A/N So after reading Lamiel's awesome 'Of Cabbages and Kings', I'm still in a very happy obsession with parallels between Frodo and Legolas, inspired by her thought-provoking writing exploring the bond between Legolas and Sam. I have also shamelessly appropriated the technique of interweaving conversations to highlight thematic links from Lamiel's work. This was initially going to be a more introspective discussion about how Legolas and Frodo combat their desire to leave Middle Earth, with Legolas helping Frodo to accept the fact that he has to go and teaching him strategies to help him enjoy his last months in the Shire. I might still write something along those lines if there's interest? But anyway, then Sam turned up and told me in no uncertain terms that even when I summon Frodo to a secret council involving Legolas in my brain, he is staying with his master no matter what. And then Gimli charged in with his axe and asked what I was doing with his Elf, and it was all getting a bit hairy until I realised that this story really wanted to be about the parallels between two legendary friendships rather than just Frodo and Legolas as individuals. It explores the emotional minefield of relating to friends after going through a huge personality change, and is very, very angsty. Combines Frodo-having-to-leave-the-Shire angst and Legolas-sea-longing angst. Don't say I didn't warn you. No slash intended, though.

Many thanks to Ink Stained Quill for being my first beta, a wise and insightful critical reader, a fellow lover of grammar jokes and an all-round legend. Ink Stained, you're wonderful, hannon le.

Disclaimer: I will return the characters to Tolkien after subjecting them to some emotional turmoil. I promise.

Chapter 1: Elvish Wordplay

The Shire, S.R. 6th September 1420

Purplish juice ran in rivulets over callused hands, staining them in a glory of autumnal richness. Large fingers which concealed their own agility and gentleness worked methodically through the bush, skilfully detaching their treasure from its nest of thorns. His basket of blackberries almost overflowing in its abundance, Samwise Gamgee closed his eyes for a moment and enjoyed the feeling of the late afternoon sun caressing the back of his neck. He whistled a melody from a song about home, and comfort, and family, listening as it slotted itself in among the chirps and twitters of blackbirds and thrushes in the nearby trees. The Elves said that the whole of creation was one song sung by the Ainur, divided into many parts. Legolas had tried to explain it to him once, but he had found the whole thing rather confusing. But in this moment, as his casual whistling fell into a natural duet with the sounds of the Shire, he almost felt he understood.

He grinned to himself, picturing the crumble which Rosie would produce with the results of their afternoon's labour, sugary juices from the fruit bubbling up from under the golden topping, crowned with lashings of cream. And today, at last, the Shire had produced its chef-d'oeuvre, a perfect moment which could bring Frodo some of the peace he deserved. In his years as Bag End's gardener, Sam had learned that nothing took Frodo's mind off his troubles like an afternoon fruit picking with friends. Surely, at last, this would be a shield against the shadows which still haunted Frodo. Surely this would be enough.

The smile died on his lips as he looked down the hedgerow to Frodo. His basket of blackberries hanging forgotten from his elbow, Frodo's eyes were distant, and his four-fingered right hand was fisted near his chest. If an uninitiated elven observer were present, they might have thought his posture the elven gesture of respect. But Sam knew better. He approached Frodo cautiously, employing the technique he dearly wished he hadn't got down to a practised art. He stood alongside his friend and slipped his hand underneath the empty clutch of Frodo's where it hovered near his neck, intertwining their fingers. This way the memory of now-absent cold metal would be dispelled by the living presence of a warm and responsive hand. He placed his other hand on Frodo's shoulder, gently enough so that he could shake him off easily if he felt threatened by it. Then, as Frodo began to shift slightly, he spoke in a low voice.

'Mr Frodo. Hedge Lane. The Shire. October 1420. We're picking blackberries. Your Sam's right here beside you. Come back to me, Mr Frodo.'

Sam knew very well where Frodo thought he was, and this was a litany that had become all too familiar to him. Details of place, date, and what they were doing, reassurance of his presence, call to come back. Sam was rewarded by a blink from Frodo, whose eyes then came into focus and filled with relief, and then sadness. He gave Sam's hand a quick squeeze before releasing it.

'I'm sorry, Sam. I was hoping it wouldn't happen today. Thank you.'

'So was I, Mr Frodo.'

Frodo found Sam's crestfallen expression almost unbearable and looked away, glimpsing the meagre haul of blackberries in his basket. He tried to rally himself, running his fingers through the crisp dry grass to remind himself that his hands were not covered in ash and blood. He forced a smile he didn't feel.

'Well, Sam, this won't do! I better get back to work, else Rosie will have my head for not bringing her a good enough supply for her crumble.'

He turned back to the bush, knowing that Sam could see through his flimsy veneer of jollity and hating himself for ruining his friend's afternoon.

Sam crouched beside him, gesturing to his own basket. 'Don't worry about that, Mr Frodo. I've got more than enough for the crumble here - and a few extra for the workers as well!'

He took Frodo's hand and deposited a handful of blackberries in it. Frodo relaxed a little as he ate them, and the burst of sharp juice drove away the lingering taste of the fumes of Mordor. Sam's lips were now stained a deep purple as he munched berries straight from the bush with some relish. He saw Frodo looking.

'I have to test the wares before giving them to Rosie! She'd never forgive me if I brought home bad blackberries.'

'And do they pass the test?'

'Aye. Though I'll have another, just to make sure.'

Frodo managed only a small smile at this, but it was a genuine one, more at the transparency of Sam's efforts to distract him than anything else. Sam began to reminisce as they continued their picking.

'Remember how we used to do this every year, Mr Frodo? It was always the highlight of your autumn, you used to say.'

'Aye, Sam. We did. And it was.'

Something about the sorrowful inflection of that past tense made Sam suddenly go cold inside.

The Shire, S.R. 28th November 1420

Frodo woke in a panic. His first thought was that he had overslept his watch. His second was that he had been knocked out and captured. His third was that he had fainted halfway to the summit of Mount Doom. He sat bolt upright and reached for his sword, somehow believing that all three possibilities were happening simultaneously. The fingers of his right hand closed over not a hilt, but a handful of tangled bedsheets, and he noticed the gap where the third finger should be with a start. He froze in that position as he remembered where he was, when he was, and listened intently for the familiar patter of hurried footsteps approaching his door. When after about a minute they still did not come, he exhaled sharply and finally allowed himself to slump back down onto the blankets in relief. That meant that he had not been crying out in his sleep, and so he had not woken Sam. For that at least he was grateful. Sam had endured far too many sleepless nights because of him. As his world orientated itself in his mind he became even more grateful, contemplating the embarrassment of having his nightmares witnessed by the guest who was currently staying with them. Although whether that guest was actually inside Bag End at this moment was anyone's guess.

There was no indication of what had woken him and after a few minutes of disgruntled tossing and turning Frodo realised that he was now fully alert and had no hope of returning to sleep. The first whispers of dawn were beginning to lighten the night sky and Frodo felt, not for the first time, a sudden restlessness and need to walk. With practised stealth he dressed and crept silently into the hallway, pausing when he saw a folded note outside their guest's room. Curiosity got the better of him and it was only the strength of his desire to allow Sam his much-needed sleep that enabled him to stifle his laughter as he read it.

A note to my kind hosts. I desire to watch the sunrise in your beautiful countryside, so I have gone out for a short while. Master Samwise's praise of breakfast here is enough to guarantee my punctual return. My thanks to the lady of the house for her attentive hospitality. Regards, Legolas.

Frodo's amusement stemmed from the careful wording of this note, given that Legolas' sleeping arrangements had turned into a rather complicated negotiation. He continued to smile in amusement at this saga as he carefully replaced the note, wrapped his cloak tightly around him, and left Bag End, allowing his feet to take him where they would.

It should really have been straightforward. There were no trees nearby tall enough to climb, but even in winter Legolas would clearly prefer sleeping under the saplings and the starlight to being cooped up in a hobbit hole. He had said as much in his letter accepting their invitation, wording it tactfully of course and urging them not to trouble themselves finding an appropriately sized bed. And there the business might have ended, had it not been for Rosie. On hearing that Sam was considering having an Elf to stay- an Elf, no less!- and not providing him a room, Rosie had exploded in a rather impressive manner. It had been the one and only time that Frodo had feared for their marriage. Rosie, being married to Sam, shared his respect for, and fascination with, all things elvish. However, she did not have the experience of living among them, as Sam did, and could not comprehend how suggesting that a guest sleep outside would be anything less than a grave insult. She was adamant that they were equipping Bag End's largest room with a bed to suit a tall Elf, and nothing Frodo or Sam could say about elven custom would sway her. They warned Legolas about this on his arrival, so when the evening drew to a close he was prepared to deflect Rosie's offer of a room with his usual masterful charm. However, it appeared that in Rosie Gamgee, Eryn Lasgalen's finest diplomat had met his match. At her horrified exclamation that she would be the talk of the Shire if she turned out a guest in the winter cold, and her detailing of everything they had done to adapt one of Bag End's rooms to suit someone double a hobbit's height, he had not had the heart to resist and had accepted her offer. At this, she had given Sam a triumphant glare and Frodo's efforts to maintain a serious expression had been made even more difficult when Legolas winked at him without the others noticing.

It appeared though that their guest may have had the last word, and Frodo strongly suspected that Legolas' decision to watch this morning's sunrise had been made late last night. It was perfectly within his power to creep out silently after the hobbits fell asleep. One night, after all, counted as 'a short while' to an immortal, so his note was perfectly correct. Pondering the niceties of elvish wordplay, Frodo found that his feet had taken him to the Party Field, where in the greyish predawn stillness, the Elf in question sat beside a mallorn sapling, resting his hand on its trunk. Frodo stood and watched, not wanting to disturb the perfect peace of the scene in front of him. Legolas, though, was aware of his presence, and beckoned him over to join him.

'So I see you have escaped the clutches of the lady of the house,' Frodo remarked as he settled down beside him.

Mischief sparkled in Legolas' eyes. 'I believe I have been discreet enough not to make her the talk of the Shire, so I do hope she will forgive me.'

Frodo chuckled. 'She will not need to. We can be back before they're up. I won't say a word if you don't.'

'Agreed,' Legolas replied, laughing, and then becoming serious again as he said 'although it does not sit well with me to be complicit in hiding your disturbed rest from Sam.'

Frodo shook his head. 'He worries too much. I slept well enough. I simply…desired to watch the sunrise.'

Legolas studied him searchingly and raised an eyebrow. 'Indeed? How do you fare, Frodo?

It was clear from his tone that Legolas was seeking a genuine answer, and Frodo found himself stumped. He suddenly realised how long it had been since he had been asked that question by someone who really wanted to know. Friends, neighbours and acquaintances asked after his health daily, but the only person to whom he would answer truthfully was Sam. And Sam tended not to make him answer it, because Sam already knew. There was so much he could say, but he was unsure how much of it he could put into words.

'I am here,' he said simply.

Legolas remained silent, wordlessly inviting him to elaborate. 'And I am alive. And for so long this was a hope beyond all imagining. In fact, I could not possibly be faring better.'

Legolas smiled, but his heart ached at Frodo's response. Something about it was almost painfully elvish. So precisely worded, speaking volumes and yet leaving so much unsaid. Completely truthful but left open to interpretation. Legolas did not miss the fact that Frodo's last sentence might be understood in multiple ways.

'And you?'

Frodo looked up at him with those keen blue eyes, and Legolas was reminded again of how easily Frodo had picked up elven manners. His look was searching enough to match even one of Legolas' own. Having been asked how he was, it was only natural that Frodo returned the question, but Legolas found himself unsure how to respond. He knew that Frodo wanted more than news on the reconstruction of Ithilien, which was how he usually answered that question to anyone but Gimli. And Gimli, like Sam, did not often need to ask. Eventually, he settled on a response.

'You said that you could not possibly be faring better. Nor could I.'

One elvish response for another, Frodo thought. I suppose I should have expected that.

For the next few minutes they were content to watch as the first pale rays of dawn broke the horizon and illuminated the frosty grass so that it glimmered like the richly adorned train of a queen's gown. Knowing as he did elven custom when it came to sharing emotional matters, and his own customary reticence, Frodo was not surprised by their last exchange, but found himself disappointed. Contemplating both their experiences of the Quest, he realised that Legolas probably understood more than any other what it was to return home a stranger and found himself frustrated that they had not been able to broach this subject in which they had a wealth of common experience. He realised that listening to the Elf sing of the sea was all that he knew of this huge change that had befallen him at Pelargir. Eventually he plucked up the courage to ask, although aware that he was flouting a long-held elven tradition.

'Legolas,' he ventured tentatively, 'may I ask you a personal question?'

The Elf looked at him, surprised. 'I am sure I will not be offended by it, so please do ask. But until I know its nature I cannot promise that I will answer.'

Frodo took a deep breath. 'What does the sea-longing feel like?'

Legolas sat staring out at the horizon for a long time, and Frodo began to feel uncomfortable, wondering if he had intruded too far. But he answered at last.

'Whatever it is, it is not all torment. The Song of the Sea is indescribably beautiful. It is a voice I have heard clearly for only a fraction of my life, yet I recognise it as though it spoke to me in my cradle. Even when I know I shouldn't listen, once I make the choice to attend to it, it is exhilarating when I yield to the voice which calls me home. But every time I turn away from it, it is like a little bereavement. And so often I am ashamed when I realise what has happened. I lose track of time, I miss things, I go to spend time with someone only to realise that they have spent hours searching for me whilst I was in a kind of trance, dreaming of the Sea. It is a life of incessant decisions, competing claims on my attention, having to choose between the present moment in this world and the eternal Sea calling me elsewhere. Sometimes, like being torn in two. I'm afraid I'm not making much sense. Does that answer your question?'

'Yes, it does. And I know exactly what you mean.'

Legolas turned back to Frodo sharply, struck by something about the way he said 'exactly.'

'You do?'

'I do not mean to presume that I understand fully. A mortal can never know what happens to a Sindarin heart when it is stirred by the Sea. It's just that feeling of being torn in two. I'm back in the Shire now, but after Mordor it doesn't feel real. It's like I'm in some kind of dream, some in-between place torn between the jagged edges of this world and the call to find healing somewhere else. And I drift, my attention wanders, sometimes I'm back there in flames and darkness and sometimes I'm… just free, somewhere else. And when I try to focus on whatever's happening, discussing a pipeweed plantation or a birthday party, it all seems like it's happening to someone else. There's no solace left in the dream once you know you're dreaming. And I don't think I will be able to sleep again. Not now.'

'Like it's all a dream and happening to someone else. But that unreal vision is all that remains to you of your home. I know that feeling all too well. I am sorry, Frodo.'

'As am I, Legolas, that you too have felt it.'

Frodo's arm twitched, as if he wanted to place a hand on Legolas' arm in comfort but thought the better of it. Legolas sensed the movement and placed his own hand on top of Frodo's. Then suddenly it didn't matter who was comforting whom, and they were leaning into each other, drawing strength from an unexpected comrade in the struggle that is life shadowed by absence.

'Do not worry about me, Frodo,' Legolas said at last. 'It is hard, and you know that, but I am learning.'

'Do you need to learn, though?' Frodo responded, frowning. 'I know you planned to settle in Ithilien, but if what you're living is this – why do you not sail?'

Legolas paused for a moment, reading in Frodo's tone something more than a question about his intentions. Something more like a plea. Understanding began to dawn, and he addressed the question Frodo had not asked aloud.

'The experiences may be similar, but our situations are not exactly the same. I do not know what you intend to do with Arwen's gift, but that decision is yours and yours alone. I would not have you hear my reasoning and decide to stay if that would not be best for you.'

'I do know that- but I would like to know how you bear this, especially if you plan to stay a long time.'

Frodo was taken aback by the quiet bitterness in the response. 'It is because I am a coward, Frodo. Gimli and Aragorn might tell you that I am brave to deny the call, but they are deceived. Nothing could be further from the truth. There are certain partings that I fear far more than any battle, partings that will tear me apart far more than my current existence does, and I cannot find it in myself to face them yet. It is ironic, is it not? For in choosing to remain, in fact I am running away.'

'I do not think you a coward, Legolas. You are braver than me by far, for you do what I cannot.'

When Legolas simply looked at him questioningly, Frodo sighed and then continued.

'I have not yet informed Elrond of my intentions regarding Arwen's gift. Yet it grows clearer to me day by day that I will take it. The part of my mind that speaks with Sam's voice tells me not to rush, to give the Shire another chance, to try one more time. But now I no longer find peace in the dream, I do not think even the Shire can heal me, no matter how many times I try. And I would stay, though I am not whole, for the sake of my friends, as you do; I would stay for Sam, I would be brave for him. But I think it is beyond me.'

'Do not credit me with selflessness I do not possess,' Legolas responded, a mirthless smile turning up the corners of his lips. 'It is my friends who keep me here, but I delay this parting more for my sake than for theirs. And remember that your desire to sail is not mine. Yours springs from having seen the very worst of this world and having endured an evil none should have to bear. Sam cares about you deeply, and I am sure he would have you find peace in whatever way you can.'

'That's just it,' Frodo burst out miserably. 'Sam tries so, so hard for me that I can hardly bear it. He would go to any lengths to bring me back the joy in my home I once had. It is the only thing that mars his happiness now, that I am not healed. After all he has done for me I should at least give him this one thing he wants, but I cannot. He tries not to upset me, but when it strikes and I come back to find him holding my hand, I can see the worry and disappointment in his eyes and it pierces my very soul.'

Legolas shifted closer to Frodo as he spoke, pulling him in against his side and wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

'I too have seen that worry and disappointment in a friend's eyes. And I know that it is like a knife twisting in your stomach to feel that you have failed them. Failed to heal even when they would give everything to have you back the way you were.'

'Really?'

Legolas nodded, and one word explained everything. 'Gimli.'

Fangorn Forest, S.R. 26th August 1419

In his defence, Legolas was not in the clearing. And even if he was just within earshot, he was oblivious to all of it.

'Legolas?'

'I'm awake now, where are you?'

'Legolas, I really think we should move on, we've been here hours.'

'Kind of you to ignore me like this, I never did it to you in the Glittering Caves, did I? So much for elven courtesy.'

'Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of Eryn Lasgalen, answer me!'

'You were the one who chose to travel with me, please indulge me by treating me like I'm worthy of at least as much attention as a bloody tree.'

'Legolas, if you don't come down right now, you concede that Dwarves are superior to Elves in every conceivable aspect.'

'Legolas, if you've abandoned me here and I'm eaten by an Ent, I swear by the Valar that I will find my stubborn ghoulish way to the Undying Lands and haunt you for all eternity.'

'That is not an empty threat, you pesky woodland sprite, I mean it!'

'LEGOLAS!'

The lack of an echo was unnerving. There was no stone, nothing to contain the strangeness of the forest, no walls to give you your sound back and let you know the extent of your defensible territory. His shout was instantly swallowed and muffled by the surrounding trees, leaving Gimli wondering if he had even made a sound at all. And then wondering if he was going mad.

Earlier that afternoon, Legolas had been climbing in the canopy of the trees of Fangorn forest and had said that he would remain close whilst Gimli took an afternoon nap. There had, of course been some ribbing about how Dwarves managed to get anything done other than sleep, but Gimli had decided it was worth it. Something about the forest, its quiet watchfulness and pockets of stillness, made him strangely weary. Having woken- a few hours later, he estimated from the way the light was trickling into the clearing- he called for Legolas, assuming that he would be communing with the nearby trees or other such elvish nonsense. But the lack of a response was worrying. Jests aside, Legolas did not go back on his word lightly. But surely nothing could have happened to a Wood-elf in the oldest forest in the world, could it? Best not to tempt fate, he thought grimly.

The woods had become oppressive without his friend and guide and Gimli decided that he needed some clearer air. The waterskins needed refilling anyway, so Gimli resolved to go down to the stream and do that, and then return to the clearing to check if Legolas had returned. If he had not…he would deal with that later. He followed the slight downward slope in the ground and could soon hear running water. It was a relief to finally be out in a more open area by the banks of the stream and he headed towards the water, only to freeze mid-stride.

A figure in green and brown was seated cross-legged on a boulder a few feet into the stream. Long fingers trailed in the water, causing it to dance and weave in tiny eddying swirls around them. The figure was facing downstream, which was to the south. And suddenly everything made sense.

Gimli made his way over to the figure, calling out as he did so, but it was not until he was a few feet away, as close as he could get whilst remaining on the bank, that the head slowly turned towards his voice. Blue eyes lost in dreams of a distant shore blinked a few times, then came at last to rest on the Dwarf.

'Gimli?' The voice was disbelieving, and the forehead creased in confusion, as if he couldn't work out why Gimli had materialised before him.

'Yes, indeed. Gimli son of Glóin, who was your fellow Walker in the Company of the Ring, fellow hunter of orcs across Rohan, comrade in the battles of Helm's Deep, Pelennor Fields and the Black Gate and is your current travelling companion. So can you please stop looking at me as if I'm some exotic species of beetle you've never seen before in your life!'

A few more blinks and a shake of the head.

'Forgive me, Gimli. I was distracted. Clearly I lost track of time.'

'You said you'd stay close!'

'I did. I stayed within earshot.' A flash of realisation. 'Oh. You weren't calling, were you?'

Gimli snorted. 'For about half an hour. I was beginning to wonder if you'd managed to upset an Ent.'

Legolas was affronted. 'I am a Wood-elf. I would do no such thing.'

'Yes, but-' Gimli held out a hand and Legolas pointedly ignored it, leaping in one swift motion back to shore. Gimli continued.

'You just had hours to spend with the trees and instead you spent them here.'

'I apologise for not sticking exactly to your schedule for my life, Master Dwarf,' he responded icily.

Gimli almost retorted in a similar vein, but then checked himself. He was perplexed by his friend's behaviour and wanted more from this conversation than verbal sparring.

'I was not criticising,' he replied softly. 'I was merely curious. I thought-well, I thought that perhaps Fangorn would be enough.'

Legolas stood tall and straight, his head tilted slightly to the side. His gaze, once more, had drifted south.

'Enough to compete with the voice that calls me home?' he replied quietly. 'Once I believed that. Now I am not so sure.'

Though this statement chilled Gimli to the core, he ruthlessly pushed aside his own emotions, and reached for the words which had helped to bring Legolas back from this on previous occasions.

'The world is made of complex music, Legolas, you've told me that before. The Sea is not a soloist. Listen to the voices of the trees, hear them welcoming you. Listen to the rhythms of the forest, those that you taught a Dwarf to hear. Listen to me. '

With obvious effort, Legolas wrenched his gaze from the stream and turned his sorrowful eyes back on Gimli.

'I am trying to listen, Gimli. I can just about hear your voice and the voices of the forest. But now those voices are overshadowed by the Song of the sea, and sometimes the waves roar so loudly that it is impossible to listen to anything else.'

'I think I understand that,' the Dwarf replied, his brow furrowed and his eyes uncharacteristically soft, concerned. 'It must be hard, after hearing that gull. It just surprised me, is all. The Elf I travelled with six months ago was loath to be dragged away from those ancient trees even to fight Sauron!'

'The Elf you travelled with six months ago is gone, Gimli. I am no longer the Elf you loathed nearly a year ago and loved a short while later. I am sorry. I cannot bring him back for you.'

He turned on his heel, aware that his mask of impeccable control was slipping, and not trusting himself to continue the conversation. He darted back towards the forest and was lost among the trees, Gimli's calls to wait following fruitlessly after him until the forest's wall of silence consumed them.