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Lothlórien was never truly quiet. It was a peculiar thing, especially after the eerie stillness of Moria. The whole forest seemed to hum softly with life: the low trill of a birdcall, the gentle rustle of paws through leaf litter, the faint whisper of the wind stirring strange gold and silver leaves. Merry tried to find it comforting, but in truth it lay so far outside his frame of reference that it left him with a constant, low unease instead.
And the singing—did it ever stop? A ceaseless tide of delicate notes rising and falling, beautiful, of course, but utterly alien. He chided himself for the thought. It was ungenerous. He had been travelling with an Elf for months now; he was an open-minded Hobbit, willing to learn about different cultures!
And yet… it did not quite ring true.
His Elf was not quite the same as these Elves. His Elf did not pierce him with bright eyes full of judgement and bemusement. His Elf did not pick delicately at a meal and seem to consume nothing by its close. He did not speak to Merry as if he were a mere stripling, unworthy of notice. He was kind without being condescending.
Or at least, he had been.
Since their arrival, Legolas had been spirited away by his overly eager kin, and Merry had barely caught a glimpse of him.
He wasn’t quite sure why, but it made him sad. Perhaps it was bound up with Gandalf’s loss—they ought to stay together, to mourn together. But even that was not quite fair. Legolas had known Gandalf the longest of them all, and Merry suspected he had known him best.
He wiped away a solitary tear, frustrated. Oh, Gandalf—how he longed to hear that gruff voice just once more. How were they to go on without him?
And Pippin… Merry worried for him. He had never truly known loss like this before. He kept looking to Merry for comfort, wanting to speak of it again and again, until Merry very nearly wanted to shout at him to just stop. His lips quirked at the thought, remembering Gandalf’s own frustration with the youngest of their party—though there had been fondness there too, clear as day.
Merry rose from the softly cushioned seat as the first pale morning light filtered through the trees, lifting the gloom from the clearing. He felt a sudden urge to go—to move through the forest, to explore. The soft fragrance of flowers just beginning to release their scent nudged him forward, and he padded quietly away.
He wound gently through the press of silver trunks, marvelling at their height, enjoying the squelch of leaf litter between his toes. Soon he heard the faintest trickle of water. The floral perfume receded, replaced by a fresh greenness that made him draw a deep breath, his heart lifting with it. A little further on, the trees thinned and a stream came into view. He stepped into sunlight, that clean, living scent making him close his eyes in pure joy—if only for a moment.
“Meriadoc?” asked a rich voice, tinged with surprise.
His eyes flew open, a deep blush flooding his face as he realised he was not alone.
Legolas sat upon the riverbank, his loose tunic gleaming in the early light, bare feet trailing in the water. His hair was unbraided, his weapons nowhere in sight. He looked exactly as he belonged—a forest creature pausing to enjoy a patch of sun.
“I am sorry, Legolas,” Merry stammered. “I did not realise you were here. I won’t disturb you!”
“Whyever would you be disturbing me, my friend?” Legolas smiled. “I am glad to see you. I fear I have been remiss of late and absent from you all. I had forgotten, for a time, how swiftly time moves for mortals. Please forgive my inattention.”
“That’s quite all right,” Merry said quickly. “I mean—we’ve missed your company, of course. But we understand you wishing to be with your own kind.”
Legolas tilted his head, studying him with sharp green eyes before turning his gaze to the water.
“My own kind,” he repeated softly. “What a strange idea. Am I not of the Fellowship? Are you not also my kind?”
Merry could only gape, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Legolas waited, unhurried, watching the rippling stream. The silence stretched until Merry felt compelled to fill it with something—anything.
“I am no Elf!”
Legolas’ head lifted, his eyes sparkling. Then he threw back his head and laughed, long and bright, far longer than Merry felt the moment warranted.
That fresh scent assailed him again, and he realised—somewhat bemused—that it came not from the glade, but from the Elf himself.
“Oh, Meriadoc,” Legolas said at last. “How glad I am to see you. Gandalf once told me that sometimes Elves need the company of the young, to remember how to see the world anew. I was feeling so low without him—but that was foolish. He is only beyond our sight for a time. Thank you.”
Merry found he had no answer to that, so he simply sat beside Legolas and dangled his hairy toes in the cool stream.
“What was the last thing Gandalf said to you—just you alone?” Merry asked, surprised to find the question did not hurt as much as he had feared.
“He told me that light would be seen in my forest home again,” Legolas said, smiling. “That this journey would make it so.”
“And what did he say to you, Master Merry?”
Merry thought for a long moment, then nearly snorted with laughter.
“If in doubt, Meriadoc,” he said, grinning, “always follow your nose…”