~~{O}~~

"This is ridiculous," Aragorn sighs, slumping down even further and closing his eyes against the sun. It is a beautiful day; the first real day of heat that signifies the switch between spring and summer, and here we are on the Pelennor, with no shade and nowhere to hide. It was meant to be peaceful but it is not; it is very noisy here.

Someone believed it a sound plan to have games this year, and that same someone did not imagine that such a thing would draw a crowd. 'For the lads' that someone said, 'because they have been sat idle all winter, and they will get fat'.

As much as I doubt the soldiers of Gondor have been allowed to grow soft since peace came upon us, once Éomer has something in his head, there is little dissuading him from it.

The soldiers are keen indeed; they have been keen for these games since they were first announced, and now that they are here they are like boys; laughing, shouting and clanking about. Old rivalries have come to the fore, the air is alive with good natured barbs and shouted challenges. This was meant to be for the soldiers, but of course it has turned into a day of festivities for the people of Minas Tirith.

They come, hundreds upon hundreds of them. Families and couples, hand in hand and carrying children. They bring blankets and picnics and instruments to make music, dogs and firewood and stools for the elderly. There are giggling young girls, fresh in their womanhood, blushing and whispering to one another as they eye the men – shirtless and strong, glistening in the heat.

There are areas picketed for fighting, for the sword and stave, knife and bare knuckle. There will be horse racing and archery and a chance to test physical strength, but this is not what was in mind when this plan was first had. There are no places to sit or proper refreshments, no shelter or men to keep order. This has got entirely out of hand.

"I do not see your problem Estel," Legolas tells him, sat upright and attentive. The men watch the coming crowds with a mixture of amusement and nerves – they had not realised that they would be performing to such an audience – and Legolas is all a-twitch. He is as bright as sunlight upon water today, burning with energy and excitement. This whole thing has captured him quite completely. "It is no different to the games we have at home."

"It is different," Aragorn grits out through his teeth. "These are not laegrim elves. I was meant to be here to inspect the men, because they like to be inspected, and then I imagined I might sit here quite unseen and watch them hit one another in the name of sport. Now I am a king sat in grubby clothes upon the floor, who has not provided anything for his people to even sit upon. How did they find out about this?"

"Soldiers have families, Aragorn." I point out. "They have families and friends and they drink in taverns, and a few of them even speak to one another."

"You are not helping."

"Do they seem disappointed, Estel?" the elf gestures out at the collecting people. They settle their blankets down, their children race off screeching in joy, they are smiling and laughing and seem quite happy. There is a festive atmosphere here, and of course the soldiers adapt just as soldiers always adapt. They stand in their groups, amused and watching, and some bring out boards and charcoal so that bets might be taken. They set up a marquee for shelter, and some return to the city for barrels of water.

The architect of the day is striding about in all of his glory, his face an absolute picture of delight. Éomer has always worn more armour than I have ever understood – it is not to my taste at all – but he looks quite resplendent in the sun, wrapped completely in leather and steel and horse hair. He must be quite hot by now.

"You do not intend to compete, Legolas," Aragorn mutters from where he lies, face to the sun, a suggestion and a certainty in one. The elfling looks to him in horror, a scowl as thunderous as Orodruin itself settling across his brow.

"Why would I not?" he bites out, and I know Legolas well enough to hear the danger in that tone. It is his most careful, the one that says things are about to go very badly, depending on how the next few moments go.

"Because it is not fair," is the response in a tone that suggests he is being stupid and childish, and I wonder whether I have time to escape. Legolas is apoplectic but Aragorn merely turns his head upon the ground – he has grass all in his hair – and reaches out to tug gently at the elfling's sleeve. "You can play with the other boys as much as you like after the contests are over. They have been looking forward to this."

And the moment is over, just as easily as that. Legolas deflates, all of his ire drained out in an instant, and he looks down at Gondor's king. He frowns again, pulling his knees up so that he might rest his elbows upon them, but this time he does not look frightening or dangerous, but rather as though he has had his fun thoroughly spoiled. I still have not learned how to manipulate Legolas, not just with a look, not the way that Aragorn can. Perhaps it is because the elfling remembers the boy that this king once was, and because he has never been able to deny him anything. It would be a useful skill to learn.

"Here he comes," I point out, although Éomer is making enough noise for my warning to be redundant. He clanks terribly when he walks. "Do not complain when he is here, you will only upset him."

"King Elessar!" Éomer greets, his voice booming, and my friend groans as people look over. I am starting to thoroughly enjoy myself, and I can feel a grin spread across my face as the horse lord stalks over. He misinterprets my amusement and grins back just as hugely, and I find that I really do like Éomer. He is certainly enthusiastic, that can be said.

"Prince Legolas," he bows as he reaches us and stops, "Lord Gimli."

Legolas, it seems, can sit upon grass, bunched up like a sulky elfling and still manage to greet our visitor with nothing but grace. He makes the smallest movement – the tiniest incline of his head – and he seems naught but a prince. I wonder for a second if I can attempt such a thing, but then I discard the notion. I am not a prince, I am certainly not an elf, Eru be thanked… I dislike even being considered a lord, and so I grunt instead. It is my most polite grunt though, so I feel that I have observed the correct niceties.

"This is not quite what I had imagined," Aragorn manages, teetering on the finest edge of his best manners. Éomer's smile falters for a moment and Legolas clears his throat quite pointedly, his gaze studiously fixed upon the crowd. Aragorn adds: "It is very… lively, though."

"It is a fine thing, is it not?" Éomer nods, glancing behind him. "I had not expected such a crowd! Perhaps this might become a yearly matter, although next year we might be better prepared for it."

"Indeed," Aragorn manages thinly. "We are not prepared for it now, though."

"Oh, it is nothing, my King!" Éomer enthuses, and I have to look away or else I will laugh. He is absolutely delighted, and it is difficult not to become swept up in his mood. "We are fetching benches and tables and a few hogs to roast, some better shelter and men to make some music. All is in hand, worry not! Should I fetch a marquee for you? Perhaps your robes?"

"No!" Aragorn shouts, and I hear a suspicious snort from Legolas that sounds much like stifled laughter. Aragorn recovers remarkably quickly with a brittle smile and a wave of thanks. "No, thank you Éomer. I did not come here as the king today, I wish only to watch the games in peace."

"Then I shall fetch you all something to sit upon, and perhaps some wine," and with that decided, he is stalking away. Aragorn makes an odd noise, as though he had been about to call him back but has changed his mind. The wind escapes him in a frustrated noise that sounds very much like surrender, but this time when he smiles it is real. He shakes his head, abashed, and then laughs. Aragorn has a good laugh; his face is weather worn, and when he laughs his whole countenance changes. I see a hint of the boy that hides deep inside, deep where all men hide their boyhood, and he glances at Legolas for a second. A lot is shared there, just for a heartbeat.

"My father wears forest greens and sits in a tree during the summer games," he says, "just like the rest of us. No one has ever thought any less of him."

"Aye, but they are more frightened of him than anyone will ever be of me," Aragorn points out, and Legolas shrugs. It is not untrue. "In any case, this is what the day has become and so we will enjoy it. Gimli; you will stop finding such enjoyment at my expense and Legolas; you will stop sulking. I will stop complaining."

"I will do no such thing," I inform him quite simply, just as Legolas informs us that he is not sulking. "I am having a fine time and you will not ruin it."

Aragorn laughs again then and grips my shoulder. I am given a fond look, and I realise once again how blessed I am to have friends such as these. We are both distracted then because Legolas stands, a fluid movement that has us both turned in his direction. He dusts grass off his clothing, it flies into my face on a warm breeze and I sneeze.

"Do not look at me that way Estel," he rolls his eyes, "I only go to explore. I will not ruin their fun."

And then he is gone; a wind tangled golden head and forest green amongst all of the nonsense and fuss. He stands out, that is for certain; elves are different to men the same as wolves are different from hounds. A path opens for him, unintentionally and unconsciously, and Legolas moves through it all as though there is a light shining upon him the whole of the time. He has taken his knives with him, and I am thankful that he did not bring his bow.

"Damn his curiosity," Aragorn sighs, looking away, but I know that he does not mean it.

"Aye, I damn it as often as I can, but there is one benefit to him being gone. One of many, in fact."

I pull out two pipes and a pouch of good pipe-weed. I manage it with a flourish and a bow, and the mighty King Elessar Telcontar – High Lord of more or less everywhere I have ever been – grins like the ranger lad he truly is.

~{O}~

By nightfall it has all changed.

We are sunburned and gritty with dust and sweat, and I admit that I am a little into my cups. The families are mostly gone now, but those that remain do not seem ready to return home. There are fires and braziers and tall burning torches set into the ground, so although the Pelennor is nothing but endless darkness stretching out around us, we have more than enough light where we are.

My throat feels a little raw, because I have perhaps been overly enthusiastic in cheering during the horse racing. I have bet upon the archery fields and the sword arena, have lost a bit of coin and made a bit back. I have enjoyed the company of Aragorn and of Legolas, who is ever at my side these years. I have laughed and spent my time in good conversation, in commentary on the skill and form of the fighters – the strong young men and those more experienced.

I have spent time with Legolas in the horse tents with Éomer, and although I have never truly understood horses all that much, my friend finds pleasure in keeping his own stables. He has bought some today, which will set out for Eryn Lasgalen to perpetuate his long line of ridiculously named beasts.

Aragorn has finally relaxed, because not a single person has commented on him wandering about dressed like a vagabond. I think perhaps they prefer him this way: a soldier king, a fighter… one of them. He has spent time with the sword today, has pitted himself against the older soldiers, who know him and have not been too afraid to fight their king. He has instructed the youths, and both the elf and I stayed to watch for the whole of it. Aragorn seems terribly weighed down by his crown of late… the man that we have seen today has shown none of it, and it has given me endless joy to see him this way.

Legolas and I have been – just as we ever are – an odd pair, receiving a few strange looks, a stare here and there, but mostly words of greeting and friendship. I do not know about the elf but I have not felt out of place today – not the way I so often do – but with Legolas at my side I have not felt that way in a long time. We are more than enough company for one another, whether we fit in or not.

Music plays, drifting toward us on the soft scented breeze, and I can hear laughter and singing from a large group over to our right. There are young men and women, soldiers and girls who live in the city, who sit about a magnificent bonfire and dance and talk and laugh. There are other groups just like them, and I realise that these are the new people of Gondor: young and just coming into their best years, free and unafraid, never to fight in a war such as the one I have lived. Their lives stretch out before them; peace filled and full of hope.

I clear my throat and look away.

We stand around an enclosure, and mostly it is covered in men. They sit upon the wooden posts, the cross bars, the ground leaning against the legs of their friends. There are many of them indeed, all ruddy cheeked and with ale in hand. Their eyes glint, they are jubilant – either because they have won their games today, or won money, or seen their friends do well – and now they are content simply to watch.

A lot of our group are older; grizzled veterans, scarred from lives spent fighting and grieving. They sit with their sons and nephews, those that they have trained, and it is good to see them this way. There is little place left in this world for soldiers such as we are, but we still have some years left to enjoy this peace.

"Could you not find a trained dog to perform for you?" I hear, but only because I am stood so closely. Legolas stands in the centre of the enclosure – the focus of everyone's attention – and Aragorn is tying a blindfold about his eyes. Legolas is enduring it with the sort of long suffering patience that he can be so skilful at, and I move closer.

"You wished to play with the other boys," I point out.

"You smell like a brewery," he turns to me, blinded but still perfectly aware of where I am.

"And you pout like a child," but the tone of my voice does not match my words. Legolas smiles; a small thing, there and then gone. We are showing him off, and although he does not entirely understand it, we are happy and so he endures.

He has a bow – it is not his own… not so fine – and he turns and walks into the middle of the enclosure. He walks as though he is not blindfolded at all, as though he can see everything quite clearly, and the weapons master comes over to Aragorn with a leather bag. Inside are clay balls, all of them with small bells held within, and when Legolas stops and Aragorn makes himself ready there is a hush that falls across us all. I feel a thrill of anticipation, and I know that I am grinning like a fool but I do not care. I have seen this before, and I never tire of it.

My friend stands, so fine and fair, but there is no doubt at all – despite his grace and difference – that what stands before us is a fine warrior. Dangerous and wild, so focussed that it touches us all; it is like the tension before a storm, held tight and full of the promise of violence.

Aragorn gives no warning, but with a sharp sí he throws the first clay ball high into the night sky. There is the faintest sound, only the softest clink of a bell deep within clay and I am an orc if I can see the damned thing, but of course Legolas draws his bow in a single movement, holds and then releases, and there is the sound of a clay ball being broken into pieces high above us in the sky. The bell sings, louder now upon its release, and falls to the ground.

There is a murmur of appreciation, but this is not the end of it. Aragorn throws again and again, quicker, one after the other until the sky is full of them. Legolas pulls, draws, releases. His stance shifts minutely, a careful flow of movement as he tracks the sound and hits every single one. Every clay ball breaks in the air, every bell falls free, and when his quiver is empty of arrows Aragorn calls a soft 'daro', and the men begin to laugh and applaud, appreciative of what they have seen.

Legolas removes his blindfold and bows, the expression on his face studious and blank. He has been doing this since he was an elfling, it is naught to him – no real achievement – and of course he does not quite know what to do with the cheering, but he smiles to Aragorn when he hands back the blindfold. He walks away as quickly as he can without seeming in too much of a hurry, returns to my side with a wry look that asks if he is done performing for us.

I grin at him and clap him on the shoulder, and his look softens into one of genuine pleasure. Aragorn re-joins us as a few lads try to replicate what he has done, but they are a little bit drunk, laughing and spinning their blindfolded friends around. I imagine that this is going to become rather dangerous, rather quickly.

"I should fetch those bells," I tell Aragorn once he arrives back with us. "I have been meaning to sew some into his clothing for a while now."

The king laughs, Legolas rolls his eyes and we move away from the group. They are not completely relaxed around us; not around a dwarf, or Legolas' impenetrable silence, and not around their king. This is their celebration, and so we leave them to it. We begin to walk back toward the city, a huge and distant darkness against a starlit sky.

It is still very warm, but it is an oddly lonely experience to leave such noise and brightness behind us. It feels cold, although it is not, and the sounds of music and voices fall away as we leave them behind. It is quiet on the walk back, but I am in the company of my good friends and it is not an unpleasant silence. I can hear our soft footfalls and the wind shifting in the grass now, which I could not hear before.

There is nothing that I can hear of the elf, but it is completely dark and so I can see the soft light that he carries with him… starlight reflected, clear and pure. His eyes are cast upward, and there is a look of peace upon him that has always touched me somehow. It is difficult to be cross or troubled when an elf looks that way, because all is well in the world when peace comes upon the Eldar.

"Perhaps this might become a yearly celebration," Aragorn muses to himself. "Today was a good day."

"Aye," I nod in agreement, and I smile although I know that he cannot see it.

Today was a good day.

END

This one was for Zardi and for Cheekybeak, both of whom get a special thanks this time for their continued support. Cheekybeak has been asking for Aragorn/Three Hunters stuff for pretty much ever, and this is a way of throwing her off the scent when it comes to Silence (she has quite a knack for guessing everything that's going to happen WAY in advance) Hope the last two have made you happy dear :)

Well, another year gone for The Silence in the Song and this draws the birthday celebrations to a close quite nicely... with a celebration! I hope that you have enjoyed these fics, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on them. I'm off out in... very soon (eek, not ready!) so this is a very rushed author's note, but I will see you all really soon with the next update. I hope you have a great weekend :)

MyselfOnly