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Aragorn finds himself uneasy, traveling with Legolas in the world of Men.
The elf has plenty of experience, of course, handling those greedy stares in poorly-lit taverns. More than once, he’s told Aragorn so—keep your senses, he’ll whisper in that sing-song Sindarin which is so out of place surrounded by raucous laughter and the overpowering stench of ale. I’ve done this for a thousand more years than you have.
It’s different, though. After all, Strider has no issue blending into shadowy corners when he wishes to be unseen. Legolas rarely has the same option, for even under a dark cloak, with his golden hair tied up as to be unseen, there’s a certain air about an elf that mortals hardly ever miss.
And Legolas isn’t just an elf. He’s a Sindar elf, a young one, and he’s unusually pretty, even for his kind—pretty in a way that anyone could appreciate, though it always seems to be the leering old men at the bars who take the liberty to point it out.
Nevertheless, Legolas insists they pass nights in the Mannish towns they come across in the course of their travels. He says he enjoys the atmosphere of the crowded inns, though Aragorn does not know what there is to enjoy; he says he likes to see new faces, though Aragorn sees only threats.
Some are lustful, Legolas reasoned the last time Aragorn brought up his misgivings. Most are curious.
Aragorn frowned. Most are lustful.
Legolas glanced around, then shrugged, meeting Aragorn’s eyes with a mischievous enjoyment. They look. You would deny them looking?
When they stray towards more well-travelled areas, where the sight of an elf is not such a shock, Legolas often makes conversation with the other patrons of the places they stay. He questions them about their lives, relates riveting stories of Mirkwood that will surely be passed down for generations, and gets himself pulled into drinking games which he is guaranteed to win. (Legolas often entreats Aragorn to join them—he declines, for Strider has a reputation to uphold).
It is some consolation to Aragorn that Legolas agrees to share a room when they stay in the inns above seedy taverns, and that he rarely knocks away Aragorn’s hands from resting on his back or shoulder when it feels necessary to broadcast that Legolas is not traveling alone.
Aragorn knows Legolas only tolerates these things to appease him, and must find them vaguely bothersome, at best. But Aragorn can accept being bothersome. In fact, he thinks he’d be happy to be a buzzing fly at Legolas’s ear for the next century, if he could be certain he’d die with no harm having come to the elf.
They’re in one such tavern tonight, twenty miles or so east of Edoras. Aragorn won’t pretend he’s anything but relieved to put his feet up for a few hours—the trek has been long, and largely devoid of trees, which is perhaps the reason for Legolas’s foul mood all day.
Aragorn very seldom drinks on the road, and certainly not before early morning travel, which is in their plans for tomorrow—they’ve been scouting a reported orc raiding party straying towards the city and are soon to catch up. Legolas, who has no such policy for himself, has already downed one pint and is making his way through a second.
Aragorn doesn’t really see why he bothers, considering that ale never seems to do much for Legolas—Aragorn has seen him tipsy only once, in the Woodland Realm, off of a particularly rich Elvish wine. Legolas holds that he likes the taste and enjoys the Mannish custom of imbibing great quantities of the stuff after a long day.
It’s unrefined, he teases. Too common for you, I suppose, Strider, but I find it charming.
The inn’s tavern isn’t too full—a couple of rowdy groups against the other wall, but they’re too focused on their own festivities to pay too much mind to the elf in their midst, past some curious glances. There’s a man at the bar who was staring a few minutes ago, but he’s absorbed in a conversation with the innkeeper now and hasn’t looked this way for a good ten minutes.
Legolas turns a bit to glance behind him at the bar, then back to Aragorn, raising his eyebrows. He leans forward.
“Still surveying?” he asks in Sindarin. “I would think you’re ready to be rid of me, by now.”
Aragorn scowls—he doesn’t enjoy joking about such things—but Legolas just laughs lightly, putting a hand loosely over his on the table for a moment before pulling away.
“I’m sorry,” Legolas adds, more genuinely, this time. “For today. I can be disagreeable, in the heat.”
“And the cold,” Aragorn counters, in Westron, because a man speaking Sindarin in a place like this could draw a whole new kind of unwanted attention.
Legolas smiles. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me, dear friend?”
It’s an intimate word in Sindarin, one without a direct Westron translation—something more tied to companionship and constancy than the Westron “friend”. It’s a word Aragorn flung around a bit too often as a youth in Imladris, and it brings those same warm feelings to his heart. Legolas knows it is so, of course, and his eyes glint as he grins at Aragorn’s softened expression.
“Just this time,” Aragorn allows. “But I get to be the disagreeable one tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Legolas concedes easily, leaning back in the booth. “Take out your frustrations on the orcs; they need to hear it, anyway.”
Aragorn rolls his eyes, then pushes himself up, wincing a bit at the weight on his sore feet.
He gives one last glance to the man at the bar. He’s not too worried; he’s fairly certain Legolas can handle himself for the two minutes it takes him to relieve himself, and he’ll be close by, anyway, and hear any commotion easily. Legolas nods for him to go, returning to his ale.
The air smells metallic. Aragorn hopes that it will rain over the course of the night. Legolas always perks up at the smell of dirt after rain—a smell Aragorn enjoys as well—and it would break the heat, too, which would do wonders for their energy and for Legolas’s mood.
They’ll catch up with the orcs by tomorrow or the next day, and assuming the ensuing fight goes well, they’ll take a route straight to Fangorn Forest and travel through the edges of the woods with an eye out for orcs before heading towards Mirkwood.
It’s a long journey, and a somewhat unnecessary one, but Aragorn can’t seem to bring himself to part from Legolas yet after the past few months of patrolling Rohan together. Anyway, Aragorn longs to be surrounded by elves again: to be able to speak his native tongue freely and pass late nights drinking with Legolas without the need to cast his eyes about for danger.
Legolas is in the same place when Aragorn returns, staring into his tankard. A quick glance around the bar confirms that no one has shifted from their previous seats. Legolas startles a bit when Aragorn slides into the booth, which is strange, considering his Elvish hearing.
Legolas looks up. His movement is laggier than it was just three minutes ago, as if he’s drunk, which of course, can’t be the case. Aragorn glances up again at the bar, uneasy.
“Something’s wrong,” Legolas mutters, not quite looking at him.
Aragorn reaches out to steady Legolas’s chin, squinting at his eyes. They look a little glazed, like he’s sick. His pupils could be larger than usual, though it’s difficult to tell; the inn is fairly dark this time of night.
“What are you feeling?” Aragorn asks firmly, pulling one of the empty tankards towards him and looking into it, though he knows it won’t hold any answers. “Describe it.”
“I don’t know,” Legolas says. His words are clunky, almost slurred; they’re nothing like his usually smooth Sindarin. His eyes drift down towards the table again. “I feel strange.”
“Focus, Legolas,” Aragorn snaps, prompting Legolas to look up. “Are you woozy? Unsteady? Do you think you can walk?”
Legolas looks down at the two tankards on the table, brow creased, and then looks back at Aragorn. “I can’t be drunk on just this.”
“You aren’t drunk,” Aragorn hisses, a little too loud—he glances up and catches both the innkeeper and the man talking to him in the act of looking away.
Aragorn closes his eyes for a moment, touching his hunting knife. He could kill both of them right now, he thinks, and he very well might, depending on how the next few minutes go.
Legolas’s hand is on his again, and this time it stays there. Aragorn takes it, flipping it palm up so he can check Legolas’s pulse. It’s not moving too quickly, that’s certain, although Elves’ pulses are already slow compared to Mens’.
“What do I do?” Legolas asks, drawing Aragorn’s gaze back to his wide eyes. For a moment, he’s nothing but a frightened child. Aragorn sometimes forgets Legolas’s youth in contemplating the many hundreds of years that separate them—Legolas is not so experienced, for an elf.
“You’re okay,” Aragorn whispers, flipping Legolas’s hand back and smoothing his thumb over his knuckles. “They’ve slipped you something, I’m almost certain. It won’t be fatal.”
He says it like he’s sure, though he supposes he can’t be, which is enough to make him feel unsteady himself. Elves are rarely felled by simple poisons, though, and he has a feeling this isn’t a poison at all, but rather an attempt to make Legolas pliant and susceptible. Something in his chest flares at the thought, and he glances back up at the bar.
“Do you think you can walk?” he asks again.
“Maybe, with help,” Legolas says, though he looks uncertain. “But I won’t be able to fight.”
“That’s fine,” Aragorn says, staring openly at the bar, now, and pushing himself up. The soreness from before is replaced with thrumming anxiety, and he keeps one hand on his knife as he pulls Legolas up with the other. He’d rather the elf stay seated until he’s dealt with what is necessary, but he’s not going to leave him unprotected in case there’s another conspirator somewhere.
Legolas stumbles a bit upon standing, and Aragorn wraps an arm around his waist tightly.
“Just stay with me, willow tree.”
A sweeter term of endearment than the one before, used even more sparingly, and rarely past childhood. Legolas seems to calm at the words, as Aragorn had hoped.
They make their way to the counter, Aragorn pulling down his hood as he goes, eyes narrowing as the innkeeper and friend turn to them.
“A lightweight, huh?” The innkeeper says, laughing as he glances at Legolas. “Don’t worry, we can put him up for the night.”
“Is that so?” Aragorn asks, glancing between the two of them. “You were both involved in this, then?”
They’re bad at feigning confusion, and worse at keeping the unease from their faces. Strider is not nearly so known in Rohan as in Eriador, but stories of the Rangers spread, even here. It is valuable, Aragorn thinks, to build a reputation.
“You will show me what did this,” Aragorn says, lowering his voice without sacrificing his appearance of calm. He twists his hand on his blade, calling attention to his hip. “Or we will not have cause to talk for much longer. You would prefer we did.”
The men look to each other. Aragorn wonders at their plan in the first place—was he to leave, without concern, when his friend became woozy and ill? Are they really so foolish as to think him unfamiliar with the constitution of Elves?
The innkeeper produces a jar and tilts it so that Aragorn can see. It’s an unremarkable looking substance, a fine powder which is neither green nor brown, but sits somewhere in between. It must come from nature, though Aragorn is sure it has been subject to some process to make it smooth. He does not recognize it as any Mannish drug.
“Where did you get this?” he demands, snatching it from the man. He doesn’t touch it, for if it is strong enough to bring Legolas to confusion so quickly, it is surely strong enough to kill a man.
“Mossroot powder,” Legolas mutters from beside him. “It’s used in some medicines.”
Aragorn exhales. Non-fatal, then, unless they’ve given so much as to completely overload Legolas’s system, which seems unlikely.
“He brought it,” the innkeeper says, eyes darting to his friend and to Aragorn’s knife. “I swear. Wasn’t my idea.”
“You had it behind the bar,” Aragorn points out, though this conversation is largely useless, now, and he’s eager to find somewhere Legolas can sleep or at least sit down. “Which means you put it in his drink, does it not?”
The innkeeper has a response, but Aragorn can’t much find it in himself to care.
“The lid,” Aragorn interrupts, holding out his hand, and the innkeeper quiets, rummaging behind the bar and passing it over.
Aragorn carefully closes the container, watching the men as he does so. They shift uncomfortably.
“Have you anything more to say?” Aragorn asks. He receives no response; perhaps they can see that he is not interested to hear one.
Aragorn nods.
He pockets the mossroot powder, pulling out his hunting knife in the same motion and sinking it deep into the closer man’s thigh.
The man screams in a strangled manner, tumbling back and off of the stool, which earns a nice thunk of his head against the hard stone floor.
There are exclamations from the other patrons of the inn, and then a general rush to leave. Legolas tenses, too, though Aragorn doubts it comes from any objection to the violence itself: the elf is more adept at harm than even he is, and has lived to see many more deaths.
The innkeeper looks at his companion for a moment, enough time for Aragorn to draw his sword and slice through the meaty flesh of his arm, near bone.
He doesn’t aim to kill, necessarily; Legolas likely won’t be able to leave this town until morning, and murder carries much heavier consequences than simple violence. He merely wants to ensure that the men can’t do anything tonight, or indeed, ever again—for they will make much less formidable threats if they cannot quite run without tripping, nor grab at a person without feeling the tear of old scarred flesh.
Aragorn turns back to the man on the ground, reaching down and pulling the knife from his leg, twisting it as he does. The man writhes, still screaming, and Aragorn does not enjoy it, although he doesn’t feel pity, either.
The innkeeper takes the opportunity to run down the hallway behind the bar, and though Aragorn is prepared to drop his sword and throw the hunting knife if need be, Legolas gets there first, throwing his own dagger squarely into the man’s back. It’s not as clean a hit as Legolas’s standard, but still, he crumples, groaning and scrabbling at the ground.
Aragorn stares for a moment before looking at Legolas. “Showing off, now?”
Legolas doesn’t laugh, though, getting heavier against Aragorn by the second. Aragorn adjusts his grip on Legolas’s waist, brow creasing. They’ll leave the dagger, then. Legolas will be annoyed, but he’ll get over it, and time is starting to seem rather essential if Aragorn doesn’t want to be fleeing the law with an unconscious elf.
The man from the stool begs for mercy as Aragorn guides Legolas towards the door, grabbing their things from the table as he does. Aragorn has half a mind to throw his hunting knife from the doorway and accept wherever it lands, but they’d better not lose another weapon today. Legolas will be wanting the knife, most likely, for he doesn’t have a sword.
“I’m so tired,” Legolas mutters as Aragorn swings open the door. Sure enough, it’s beginning to rain, and the cool air is relieving, if ill-timed, considering they may find it necessary to spend the night outside. Aragorn pulls Legolas’s hood up to keep his hair dry and hide it from any onlookers.
“I know,” Aragorn says, taking a breath. He’ll have time to handle the curling in his gut later; right now, he must focus. “A bit longer.”
“Come with me,” says a voice from the shadowy wall of the inn, and Aragorn startles, drawing his knife as well as he can while supporting most of Legolas’s weight and that of their bags.
A woman steps out of the darkness. She’s stout, fifty or so years—she might’ve been in one of the groups from the inn, though Aragorn isn’t sure. She freezes at the sight of the knife, holding her hands up. “I mean no harm. I’m offering my lodgings for the night, that’s all.”
Aragorn lowers his knife.
“Why would you do that?” he asks warily, scanning the surrounding shadows for concealed figures and hoping that Legolas, with his immensely superior vision, has the lucidity to do the same.
“He drugged your friend, right?” the woman asks, gesturing to Legolas. Aragorn is glad she calls Legolas his friend, and not his elf—it’s not an uncommon thing to hear, in places like these, and Aragorn always bristles at the insinuations. “I don’t think you two should be left out here alone.”
Aragorn keeps his hand on his knife, shoulders tense. “Are there men in your house?”
“Aragorn,” Legolas mutters, head half-resting on Aragorn’s shoulder. “She’s to be trusted. Her voice—like bells.”
The woman looks to Legolas, uncomprehending, and back to Aragorn.
“Just my son,” she assures him, returning to his previous question, “but he’s long asleep by this hour. He’s but ten or so years of age, and would only find an elf exciting.”
A stranger’s house is not Aragorn’s preference, even if Legolas doesn’t seem to pick up on any danger with his Elvish intuition. But the drizzling rain may soon give way to a downpour, and it’s difficult to balance Legolas with their weapons and bags. They cannot sleep out in the street, anyway—it would be more dangerous than even the rooms in the inn they just departed.
“Okay,” Aragorn concedes. “But this knife has been bloodied once already tonight, and I won’t take kindly to any attempts on my friend.”
The woman nods, ushering Aragorn to follow. She turns as she walks, smiling softly.
“I’m Maethild,” she says, to Legolas as well as Aragon. “What are your names, young ones?”
They’re both years older than she is, of course, but Aragorn can’t help but feel younger, without Legolas’s regular sharp presence at his side—young and helpless and unbearably reliant on this unfamiliar woman to tell him what to do.
“Strider,” Aragorn says, for he doesn’t disclose his name so easily to shadowy strangers in the street.
“Legolas,” Legolas murmurs, never so careful as Aragorn would like him to be. “Thank you, Maethild.”
The woman’s face softens in something like affection, and it endears her to Aragorn somewhat.
“No thanks needed,” she assures him. “We’re right through here.”
It’s a small house, but well-lived in, with layered woven carpets keeping the floors warm. There’s an ornate tapestry along one wall which must have taken many hundreds of hours, or cost many hundreds of coins. A low fire burns in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the walls. The kitchen area, especially, is well-stocked—Aragorn scans the spice jars warily and hopes none of them contain mossroot.
The house itself provides some comfort as to the intentions of Maethild, though Aragorn is not sure why; perhaps it is simply too human for a monster and too intricate for a man.
“Do you wish to lie down?” Maethild asks Legolas as she twice deadbolts the door behind them. “You can take my room, or make up a bed on the bench out here.”
Legolas doesn’t respond, and Aragorn does not wait; the silence alone is enough to make his heart skitter like a rabbit, for though Legolas is often silent, he rarely misses the chance to state his mind.
“This will work well,” Aragorn says, as polite as Legolas would be. “You are gracious.”
Maethild bustles away to find blankets, and Aragorn helps Legolas to the bench, piling their bows and other possessions beside him and kneeling in front of him to get a good look at his face.
Legolas’s clothes are damp from rain, but under his hood, he’s sweating. His ever-smooth hair sticks to his forehead in strands. His breath is slow and a little unsteady.
“Legolas,” Aragorn prompts, and Legolas’s dazed eyes find his. He looks so confused, and it’s as if Aragorn has been stabbed with the dagger himself; he tries to school his expression, but he knows he must look raw.
“It’s like I’m in the woods,” Legolas murmurs, watching him, “though I know I’m not. The world is muffled and every way looks the same.”
It’s a cruel joke, Aragorn thinks, for Legolas to be left frightened in the forest after days of longing for its shade.
“Say you are in the woods,” Aragorn says, reaching to smooth Legolas’s hair back out of his face. “Then I am there with you, and I will hear for you, and tell you where to go.”
“You cannot hear so well,” Legolas mumbles, with something approaching a smile.
“Now, you wound me,” Aragorn teases. He runs his thumb across Legolas’s palm. “You are safe, dear friend, as you always are in the trees.”
They stay in silence, for a moment. Aragorn can see that Legolas takes in some of his surroundings, though for the most part, his glazed eyes rest on Aragorn in front of him.
“He should drink water,” Maethild says as she returns, carrying an armful of blankets which she hands off to Aragorn. “It’ll dilute the substance, and relieve his head in the morning.”
“Have you much experience treating drugged elves?” Aragorn retorts, though it’s a logical enough course of action, and one Aragorn should’ve thought of.
“If you think men like that only go after elves, you’re a fool,” Maethild says. There’s no heat behind the words, but Aragorn feels somewhat ashamed, for he hadn’t given it a thought.
Maethild carries over a flagon of water and a wooden cup, pouring a bit for herself and drinking it before placing both dishes onto the bench beside Legolas.
Aragorn recognizes the gesture for what it is, and nods. She nods in return, glancing only briefly at the silent Legolas as she turns to walk away.
“Drink some water, willow tree,” Aragorn says, pouring a half-cup and pressing it into Legolas’s hands. “You’ll be back to normal in the morning, I’d guess.”
Legolas nods, an unnatural movement, for his head looks heavy. He brings the cup to his mouth with help from Aragorn, and, with some trial, manages to get it down. Aragorn takes the cup to refill.
They continue like that until Legolas has had five of the half-glasses and does not seem willing to drink more, eyes blinking shut with exhaustion.
Aragorn moves the water away, adjusting the pillows and blankets so Legolas can lie down. There’s not enough room on the bench for Aragorn to lie down beside him, but it is no matter; Aragorn doesn’t want Legolas to get overheated, anyway.
Aragorn can only see that Legolas is still conscious by his blinking eyes—otherwise, his body rests unnaturally still.
“Don’t leave,” Legolas whispers. Aragorn has never heard Legolas plea, in all of their years, but that is what it sounds like, now.
“Never,” Aragorn says firmly, reaching to take Legolas’s hand, which does not move or squeeze his own. Aragorn doesn’t know what he is promising, whether Legolas asks him to stay for tonight or for the rest of his short mortal life. In the moment, it doesn’t matter—the answer is the same.
Aragorn stays kneeling beside the bench for a while after Legolas falls asleep, though his legs are sore. He cannot find much energy or will to move. He looks down at his hands. They shake.
This will not help his unease in taverns, for Aragorn can win a thousand fights, but he cannot extract a fine powder from a drink or from Legolas’s veins. He had never considered there would be a substance strong enough to take out an elf. Now his mind fills with thoughts of deadly poisons, and he shudders.
What of the months when Legolas travels alone, and rents single rooms in dangerous towns? What would he have done? Though he can throw a dagger, even impaired, Aragorn doubts Legolas could shoot an arrow as he drifts to sleep.
Legolas will not take it seriously, Aragorn thinks, and he bristles, even now. He will make jokes, and brush off Aragorn’s concern, and he will say, you worry too much for someone with so few years.
You are not so mature, yourself, Aragorn should argue, and though you have seen many centuries, you have yet to understand the cruelty of men.
It won’t matter, of course. Legolas is stubborn. Aragorn supposes he can content himself to hope that he will have the luck to also remain naïve.
“Come eat,” Maethild says. Aragorn looks up—she’s at the dining table, setting out a plate piled with bread, cheese, and other dry goods. She must have put it together sometime over the past half hour, though Aragorn has not been paying her much mind.
“Thank you,” Aragorn says, looking back to the sleeping Legolas, “but I couldn’t.”
“Nonsense,” Maethild dismisses. “You can see him just as well from here, and you will be no use to him tomorrow if you are hungry, as well as exhausted.”
Her logic is sound, Aragorn reasons. They burned through the last of their Elvish rations a few weeks ago, and ever since, they’ve had neither the time nor disposable coin to ever fully sate their hunger. Aragorn had ordered food at the inn, but it hadn’t yet arrived when they left.
He pushes himself up, wincing a bit, and carries his knife and holstered sword with him to the table. Maethild eyes the weapons but makes no comment, pushing the food towards Aragorn and sitting down across from him.
“I would inquire as to your intentions,” Maethild says, “But I can see how you look upon him, and know that you mean no harm.”
“He can handle himself well enough,” Aragorn says, somewhat defensive. “He could take down thirty men in battle without struggle. It is only the drugs and close quarters which impede him.”
“I believe you,” Maethild assures him. “Though I would not know; Elves do not frequent these roads.”
“That is for the best,” Aragorn says grimly, looking to Legolas. “There are only monsters to be found here.”
He thinks of the mossroot powder sitting in his pocket, and wonders how the man could’ve gotten hold of such a thing, or known how to use it.
“There are monsters,” Maethild agrees, “as there are in every race of Middle Earth, and every age since the Elder Days.”
“Nevertheless, one wonders at the creation of Men,” Aragorn mutters. Though Gondor is not Rohan, the people are much the same; Aragorn knows that Legolas would not be any safer there than here. The thought makes his face heat with shame.
“That is not a question for us to ponder,” Maethild chides. “It simply is. We go from there.”
Aragorn frowns, for he doesn’t much understand her words. He turns to his food instead. The bread is stale, but the flavors are wonderful, and his body thanks him for the nourishment.
They sit in silence for some minutes as Aragorn eats. He expects Maethild to leave, for it must be the early hours of morning by now, but she makes no move to go.
Aragorn thinks about monsters, and Men, and the glimmer in Legolas’s eyes as he teases him.
“He will not see what I see,” Aragorn admits, more quietly, for he shouldn’t be sharing it. “Every town in Rohan and Gondor, men look upon him as though to own him. Yet he wishes to drink like the locals; he wishes to see their art, their customs; he marvels at their every imperfection. You know as well as I that it is unearned.”
Maethild contemplates this, looking over to Legolas.
“It is true that there is evil in us,” she allows. “But there is much good to be found, also. Perhaps your friend sees that.”
She meets his gaze while she speaks, as if there’s some other meaning in the words which Aragorn can’t discern.
He sighs.
He knows there is good in Men, though it is often hard to call to mind. He supposes he can take comfort in Maethild, who would offer lodging to a strange man and elf so that they may be safe from violence and dry through the rain.
“You are right,” Aragorn concedes. “Though I wish he would see the evil, too, and save his trust for those who have earned it.”
Maethild laughs. “We all wish such a thing for those we love. It is rarely that easy.”
They stay up for a little while longer, engaging in idle conversation; Maethild does the majority of the talking, for Aragorn has never been adept at such rituals. He learns of her late husband—she no longer mourns, for it was many years ago, and she enjoys her freedoms—and of her son, who plans to travel to Endoras for schooling when he comes of age. It is as good a distraction as any, and Aragorn is somewhat saddened when she departs to her room.
He finds there is space on the bench to sit beside the sleeping Legolas, so he settles there. He twists his fingers slowly through the elf’s hair, a ritual of sorts, a promise that he is still close.
He can’t imagine that Maethild plans to sleep—she really shouldn’t be letting strange men into her house, Aragorn thinks, for she has no way of knowing that he is not just as cruel as the men at the inn.
Nonetheless, he’s grateful. Legolas’s breathing has evened out somewhat, and the deadbolts on the door offer some measure of peace.
Aragorn worries that the mossroot will cause twisted dreams, but Legolas sleeps well through the night, other than a few moments of twitching and some Sindarin muttering that Aragorn can’t make out.
Aragorn doesn’t sleep, passing the hours running his fingers through Legolas’s hair, listening to the rain drum against the roof, then peter out, and watching the sun rise through the cracks around the shutters.
At one point, a young boy comes through, staring with wide eyes at the two of them before darting out the front door. Aragorn wonders if his mother brings many strangers into their home. Maybe not many large men with dark hooded cloaks.
When Legolas does wake, it is bit by bit, blinking away sleep, brow creasing as his eyes alight on Aragorn.
“Everything’s fine,” Aragorn says quickly. “Take it easy; we have time.”
Aragorn shifts as Legolas pushes himself up, a little slower than usual, wincing and rubbing his forehead. His eyes dart around the room, confused.
“Where are we?”
“A woman let us stay for the night,” Aragorn explains. “She’s kind. You’ll like her.”
Legolas nods, though the concern does not leave his face as he takes in his surroundings. He looks back to Aragorn.
“We were at the inn,” he says slowly. “Did I pass out?”
So it is as Aragorn expected; Legolas cannot remember. He supposes he’s glad that Legolas won’t be haunted by memories of blurry vision and dark streets, though some selfish part of him doesn’t want the knowledge of last night to fall on him alone.
“Everything’s okay,” he repeats. “The innkeeper put something into your drink. Mossroot.”
Legolas’s eyes widen, and he shifts.
“You hit him with your dagger,” Aragorn adds. “We left, but you were out of it. We came here.”
Legolas stands, swearing under his breath in Sindarin as he presses his palms into his eyelids. Aragorn wants to stand, too, but he waits, watching Legolas.
Legolas’s eyes alight on their pile of things, and he kneels, rummaging through, then looking up at Aragorn questioningly.
“I left it,” Aragorn says, sighing. “I’m sorry.”
Legolas nods, though he doesn’t look pleased. Aragorn pulls his own hunting knife out of his belt and offers it to him. The blade is crusted with dried blood.
Legolas takes it, flipping it over in his hands. “You stabbed him, too?”
“There were two,” Aragorn explains, and Legolas nods again.
Legolas is silent for a minute or two, standing alone with the hunting knife in his hands. Aragorn looks down; it feels like an intrusion.
“What did I say?” Legolas asks eventually, returning to sit beside Aragorn. “Was I scared?”
Aragorn contemplates for a moment.
“You were confused,” he says. “But you were aware, and responded to questions. If you were very scared, you did not show it.”
Legolas is quiet, staring at the carpet. After a few minutes, he leans into Aragorn, and Aragorn puts an arm around him, letting Legolas’s head fall onto his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Aragorn whispers.
Legolas shakes his head, but makes no other reply.
Maethild enters some time later, and though she means to be quiet, Aragorn and Legolas are neither one to miss a footstep, and they turn quickly.
“Good morning,” Maethild greets them. “I apologize for the intrusion; I would give you more space, but I must tend to the hearth.”
“Intrusion, when we are in your home,” Legolas says, voice much clearer than when he woke up. “What a funny idea. Ara—Strider, go help; we are no ill-mannered visitors.”
“No need for that,” Maethild insists, but Aragorn pushes himself up anyway, joining her at the hearth—he looks to Legolas, who is turned over the back of the bench, smiling.
They pass the next hours in the same way. Maethild directs Aragorn in helping her prepare a stew; Legolas offers the occasional interjection, mostly as to the quality of Aragorn’s chopping.
“Do not pretend you are any better,” Aragorn retorts. “You have lived over a millennium, yet you still struggle to roast a rabbit.”
Over time, Legolas seems to regain some of his usual energy, and even leaves the bench to sit by the fire and stoke it when necessary. He carries the knife with him, but Maethild does not mention it, and Aragorn is glad.
Later, during a comfortable lull in conversation, Aragorn watches Legolas run his fingers carefully through his hair, smoothing out knots and parting the strands with care so that he can braid it out of his face in his usual style. It is one of Aragorn’s favorite things to observe, for his fingers fly like nothing else, and his eyes flutter shut with an easy focus.
“I have never seen Elvish braids,” Maethild says, also mesmerized by the motion. “They are so intricate, yet you complete them with ease.”
Legolas looks up, blinking.
“Ah, they are not so intricate,” he dismisses. “With your grasp of textile arts, you could learn with no trouble. I will teach you.”
Maethild smiles. “You are kind, but I could never use the skill; my son’s hair is thick and coarse, much unlike yours.”
Legolas considers for a moment. “We will practice on Strider, then, and make adjustments as necessary—it will be easier to teach with that method, anyway.”
Aragorn blinks. Legolas has never braided his hair before—in fact, no one has for quite some time. Elrond would do it sometimes when Aragorn was young, though Aragorn’s braids were never so pretty as the Elves’, and Elrond would often tease him about the difficulty of keeping Mannish hair smooth when it longed to grow in every direction.
Maethild turns to Aragorn, tilting her head. “His hair is not dissimilar from my son’s. But feel free to refuse, Strider, for I don’t wish to disturb your routines.”
Legolas is looking at him, eyes light, smiling as he secures the ends of his braids. The tension from this morning no longer lines his features. Aragorn smiles in return.
“I would love nothing better,” he says truthfully. “Where do you want me, Legolas?”
He ends up on the bench, Legolas and Maethild crowded behind him as Legolas runs his fingers gently through Aragorn’s hair.
“I separate the strands like this,” Legolas says, demonstrating, gentle so as to avoid pulling at Aragorn’s head.
Legolas’s voice is soft as he walks Maethild through the motions, and his hands are impossibly tender—Maethild’s are, too, though Aragorn’s skin does not feel quite so electric when she is the one to touch it.
Legolas laughs when Aragorn’s hair does not agree with his usual style, pulling it out gently and amending his method. Aragorn finds himself longing once again for the familiar comfort of Elvish society. When they make it to the Woodland Realm, perhaps he will ask Legolas to braid his hair each morning; it would not be unusual, and would mark him as a friend of Elves.
Legolas finds a suitable style before long, and Maethild learns quickly, as he had predicted.
“If he were to walk into Mirkwood, the patrollers would think him a lost elf, and bring him directly home,” Legolas declares at her third attempt. Maethild laughs, and Aragorn smiles. Even he has not grown immune to the charm of Legolas.
“Since we are here, you must teach me a traditional braid of Rohan,” Legolas requests. “I see them in the places we visit, and I find them enchanting.”
“You flatter us,” Maethild says warmly. “The Elves are taught every style of braid, I’m sure; but I will show you again, so we may compare.”
It is a beautiful way to spend the afternoon, and Aragorn is sure Legolas delights in the company. When Maethild’s son returns, she practices the braids on him—a slightly less willing participant—and Legolas stands by, regaling the boy with Elvish fairytales so he may find the patience to sit still.
Aragorn smiles with them, but as the hours pass, memories of last night creep into his mind and spark in him an unease that does not seem to go away. They can’t stay here forever, after all; they’ll need to set out by sundown, and then they’ll be back in the wider world of Men, where braiding style does not matter so much as golden hair and Elvish features.
By the time they bid their farewells, Aragorn is tense, mossroot powder heavy in his pocket and every noise from the outdoors a promise of danger.
“We are in your debt,” Legolas says humbly, accepting the food Maethild has prepared. “If I had anything to gift you, I would; but we travel far, and pack light.”
“I will let you in on a secret about Men,” Maethild offers conspiratorially, beckoning Legolas forward.
Legolas looks to Aragorn, raising his eyebrows, then to Maethild. “I bid you to do so.”
“What we choose to give, we give freely, expecting nothing in return,” she tells him, “for our lives are short, and we know ourselves to be unreliable flakes.”
Legolas's shoulders shake as he laughs. He laughs like a man, not an elf; Aragorn has always noticed it.
Maethild laughs, too. “I reveal too many secrets. Your friend will resent me.”
“Ah, I will not use it against him,” Legolas assures her good-naturedly, looking to Aragorn. “Anyway, he is not so cool and collected as he would like you to believe.”
Maethild meets Aragorn’s eyes for a moment, but she only smiles, as if they are all in on the joke, and does not let slip anything of their conversation last night.
Legolas seems in bright spirits as they set out, though he remains quiet as they make it past the border of the town into the rolling fields of wheat and potatoes which are empty this time of night.
Aragorn feels no patience for the spring in Legolas’s step; there are monsters around, and vigilance is indispensable. Though they have darkness on their side, Aragorn’s heart stutters with every skitter he hears, and his hand strays often towards his sword.
When they finally depart from the main road, Aragorn forces himself to take a breath.
“Now let us move quickly,” he whispers. He speaks Westron, for even this late, someone may catch their words on the wind; he does not want to broadcast their otherness. “And pray we never have a reason to set foot near there again.”
“But if we had not done so in the first place, we would never have met dear Maethild,” Legolas points out. “We may count ourselves lucky.”
“I will do no such thing,” Aragorn replies, heat rising in his face at the words. “Or have you forgotten what could have happened last night, had I gone outside at the wrong time, or had the mossroot powder been a stronger drug? Have you forgotten that you were half-conscious in the street with only me supporting you, susceptible to any half-skilled group of thieves that may have seen us?”
Legolas does not respond right away, and Aragorn regrets his words, though they were not insincere.
“Aragorn, pause for a moment,” Legolas says, slowing his pace.
Aragorn shakes his head. “We must keep moving. We have already lost a day.”
“We have a moment,” Legolas says more firmly, and Aragorn slows to a stop, turning to him. He knows the color is heavy in his cheeks, and he is embarrassed to betray himself so easily.
Legolas’s eyes are soft. “I should not have said such a thing.”
Aragorn nods stiffly; he does not want to get into it, for his emotions run high.
“I cannot imagine my fear, had it been me in your position,” Legolas continues. “I was spared the worst.”
Aragorn does not look at Legolas. He should argue, for Legolas was the one in danger, but he finds that he, too, wishes he were the subject of the mossroot powder, so that he might not remember the night or shoulder the weight of Legolas’s safety.
“I hope you will speak to me,” Legolas says quietly, “for it would pain me if you did not, and my head aches, already.”
Aragorn is silent for another moment, but he can not bear to deny Legolas for long.
“I do fear for you,” he admits. “You are highly skilled, it is true, but you are not invincible, and there are evils you do not understand. Do not have such faith in Men, Legolas. We will only disappoint you.”
Legolas considers this for a moment, then steps towards him, close enough that he must incline his head slightly to meet Aragorn’s eyes. Though Aragorn towers above many of those he meets, he is always surprised to find that he is taller than Legolas.
Aragorn’s breath stutters as Legolas reaches forward, cradling Aragorn’s face gently with his hand, so that his thumb rests on Aragorn’s flushed cheek. Aragorn never knows what to do when Legolas acts this way with him, for it is neither Elvish nor Mannish custom—not even with a dear friend.
Nonetheless, Aragorn finds some of the tension leaving his body under Legolas’s gentle touch. He exhales; the sprawling fields are just fields, and the far-off croon of an owl is not enough to turn his head.
“I am familiar, young Estel, with the capabilities of Men,” Legolas says softly. “And I will not swear to hide in the shadows, for it is not my way. But I should not place the pressure on you to catch the things I do not. I am sorry for it. And I am sorry that I left you alone.”
Aragorn shakes his head, only slightly, but it is enough to make Legolas’s fingers drop from his face, and he misses them as soon as they are gone.
“You did not leave me. It is ridiculous to think in such a manner. You have only Men to blame.”
“And I have only Men to thank,” Legolas says, stepping back and shouldering his bow. “So I have broken even. Ah, but Maethild’s tapestry—I suppose I am still on the side of Men, after all.”
Aragorn sighs, but the cool touch of Legolas’s hand still lingers on his face, and he cannot find it in himself to argue.
As they run, Aragorn asks Legolas what he should do with the mossroot powder; if it is very valuable, they could bring it to the Woodland Realm, though Aragorn is not keen to carry such a substance for so many miles.
Legolas seems to agree, looking at the jar with some unease. At the first copse of trees they come across, they dispose of it: Aragorn hands the jar to Legolas, who sets it on the ground and smashes it into the pieces, grinding it underfoot so as to distribute the pottery shards and powder into the dirt.
“This plant can only be sourced in Mirkwood,” Legolas says.
Aragorn understands his meaning—the use of such a drug by Men is not well-established, and with any luck, will remain a rarity brought upon by chance interactions with stray Elvish traders.
“That is good.”
Legolas nods.
It is quick work tracking the orc raid, despite the delay; Aragorn and Legolas locate them by sunrise and finish the battle before the last violet of dawn has left the sky.
“I told a lie, before,” Legolas calls as he stoops down to retrieve an arrow from the bloody grass. Aragorn pauses in the cleaning of his sword, looking to Legolas.
“What this time?” he asks. He’s prepared for a joke—Legolas is always spirited after battle.
“Maethild’s tapestry is breathtaking,” Legolas says. “But it is not that which sways me.”
Aragorn looks down. He does not know how to reply.