.|. Radical Dreamers .|.

Chapter 10

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* * * * *

Legolas woke up to the horrifying shrieks of someone being tortured to death. A low, dreadful, rattling sound of muffled screaming that made every fibre and synapse of the Elf’s body tingle with foreboding. Gripping the dark sheet that covered him Legolas dragged it over his head. But the screaming was just too much to bear, its cacophony punctuated now and then by shriller shrieks. The Elf sat up with a start, looking around dazedly. In a nestle beside him the squirrel did exactly what the Elf did, (from dragging the cover over his head, to starting up to a sitting position, to look around) and we must add, in perfect unison. Their eyes met, the Elf’s and the squirrel’s, and then, without as much as a word they fell back down, curled in a foetal position and snuggled under the covers, hands clamped against their ears.

The hideous sound continued.

A good deal of shrieking, screaming, clamping his ears against his ears, muttering curses and pain later, Legolas leaped to his feet, throwing the dark covers to an identified corner of the room, uninterested to their fate. He proceeded to uncover the Squirrel’s nest, watching as the little thing wriggled and writhed theatrically under the sudden light. It flailed its tiny hands, then thrashed its head from side to side while gripping its throat, looking as if asphyxiating. Its tiny body jolted and then, after a last, vane attempt to reach up to the sky with a tremulous hand, the squirrel slumped back down on its makeshift bed. Its head lolled to a side and then, as if on a afterthought, its pink tongue hung out from its slightly parted lips.

“Very funny.” Legolas half-glared, before clasping one of the Squirrel’s tiny arms and all but throw it to its favourite spot on the Elf’s shoulder. He pointed a finger to the Squirrel’s nose, who batted its eyelashes up at him apologetically, its hands clasped behind its back. “I’m not letting you sleep while *I* can’t.” Legolas looked around, flinching at the shrieks offending his over-sensitive ears, and all but jumped when the heap of his previously discarded covers began shifting and moaning. The Elf and the Squirrel folded their arms across their chest, watching in mild fascination as a dark head emerged from under the heap.

“Hullllllllllo! I came to wake you Legolas, but I find you up already! How was your sleep?” The newcomer cried out, nursing the bruise he’d got when the tidal wave of Legolas’s covers had sent him rolling across the floor and against the wall. The shrieking reverberated through the air. The Elf groaned.

“For the Valar’s sake Pip, what time *is* it?” Upon hearing his name Pip looked up at the Elf with gleaming eyes, jumping free of the heap in one single, fluid motion.

“It’s time to wake up!” He replied with growing excitation, bouncing slightly on his toes. “Can’t you smell breakfast? Good-cooked bacon, eggs and warmed honey and bread, Sam’s specialities? Can’t you hear the C’ptain singing under the shower?”

“Unfortunately, I can…” He whimpered painfully as Gimli’s ‘singing’ escalated of another pair of octaves into something that resembled Nazgûl’s wails. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Around three hours, I guess.” Pip replied with a broadening grin. Legolas looked at him, purposely forgetting to hide his disconcert.

“And you woke me up because…?” The Spirit grinned, biting his bottom lip to stop his smile from going out of hand, and traced circles on the ground with his toe.

“When I let you go to sleep last night you promised you’d continue telling me about the surface once you woke up. I figured you’d like to be woken up as soon as it was time to wake up, so I waited for dawn to come and then hurried to wake you up.” Legolas gave a delighted laugh.

“Eager to listen to my stories, aren’t you?” Pip nodded fervently and seemed ready to reply, but a book dropped onto his head silenced him, sending him back into the heap of covers. Behind him a blonde Spirit stood, hands still posed from dropping the book.

“Peregrin Took!” he scolded, hands fisting against his hips as he leaned down to be nose-to-nose with his cousin. “You can’t disturb our guest like this! My apologies, Master Legolas.” He added, glancing up at the Elf (who could barely keep his laughter for himself) and bowed his head a little. Pip looked up, bitterly nursing the new bruise crowning his head.

“But Merry…” His cousin glared back down at him, retrieving his book but not moving a finger to help his cousin, even though he looked like he wouldn’t move until he’d been cuddled and pampered a little. Merry frowned, and Pip gave him his best “I’m cute, you know that you want to hug me” pout: his bottom lip quivered, his eyes growing huger and watery. Merry’s frown doubled. Pip’s pout became ten times cuter – Merry’s anger was summarily dealt a quick and painless death with an unidentified sharp object. He hurried to help his little cousin up, gave him a friendly squeeze and then stepped back, smiling.

“From now on Pip, please promise that you’ll give Master Legolas some space to breath! I don’t know what you think, but Elves need sleep and breathing just like any other creature, I assure you.” Pip opened his mouth, then his mind registered fully what had been told him, and he whirled on Legolas white HUGE eyes.

“You *DO*?!” That was the last strand – Legolas broke out in a soundly laugh, and music filled the air. Of course, the fact that Gimli’s shower (and singing) was done with helped a great deal.

“Indeed, my good Pippin. Indeed.”

“Master Legolas! You’re awake, I see.” Another voice came, and at the door appeared the other two Spirits of the night before. One, slender and with unbelievable blue eyes, smiled at Legolas, head titled in greetings. The other spirit settled from just blushing, his chubby cheeks tinged with pretty red. Legolas beamed at them.

“Mr. Baggins! Mr. Gamgee!” the blue-eyed Spirit grinned back, while the other blushed some more, muttering something about being honoured that an Elf (an *elf*! A real one! Sweet Elbereth…) remembered his humble name.

“Frodo and Sam will do.” The blue-eyed Spirit assured, making his way to the Elf and sitting at the table just behind him. The other Spirit –Sam- came forward, holding a tray and still blushing profusely.

“Then, I must ask you to call me Legolas.” His answer was a grin, Frodo’s blue eyes glinting like precious stones.

“Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo, Legolas. A star shines on the hour of our meeting.” Legolas dropped gracefully in a seat next to Frodo’s, catching a red apple from the tray as Sam passed by. With choreographed speed the Spirits seated themselves at the high table, diving to the delicacies Sam had cooked.

“I’m afraid I forgot how do you--” He masked his lack with a pause, neatly slashing a piece of apple and handing it to the Squirrel on his shoulder.

“Hobbits,” Sam provided helpfully, whacking the back of Pippin’s hand with his wooden fork when the lad tried to steal from Legolas’s plate, which Sam had just finished filling.

“—Hobbits, came to know the Elven tongue.” Frodo’s eyes glinted, very much like starry skies, but not half as dark.

“Possibly because I never told you, Legolas. Maybe I could let you in this little secret while exploring our little city together?” Legolas chuckled.

“Little? Morfëataur is enormous. If your underground city is even just half the forest’s size, it would still be almost as big as the Shire.” Legolas leaned forward, pausing to take a bite out of his apple and chew it. After swallowing, he continued. “Is it?” Frodo’s answer was mysterious and vague and just what Legolas wanted to ear.

“Maybe. What do you say to spending the evening walking down the town? You may learn what you wish to know about Hobbits and Morfëataur and the Shire.”

They ate a quick and frugal breakfast. Well, quick it was for sure, but it was frugal just by Hobbits standards: each one of those little creatures held a stomach trice his size. There had been sweet fruit and juices on the table; milk, biscuits and warmed bread and honey; bacon and even some enormous cakes whose secret ingredient was something Sam himself had discovered and named “chocolate”. Enough food to satisfy an Orcs army – and it had disappeared in just ten minutes. To say that Legolas had been surprised at their appetite, it means putting it lightly. They were careful to leave Gimli a ration just as big as theirs though, and to keep his juice cool and his cake steamy with the help of those strange machineries that swarmed their Headquarter.

Then they led the Elf toward the citadel.

Legolas walked through the citadel with his nose in the air, like a child in a sweets store. Hobbits scurried busily through sparse fog down cobblestone streets, and Legolas could faintly heard the joyous voices coming from the nearby market. Light spilled down on the city from slits in the cave-ceiling and the streets were flooded with white radiance. A stream gurgled through the town encased in a bed of marble. The Elf came into a Hobbits-packed plaza, clicking his heels to a melody just heard. Fountains of marble sprouted among lush plants, monuments and palaces alike encaged in ties of green. Legolas advanced slowly, awed by the gleaming white stone, the craggy structures and the bizarre vegetation surrounding him. Morfëataur, the one land feared more than Mordor was wonderful… beautiful, even. Not even Lothlòrien, the fairest of all realm on Middle Earth could compare.

He watched around in fascination as Frodo lead him deeper into the city, stopping every now and then to gaze closely at the snowy steam rising from those same machinery that filled the Headquarter.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Frodo commented casually even as his eyes glinted. “The Dwarves made this all.” Legolas nodded, and patting the squirrel on his shoulder thoughtlessly he saved it from choking on its chocolate cake  - and without even noticing.

“So, what do you wish to ask first, Legolas?” Frodo queried, dragging the Elf out of his reverie. The blonde seemed to consider the question for a moment and then blurted out very quickly:

“Why did the Dwarf faint when he first saw me?” The Hobbit grinned. Then chuckled softly. It soon developed in a full, glorious laugh; and Frodo just laughed, throwing his head back.

“That, my friend, is easy to explain…”

* * * * *

Éowyn rummaged blindly through what had remained of her baggage (she’d finally come to terms with the shock of losing most of Thranduil’s gifts and of the Queen’s wardrobe along with their stallions) and emerged with a set of HUGE forks and kitchen knifes of mithril that were immediately dropped into Elrohir’s arms. The Elf immediately clutched one cutlery in each hand, handed a pair to the Lady and threw another to his twin. Elladan stood, brow furrowed in apprehension and glistening with a thin layer of sweat, in front of the bubbling dark water. He caught the knife and fork without much effort, eyes never moving from the black depths.

Elrohir and Éowyn crept along the ground to his side, careful not to make any noise and then crouched next to him. When a leaf creaked under their weight, the tree exchanged glares. They pressed a finger to their lips and hissed at the other two to make silence, but it was kinda funny because they were doing more commotion trying to be silent than they could by shouting at the top of their lungs. The clamour didn’t go unnoticed by their foe, and a long, squishy tentacle emerged from the water, swaying menacingly thought the air. Drops of steamy water rained down on the three and THAT got their attention. Not that they’d ever admit it, but they’d been so busy hushing one another to forgot the task at hand.

Elladan, the more controlled of the three, immediately took control of the situation.

“Now! All of us together!” he yelled, dodging the tentacle as it speeded toward him. With a nod Éowyn speeded forward and run it through with her knife, unluckily loosing her weapon as she did. Elrohir settled for poking the monstrosity to blood with some forks. Elladan delivered it the final blow, cutting it in two with his own kitchen knife. The tentacle swayed some more in the air, and then drew back in the depths of the cauldron (courtesy of Thranduil of course, even thought none was sure how had the Elven King managed to put such a huge thing in one of the bags he’d given Éowyn).

Elrohir slumped to the forest floor, drying his face from the soup-drops.

“Is it over?” Elladan nodded cautiously, poking their now quiet dinner with a fork. Mistake. The chopped tentacle rose from its steamy haven and curled around the Elf’s wrist, tugging defiantly at it. It wouldn’t surrender to death without at least a victim, it seemed. Elladan closed his eyes shut, expecting his life to end in a bowl of soup, but luckily Éowyn was just behind the cauldron, and knocked the tentacle unconscious with her frying pan. (© King Thranduil s.p.a.). The squashy limb swayed a little, reaching up toward the sun-less sky and then flopped down into the soup to never raise again. Elladan collapsed in a twitching pile right into his twin’s arms, while Éowyn let herself go to a little victory dance.

Elrohir picked up a stick, just in case, and pointed it to the cauldron and its contents as thought it was a wizard-staff. Useless, but pretty dramatic.

“Milady?” He said slowly, eyeing the cauldron warily. Éowyn hummed something in reply, still lost in her dance. “Are you sure it’s wise to eat that thing?” Elladan nodded.

“Food is to be eaten, not to be eaten *by*.” Éowyn glared at them both defiantly, arms crossed across her chest.

“Well, the owner of that tentacle-thing *did* try to eat us when we passed by its lake. Now we eat the souvenir we claimed when he attacked us.”

“Logical.” Elladan said blandly. His twin made a little noise borne of shock.

“You mean it is normal when food mutinies on you like *that*?”

“Obviously it is in Mirkwood, since its *Princess*-” Elladan replied, putting just the slightest emphasis on the words as he glared up at Éowyn through his lashes“-does not mind it when her cooking tries to go on a walk on its own.” The Princess in question stomped her foot.

“Oh, you two! Shut your traps and cooperate!” She said, picking a spoonful up out of the cauldron and letting the sticky mixture clinging to the cutlery drizzle slowly down.

“Cooperate?!” Elrohir couldn’t control himself anymore. “We’ve battled that monster almost to death, we let you talk us into lighting up a fire and find the herbs for you, we defended you against your own *cooking* and you ask us to *cooperate*?” Elladan, much more controlled than his twin, gave a sigh, massaging his temples.

“What do you want us to do exactly?” Éowyn grinned, and held the spoonful of soup out to them.

“Try it.” She said, trying to sound tempting. Elrohir, who had just picked himself up, collapsed back down on the dewy grass.

“Try it? This is *insane*! What do you take us for, suicidal freaks?!”

“How… how dare you! Everything Arwen can do, I do it ten times better!” she said, looking at the Elf the exact same way he was looking at her – like he had suddenly morphed into an Orc. Elladan gave her a suspicious look.

“I still don’t get *why* you insisted to make dinner instead of Arwen.”

“Because she’s getting better at it!” She yelled, her arms shaking slightly as she gestured for added emphasis. Elladan blinked.

“So?”

“So?! So?! *SO*?!” Éowyn advanced on him, the poor Elf backing away as best as he could, still sprawled on the ground. “If she gets any better, she’ll become the perfect spouse! Fair, kind and a good cook, *too*!”

“Perfect spouse?”

“For BOROMIR!”

“Boromir?” the twins exchanged glances.

“Boromir!” She assured, falling on her knees between Elladan’s upraised legs and leaning forward until she was nose to nose with him. “You know, the handsome Knight that travels with us?”

“*Handsome* Knight?” She clasped both Elladan’s hands in hers and nodded.

“How could you take no notice of such a beauty? My eyes have known only bitter darkness before I first laid them upon the beacon he is. His soft hair, his sparkling blue eyes… his supple muscles, his courage…”

“…his headache…” Elrohir provided from the corner he’d retreated into, watching in fascination as Éowyn’s eyes grew huge and shinier with each word she uttered about Boromir, while Elladan tried to become one with the tree he was now pinned against.

“Can you honestly look at him and tell me your heart doesn’t fill with love and respect? Uh? Uh? Uh?” Elrohir reclined back on its improvised seat, snacking on some wild blueberries. Elladan smiled nervously.

“Err… he’s never been my type. You know too… err… ‘male’ for my tastes.” Éowyn dropped the Elf’s hands, her expression distraught.

“Oh, how can you say that? Boromir’s the epitome of all that could be wanted in a mate!”

“Except that he’s a male?” Éowyn frowned.

“Oh, I can’t believe an Elf could have such prejudices!”

“It’s not a prejudice! I just don’t_want_him.” In the midst of the fight the tentacle peered cautiously from the bubbling broth, turning right and left slowly. Thoughtlessly Elrohir offered some blueberries to it, and when the tentacle dragged into the soup the whole handful, the Elf –still thoughtlessly- whacked it with the spoon, making it flop back into the boiling mixture.

“Because he’s a male?”

“Because it’s *him*!”

“Oi! What’s wrong with Boromir?!”

“Well, not to sound old, but he’s a male to start with!”

“So? Even Legolas is marrying…” there she stopped, her eyes watered, and she slumped against Elladan’s chest, making it purple with her hysteric punches. “My poor Legsy! Where may he be now?!”

“Ugh… we’ll find him… ugh…” Elladan managed as he fought for needed air (you know, it wasn’t quite easy to catch his breath with Éowyn pummelling his chest like *that*.)

At the ridge of the camp, Boromir and Arwen stood squatted behind the lee side of an ancient tree, the extra firewood and flasks of water they carried forgotten on the ground.

“Can we show ourselves now?” Arwen blinked at the Man. Boromir shrugged.

“To be honest, I’m scared to get near them at the moment.”

“Shouldn’t we aid my poor brother before anything irrevocable happens, like his death or something?”

“Arwen, honestly, I sympathize with Elladan. I really do. But I rather Éowyn didn’t do that to *me*.” Funny how, after that first time after Legolas’s disappearance, he’d continued to call her by her given name. “And she wouldn’t be the only one to get all over me if I step into the camp now. It may not look like it, but I *do* treasure my live.” The elven lady giggled softly, and rose weightlessly to her feet.

“She may never admit it, but I doubt we’ll dine at all if I don’t do something, and quickly.” Boromir snatched her wrist as she made as if to enter the camp. He tried to scamper to his feet, but in his hurry he could do nothing more that prop himself up to one knee.

“Please no?” he pleaded, grabbing her hand with both of his own. “Can’t we wait until she falls asleep or something? Or until Gandalf and Estel returns, so that they can console her and protect the twins in my stead?”

“No. We have to go. And now. But worry not: if by my life or death I can protect you from Éowyn and my brothers’ over-exaggerated affections, I will.” She joked. That did not ease his dread in the slightest, and the worried expression he wore made her smile.

“Arwen I… I… wanted to ask you… we…” he began, and then left his words hanging. He wasn’t sure himself of what he wanted to say, and yet desperate to say it.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the Man looking flustered at himself and the Elf waiting calmly for words that maybe would never come. Soon enough her smile twitched, though. A giggle escaped her, and if he didn’t know better, Boromir would have sworn her cheeks looked slightly flushed. He stared at her, looking mildly baffled by her sudden mirth. She countered by glancing around briefly with a smile, and then caught his eyes, cocking her head slightly to one side. The grin that she modelled made her look both malicious and expectant, but what worried the Man was the twinkle in her half-lidded eyes. Boromir frowned, an expression she blithely ignored as her smile developed again in soft giggling.

She seemed to be standing in wait, and watched the Man expectantly until he hesitantly looked about them, searching for the source of her amusement. He took in the trees; the swaying grass; the soundless wind; the gurgling stream rushing nearby; he kneeling before her with her hand clasped in his, wanting to ask her something… his face remained confused for another long moment, then it went amusingly shocked, his eyes wide and round and one eyebrow twitching. He looked up at her, and would have dropped her hand, hadn’t she squeezed his own gently.

“Of course the answer is ‘yes’, Boromir.” She poked him in the nose, giggled heartedly at his gasp, and skidded weightlessly into the camp, humming and laughing softly. Boromir gaped after her, torn between laughing at her joke or fainting at the mere notion of marrying the most beautiful Elven Maiden to walk Middle Earth since Thinùvel departed. He settled for a quiet headache, his brain skipping as quick as lightning through the plethora of names he was calling himself. He’d dug his tomb with his own hands after all, some bewilderment from his part was only to be expected.

No, of course she was joking. But, let’s pretend, just for a moment, that she wasn’t. Does this mean we’re getting married? But won’t Lord Elrond take our marriage as an offence? I’m a mere Knight after all, and mortal. On the other hand, if she was serious and I refused, she’d grieve, and nowhere in Eä I could be safe from Lord Elrond’s wrath.

Or the twin’s.

Or Estel’s…

When a worried Elrohir came to fetch him, hours afterwards, to inform him that dinner was ready, the Man was still kneeling in the same spot, eyes huge and unseeing, wondering…

…or King Thranduil’s.

Or the Lady Galadriel’s

Or Lord Celeborn’s.

Or the whole Elven kin’s in general.

Or—

TBC

What can I say… I like the “Watcher in the Water” the Fellowship meets outside Moria’s gates… I just *had* to put it in, somewhere… though, putting it into the Company’s dinner soup was a sort of surprise even to me…=)

I hate spoiling the surprise, but I think I need to warn you that some important stuff will take place in the next chapter, and that it may drown the funniness of the fic. Namely, Orcs will make their first appearance and a mushy scene(s) will happen concerning Legolas and Aragorn (whom I purposely didn’t put in this one chapter) and their growing feelings.