silly question, and he did not want to accidentally humiliate Frodo with it. The best course of action would be to forget about the whole–

“Frodo? May I ask where you found that mithril shirt?”

Frodo startled, looking up from the cracking fire that he had previously been lost in. His hand brushed against the shining links hidden just behind his well/worn shirt. A soft, pained crease made itself known between his brows– reliving the memory of being stabbed, or close to it at least. Legolas was sure that a nasty bruise had bloomed where the cave troll’s blade had made its best attempt to pierce him: mithril was strong, but Frodo still had to absorb the blow.

“It’s not mine,” the hobbit said. He absentmindedly scratched his cheek. “Well, I mean, Uncle Bilbo gifted it to me before we left Rivendell, but it was not made for neither me nor him. A dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor (at the name, both Gimli and Legolas shared a sideways look with each other) gave it to him as a token of… some sort of affection, I suppose. Bilbo said that it once belonged to an elvish prince, but for all I know that’s an exaggeration. Uncle Bilbo does stretch the truth from time to time on some matters.” He tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Ah, ‘tis no matter of importance,” Legolas said quickly. He leaned over to Sam, whose head was half-lost in his pack, purposefully ignoring Frodo’s quirked brow. “What are you searching for, Master Gamgee?”

“Oh, just a bit of spice for the meat,” was Sam’s muffled reply. He waved his hand at the roasting game that Aragorn had procured. “Coulda sworn I packed some.”

“Hey, he’s dodging the question!”  Pippin pointed an accusing finger at Legolas. “Tis no matter of importance,” he said with a strangely accurate impression of the elf’s Silvian accent. He stamped his foot like it was the greatest injustice he had ever heard of. “Well, it’s a matter of importance to me!”

“And I as well,” Merry chimed in. A wide grin tugged at his mouth. 

“I would not lie and say I am not curious,” Boromir admitted. A smile played on his face as well, courtesy of Pippin’s antics. Legolas bit back the urge to groan and bury his face in his hands. He had to open his stupid mouth.

“I suppose I’ll add my voice onto the pile as well,” Gimli said. “You’ve been making strange faces for some time now, laddie. It’s your thinking face.”

“He always makes strange faces,” Aragorn pointed out with a fond smirk. It earned him a hearty slap to the shoulder via Legolas.

“I do not make strange faces,” the elf snapped. “And, well, if you must know it’s just… the thing is…” he let go of all restraint and smacked his palm to his forehead. “It's just that I know where Frodo’s mithril came from.” He spoke his words quickly, more like one long rush of sound, hoping the Fellowship would drop the subject entirely.

He should have known better: they were a relentless lot.

“Oh?” Frodo cocked his head. “I’d be glad to know its origin. I feel as though I’m not worthy of such a fine gift. Perhaps knowing its history will allow me to respect it more.”

Valar, Legolas would rather stare down Azog the Defiler’s army in the shadow of Erebor once more than elaborate. Gimli elbowed him with cheer in the side, oblivious to his agony.

“Ach, elf, you’re making it seem like he’s wearing some fancy unmentionables. As long as Frodo hasn’t been parading around in an indestructible negligee there is no shame in the truth. Out with it, you pointy-eared devil.”

“Bilbo said it belonged to an elven prince long ago,” Legolas sighed. He was certain he was flushed bright red as Gimli’s beard– he felt as if he were being set on fire from the inside.

“Yes, he did say that.” Frodo’s brows pressed together, now with confusion. “Am I supposed to know the names of all elven princes from ages past?”

“No,” Legolas said slowly. “But, I, ah, suppose on your journey you have met… one.”

The camp fell into utter silence for one blessed moment. Legolas braced himself for the storm: it came upon the Fellowship’s brows as they all shot up together as one. 

“You’re saying…?” Frodo breathed.

“That’s impossible,” Gimli sputtered.

“That’s ridiculous!” Boromir agreed, jaw agape.

“Sorry, what are we all shocked about?” Pippin looked as bewildered as if he had been told that grass was now blue and the sky was green. Sam finally pulled his head out of his bag and let out a familiar and long-suffering sigh.

“You only know one elven prince, Pip. The mithril shirt belonged to Mister Legolas.”

“What?!” The hobbit screeched, springing to his feet and knocking Merry flat on his back off the log they had been sitting on. “But you… you’re…. It's hobbit sized!”

“Indeed,” Legolas tried not to look miserable, and knew he was failing. There was still time to escape the ultimate embarrassment. “Please, let us forget this whole thing. I was a fool for even bringing it up.”

“You’re not getting away that easily, friend,” Boromir smiled. He threw his arm around the elf’s shoulders, playfully jostling him and effectively preventing him from slipping into the woods. “Am I to understand that our dear Frodo has been wearing your baby clothes?”

Gimli found that to be uproariously funny: his laugh started a few birds out of trees and vibrated in Legolas’ ribs. Aragorn, for his part, was very good at restraining his humor, though Legolas had known him long enough to see the laughter dancing in his storm-grey eyes. 

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mister Legolas,” Sam ventured over Gimli’s hysterics, “but what would you even need a fancy mithril shirt for at such an age? If it fits Frodo, you must’ve been small indeed.”

“Aye, mithril is a prize fit for the kingliest of kings,” Gimli agreed, wiping away his tears. His face was flushed with laughter, matching the shade of Legolas’ shame. He reached over to poke the elf in the side; his hands were batted away with vengeance. “What could a wee elfling like yourself need with it?”

“You forget that I am a prince, whether I act like one or not,” Legolas replied, his hand slipping out to flick against Gimli’s helmet, “and more than that, I am my father’s only son, and indeed his only living relation. Mirkwood has been at war for almost as long as I have drawn breath. He would not risk another…loss.” 

A heavy sort of silence swept over the camp. Boromir’s arm tightened around his shoulders in a comforting squeeze. Legolas did not want to think of neither his home nor his father, which had both left an aching hole in his heart upon the parting from both of them. A change of subject was due.

“And besides that, the point is this: what in the world was your relation doing with my belongings?” he pointedly asked Gimli. From his peripheries, Legolas saw Aragorn heave a sigh not unlike Sam’s.

“Thorin was related to you?” Merry asked. He clambered back onto the log and gave Pippin an elbow to the side for his troubles. “Old Bilbo would tell us stories about him if you asked him late enough at night when he was too tired to say no. He always seemed fond of the dwarf.” 

“Distantly,” Gimli stressed to the rest of the Fellowship. “Do not go connecting the line rife with gold-sickness to mine own. And just how would you know that, O mighty elvish prince?”

“Ah, that’s right,” Boromir chimed in. “You share relations through Náin II, King of Durin’s folk.”

“Wait, wait just a minute.” Merry held up his hands. “I’m getting confused. You are related to Bilbo’s dwarven king?”

“I shall happily draw it out for you,” Legolas replied over Gimli’s protests. He found a twig and began sketching into the ground.

“Here we have Náin II, King of Khazad-Dûn. He begets two sons: Dáin I, who was slain by a cold-drake, and Borin. If we follow Dáin’s line, he begets Thráin, who in turn begets Thrór, who begets one Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and friend to Bilbo Baggins. If we turn our eye back to Borin, he begets a son, Farin, who begets Gróin, who begets a son named Gloín, who then, of course–”

“All right, we get it!” Gimli threw his hands up into the air. “Curse the long memory of elves and your preoccupation with the relations of others. I suppose Thorin Oakenshield is a distant cousin of some sort or another but what has that got to do with anything?”

“He’d be your third cousin once removed,” Pippin offered, “If that means anything to you.”

The camp quieted. The eyes of the non-hobbit members of the Fellowship turned in shock to Pippin, who seemed very confused.

“What? Family trees are very important to hobbits, I’ll have you know. We take pride in charting our ancestors: I could tell you all about mine, Frodo’s, Merry’s, and Sam’s line back nearly to the Second Age. Frodo’s both my second and third cousin once removed on both sides, if you needed to know, and me and Merry are just regular old cousins. Sam’s not related to any of us, though. Sorry, Sam,” he added with a slightly guilty look.

“Trust me, Pip, it’s no hardship to not be related to you,” the gardener deadpanned. “But all this charting and such doesn’t answer our question of how Mister Gimli’s cousin–”

“Third cousin once removed,” Pippin interjected, quite pleased that he knew something that the others hadn’t. 

“Yes, yes, third cousin once removed and all of that nonsense: how in the world did he get ahold of the mithril?”

“It must have been fashioned in Erebor,” Boromir mused, “that would have been far before the fall of the Lonely Mountain, though, unless you are far younger than I thought.”

“I have lived nearly three millennia, son of Denethor,” Legolas huffed. “Do not insult me with an age of merely two hundred years. I would practically be a child.”

“Ai, I believe you are already young in the eyes of elves,” Gimli grinned. “What’s a few hundred years less?”

“You lot are impossible!” Legolas groaned. “I think I shall throw myself into the nearest stream–that would be preferable to this incessant ribbing. If we are idly speculating upon things of no import, I would venture that the moon is a portal to another world. Could we please talk of something different?”

“I didn’t mean to vex you,” Frodo said mournfully. “Would you, ah… like it back?”

Legolas shook his head and sighed, though despite his best efforts a smile was creeping onto his own face. “Keep it, Frodo: consider it my gift to you. It has saved your life, and it will keep you safe for the rest of our journey. I would much rather see out of harm's way than take back an old trinket that has not been in use for thousands of years. Think nothing of it, dear hobbit. It is my own fault for bringing up the blasted thing anyway.”

“Hey, you’ve been awfully quiet.” Merry poked Aragorn’s knee. “What have you to say of baby clothes and third cousins– yes, Pip, I know, once removed: put your hand down.”

Aragorn looked up from the meat, which had been filling the camp with a pleasant, hearty scent for some time. Devious mischief swirled in his eyes.

“Oh, I was just contemplating the image of our dearest elf as a child. I’m certain he must have been nearly angelic.”

The camp erupted into howling laughter that nearly shook the ground. Legolas groaned louder than it, throwing Boromir’s arm off his shoulders, springing to his feet, and offering a thoroughly un-princely gesture to the Fellowship.

“Good night to the lot of you!” he shouted, though he could not stop a smile from growing wide on his face. “I shall be up the tallest tree if you feel any more need to torment me.”

“No, wait, elf,” Gimli said between gasps for air. He tugged at the hem of Legolas’ tunic. “Stay with us for a moment more. I wish to look upon your face so I might imagine what Aragorn sees.”

“Then look upon my face well, Master Dwarf.” A sprig of mischief had taken root in Legolas. “I doubt it would be able to compare to the visage of your own youth.”

“And just how do you figure that?” Gimli raised a bushy eyebrow.

“Ah, you forget I have met your father,” Legolas grinned, “he was eager to boast on you. By my own reckoning, you seemed very close to a mutated goblin in your youngest years.”

Pippin and Merry fell into peals of laughter, leaning on each other like letting go would mean collapse. Boromir and Frodo were doing quite poorly in hiding his own smile; Aragorn and Sam fared considerably better. Gimli sputtered through his indignation– something about the beauty of dwarves and the vanity of elves and no small curses upon the name of the Elvenking for raising such an unruly son. For his own part, Legolas did not conceal his own wide grin that was beginning to make his cheeks ache. 

“Alright, that’s enough out of everyone.” Sam’s voice cut through the clamor. He waved his hands over the fire. “The food is ready, and if we are not too busy insulting our childhood selves I should like to eat the food that Mister Strider and I have worked so hard on.”

Merry and Pippin and Frodo lit up at the mention of food in true hobbit fashion. Legolas could not deny that the meat did not smell delicious: elven constitution or no, he would never turn down a meal made by Samwise Gamgee, who had proven himself to be quite the exemplary cook. Even Gimli found it fit to drop his offense and turn his eyes to the portions Sam was measuring out.

“Thank you, Sam!” Merry crowed though a full mouth. Sam sighed at his manners, but nodded gratefully anyways.

“This is indeed delicious,” Aragorn agreed. The tips of Sam’s ears glowed tomato-red: he ducked his head and mumbled out a bashful ‘thank you’. Frodo patted his shoulder. 

“Hey, if we’re still thinking about us as babies,” Pippin said, “Hobbit babies are only about the size of kittens. In terms of adorable-ness, we would outshine even the comeliest of elves.”

“I think we have spoken far too much about such nonsensical matters,” Boromir remarked. He ruffled Pippin’s curls. “Although the thought of a baby hobbit does warm my heart.”

“Frodo was the cutest out of all of us,” Merry offered. “His eyes were so blue. Widest things I’ve ever seen, too.”

“No, surely Sam must have been the most beautiful of all,” Frodo protested. “His hair has been like the sun since the moment he was born.”

“I’d wager Pippin must have been a sight to see,” Sam countered. “We tell of Mister Frodo’s eyes, but yours are nothing to sneeze at either. Plus, your hair is the curliest out of all of ours.”

All eyes swung to Pippin, who had been busy with his food and content to listen to the ribbing. He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.

“Ah, I suppose I’m supposed to pass the title off to Merry, then,” Pippin sighed. He contemplated his fork for a moment, then said, “I don’t think I will. Merry, you must have been the ugliest baby in the whole Shire.” He punctuated it by gulping down the whole bite.

Merry threw his hands in the air and let out a noise that was somewhere halfway between a sigh and a yell. “Legolas, I think I’ll join you in the tree. You are impossible, Pip.”

“I suppose I am,” his cousin smiled. “Now can we all be quiet so I can eat in peace?”

 

Notes:

if you listen closely, you can hear gandalf yelling at the top of his lungs from heaven.

Comments and kudos much appreciated! have a great day/night <3