Title: The Middle Days (Or Enderi, depending on your fondness for the Elvish calendar.)
Pairing: Estel(Aragorn)/Legolas (This is slash – uh, pre-slash. Should be slash, eventually. I'm a little slow. Anyway, if you don't like it, don't read it.)
Summary: Estel is nineteen years old, and has been raised by Lord Elrond (without either of his real parents) since he was little. Doesn't remember them, doesn't know he's Aragorn. Legolas has been staying with them since Estel was fourteen or fifteen. Arwen – as I assume it actually went – is in Lórien, with her grandparents. She has never met Estel. Elladan and Elrohir are Estel's older brothers. In the Elvish calendar, the Enderi fall around June or July, I think. (Correct me if that's wrong.)
Author's Notes: I'm supposing most of these don't begin with the phrase 'I'm an idiot', but I really am. When I asked for a beta I gave the wrong email address – even if anyone replied, I couldn't have gotten it. (My actual email is [email protected], and if you would still like to beta, email me there.) Now to the notes with a point: This is slash – well, not yet. Nothing graphic, or the rating would be higher. I don't distinguish between Sindarin and Westron because everyone is speaking Sindarin. There is only one language in this (so far), and I'm using English to represent it. The next chapter will pick up exactly where this leaves off, so if the ending annoys you, that might be a reason. (Might not, but I thought I'd offer it as a possibility.) I welcome all compliments, complaints, and constructive abuse. ;-)
It was the first day of the Enderi, or middle days, and a crisp breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in Imladris. Firith would be coming soon, and the wind held promises of autumn and of a forest shining like a fire that went out only when winter came. The Enderi were a favored time among the elves, and filled with revelry and laughter. The great dining hall was bustling with activity as the evening's feast was prepared, and decanters of fine elven wine were placed at each table. The palace's prized steeds were galloping through the verdant trees, spiriting their riders to the edge of the realm and back before the setting of the sun. Already three parties had gone out, singing merrily of the forest paths. Still other elves chose to wander the gardens or rest in the shade, and their chatter was lyrical to Elrond's ears.
The lord of Imladris stood quietly on the balcony of his study, one hand resting on the railing as he stared out over his kingdom. His face was peaceful, and the papers he had been writing lay forgotten on his desk. The study door was closed, and his guards were under strict orders to enter only if the news was urgent. It was, after all, a holiday. Smiling benignly, Elrond's eyes turned to the grounds below him – where the only four intimates left unaccounted for stood. Royalty, all of them. And yet children still, no matter their age or their station. Three dark heads, and one light. Two with daggers and two with bows. One man, and three elves, all dressed in the robes of Imladris.
Elrond gazed attentively at the boys, the affection in his blue eyes betraying his inscrutable face. Two of the elves – each one identical to the other – fought gracefully with Lórien daggers. Elrond shook his head in amusement, knowing the duel would end in a draw. Elladan and Elrohir – the swordsmen – could predict their opponent's every move: thrusts, parries, and fakes. Such was the intuition of the twins, and it was much to their advantage in a true fight. The other half of the young entourage faced a small target some 200 paces away, earnestly practicing their archery skills.
At first the two seemed to be in competition, but the theory was soon disproved as the pale haired lad – and the third elf – lifted his head to look at the young man beside him. He set down his bow and – saying something that Elrond couldn't hear – moved behind his taller companion, molding himself against the man's back, gently correcting the mortal youth's posture. Satisfied that his friend was now in the right position, the blonde elf stepped back and gave a sharp nod. The boy loosed his arrow, and grinned as it struck the target near its center. He turned to thank his teacher, but shrewd gray eyes flicked upward to catch sight of Elrond on the balcony.
Elrond sighed – over a dozen yeni spent learning to fade from view, and found by a boy – but was secretly pleased. His foster son was a quick study. Said foster son's face brightened considerably upon seeing Elrond, and unconsciously the lad straightened his shoulders and schooled his expression to remain neutral. Elrond's nod of greeting was a little sad, for he knew why the boy tried so hard to be proper. Growing up as a man among elves was a difficult thing, and the lad was always certain that he was unworthy of all that Elrond had given him. Elrond could never explain that he was already proud to call the boy 'son', and that there was no standard he need measure up to.
Lifting a hand in acknowledgement, the youth cried excitedly, "Ada – Aran Elrond, watch this!" Obediently, Elrond watched his mortal son nock a new arrow and ready his bow. Inwardly, his heart tore. The quick change from "father" to "lord" had not gone unnoticed. Elrond's fist pounded softly on the rail, cursing the elf who had told his six year old foster son that it wasn't proper for a mere mortal to call the lord of Imladris "father". The elf had been immediately banished to some other realm – where Elrond couldn't hunt him down – but the lesson had not been forgotten. Now Aragorn – Estel, he corrected himself sharply. The boy had his whole life to be Aragorn, and only a little time left as Estel of the elves. – Estel did not call Elrond "father" unless they were alone, as if it were a mark of disrespect on his part, for forgetting his place.
Belatedly Elrond realized that Estel had released the arrow, and managed to glance at the target just in time to see the quarrel stride it dead center. Estel's eyes widened in surprise – he had not expected to succeed so well – and the blonde elf gave a gleeful whoop. Legolas sounded more like a man every day, Elrond thought with a smile. The elven prince was spending far too much time with Estel. "Did you see, my lord?" the young man questioned eagerly, and in reply Elrond briefly applauded.
"The best I've ever seen," he declared, and Estel flushed with pleasure. Any praise from his father was high praise indeed.
Always quick to take blame but share victory, Estel hurriedly replied, "When Legolas teaches me, I understand." The blonde elf next to Estel shook his head in protest, he and Elrond's son arguing quietly. Finally Legolas sighed, tilting his face to look at Elrond.
"Your son exaggerates, my lord," he told the elf lord with a modest smile, not noticing Estel's mortified face as Legolas publicly labeled him Elrond's son. Elrond made a disbelieving noise at the prince's words, knowing that Legolas was by far one of the best archers Middle Earth had seen. He had been teaching Estel for nigh on five years, and though the lad was no elf, he had proved an apt pupil.
"It makes me happy," Elrond told Legolas, then frowned as he heard footsteps coming toward his study. He beckoned the crowd of royal youths upstairs, then strode in from the balcony in time to watch his wooden door flung brashly open.
A thin, brown haired elf entered without permission, and by his coloring and stature Elrond marked him instantly as a Mirkwood elf. Their haughty temperament was a trait shared with the elves of Lothlórien, but the elves of Mirkwood – save Legolas – were generally of a darker complexion than their Goldenwood counterparts. Elrond crossed his arms over his chest, regarding the elf in silent disapproval. "I am the messenger of King Thranduil of Mirkwood," the intruder solemnly declared, swallowing hard under Elrond's withering gaze. "He wishes his –"
Just as the messenger elf began speaking four bodies slid gracefully – though somewhat loudly – through the study's open door. Estel and Legolas were in the lead, and stopped so quickly that Elladan ran into his foster brother's back. Estel stumbled, and Legolas gripped his friend's arm tightly. The messenger of Mirkwood gaped at this display of unseemly behavior – reserving an especially disdainful glare for the man in the group. Estel returned the glare with an imperturbable gaze that would have down his foster father proud – and did. "Continue," the lord of Imladris commanded tersely, recalling the visiting elf to his task.
Much to Elrond's consternation and Legolas' embarrassment, the envoy did not kneel as he relayed the contents of his message. "The good King Thranduil has requested that his youngest son be returned to Mirkwood immediately," the elf said, still glowering at Estel. Legolas' pale face had gone white, and he gripped Estel's arm so tightly Elrond feared it would leave a bruise. Elrond's twin sons made varying sounds of protest, silenced by their father's level gaze.
Legolas' voice was faint and disbelieving. "Nay," the young prince choked out, "'Tis not possible. I was sent here." Hearing his companion's lost tone, Estel wasted no time in covering Legolas' white knuckled hand with his own.
The messenger – who was beginning to grate on Elrond's nerves – sneered. "You were sent for a visit, prince," the brunette elf reminded, "And the king has determined that five years is time enough." He eyed man and elf suspiciously. "None too soon, I think. We've been hearing things about your 'visit'," added the messenger, the ugly insinuations clear in his inflection.
It took Estel all of one breath the advance on the smaller elf, fury blazing in his grey eyes. Despite his disdain the messenger trembled. "You," whispered the young man softly, dangerously and – to the envoy's astonishment – in fluent Sindarin, "Are a messenger of Thranduil." The absence of the liege's title did not go unnoticed, but Estel did no disgrace. "As servant to such a magnificent king, you have no doubt been taught at least the rudiments of elven courtesy." This was a deliberate insult, for elven envoys underwent years of diplomatic training – and Estel knew it. "Thus, you should know that for a foreign envoy to remain standing in the presence of a sovereign is at worst a declaration of war, or – if the sovereign is magnanimous – a blatant disregard of their position." The messenger's lips were little more than a line across his face; for he knew what the boy said was true. If Elrond chose, he could take arms against Mirkwood and the law would be of his side. "Since you must be aware of this," Estel continued smoothly, and Elrond made a note to praise the lad's diplomacy tutor, "And as you are not kneeling, I feel that it is my duty to inform you that the elf you have been speaking to is Lord Elrond of Imladris, son of Eärendil and Elwing Peredhil." One hand gestured at the silent lord, and the messenger's eyes unwillingly followed. "With him –" for Elladan and Elrohir had stepped forward "- are his sons, and their mother Celebrían is the daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel of Lórien." The Mirkwood elf swallowed, and Estel's voice began to portray his true anger. "Finally," he said tightly, "There is the prince of Mirkwood, who you appear to have recognized." Then Estel's dagger was in his hands, the glittering blade pressing against the elf's throat. Legolas cried his name as both he and Elrond stepped forward in alarm. "I feel, sir," Estel hissed, "That it is also my obligation to warn you that anyone – be they elf, man, dwarf, hobbit, or orc – who speaks ill of the prince will not live long enough to know whose blades have killed them." So saying this, Estel flicked the dagger up, drawing a pearl of blood from the elf's pale skin.
"Enough!" shouted Elrond even as Legolas reached his companion, pulling Estel back by his sword arm.
"Thank you, friend," the prince of Mirkwood murmured quietly, his words soothing Elrond's tense son. Estel put away his dagger and slipped his hand into Legolas'.
"I will die before I hear you profaned," he swore ardently, not bending to the gentle reproach in Legolas' eyes. The elven archer elf Estel's hand tightly, and reprimand changed to understanding. "As would I for you," he admitted, and Elrond almost smiled to hear them. For five years the two had been inseparable, and he was starting to wonder if they would ever fall in love. Thranduil and his messenger had come very close to ruining half a decade of anticipation – not to mention the wager he had going with Glorfindel.
Glowering sternly, the lord of the palace turned on the envoy, who was anxiously rubbing his neck. Upon finding Elrond in front of him, he hurriedly dropped to one knee, stuttering, "My lord, I meant no –"
Waving one hand dismissively, Elrond cut him off. "Silence," he ordered, and the whole room readily complied. "I think, envoy of Thranduil, that you have forgotten your place. Legolas Greenleaf has reached the age of majority, and is therefore entitled to make his own decisions. You will hear now what he says and deliver the reply to his father. If he wishes to return with you we will provide an escort for you to do so." Raising his eyebrows loftily at the shaken messenger – who didn't dare protest – Elrond nodded at Legolas to speak. "Prince," he prompted, already knowing what the lad's answer would be.
Legolas looked down at the guard of his father's house, but did not release Estel's hand. "You may tell my father that – though I am grateful to hear from him – I choose to remain here for awhile longer." Estel's fingers squeezed Legolas' firmly, and the elf glanced back at his friend with a smile. "Please give my family my regards," he told the messenger sincerely, and though the kneeling elf looked displeased with his prince's decision, there was little he could do. As Elrond had pointed out, Legolas was of age.
Scowling, the envoy ignored Elrond's offer to stay and feast with them, and had soon stomped out of the small room and – hopefully – back to his own kingdom. The four children glowered menacingly after him, and Elrond had to stifle laughter when he caught sight of the face Elrohir was making at their departing guest.
To be continued in next chapter . . . (Anti-climactic music here.)