.|. Radical Dreamers .|.

Chapter 2

~

“And don’t stay up late!”

“Aye, Father.”

“And don’t spend too much time in the sunlight – you may get sunburnt!”

“Yes, Father.”

“I trust you to eat well, and… and remember to boil water before drinking it!”

“*Of course*, Father.”

“Stay away from odd people, and don’t talk with strangers!”

“Would we ever, father?”

“And be polite with the Mirkwood Elves, I beg you.”

“Sure, Father.”

“And please--” 

Arwen sighed, rolling her eyes as she glanced up at Boromir over her father’s shoulder. The six ones chosen to retrieve the Morning Star had assembled at the gates of Rivendell at the crack of dawn, wishing to say their farewells to the fair Elven Land… and in few minutes it would be time to have lunch. This was bordering ridiculous.

Feeling the Lady’s eyes on him Boromir looked up and gave a responding sigh, a hand on his forehead, and Arwen shoot a look of sympathy to the Man. Her eyes fell on the Wizard sitting on a flat rock just next to him then, and found him smoking, peering quietly at the sun as it lowered slowly in the pale blue sky. She nodded at him and saw him nod back, before smiling at her cousin Aragorn, unable to contain the ripple of amusement flashing in her gaze.

He was sitting in a shadowed corner, perched atop what remained of a column of the old times, arms crossed and feet dangling from the high seat, swinging back and forth like a child’s. He wore the same expression she’d seen on his face countless times when he was young and something he wanted was denied him. What he wanted now was to leave, obviously, and Elrond incredibly long goodbyes had transformed the proud Prince of all Men in a sulking little child.

Aragorn seemed really, really, REALLY attached to the idea of marrying Legolas… this might prove more than just interesting, she decided.

Eyes still on Aragorn’s sulking face, Arwen nodded in agreement of whatever else her father had asked of her and her brothers.

“Father?” She called, eyes flickering up to his face.

“Yes, child?”

“Elves may be immortal…” she started,

“But they still need to breath!” Elladan continued.

“Release us?” Elrohir ended hopefully, struggling in the circle of his father’s arms. Surprisingly, Elrond backed off. He hadn’t forgotten to give his offspring a last squeeze though, and he watched with a raised eyebrow as the three panted for breath and sighed in relief at the same time.

Everything was quiet for a long time, and Boromir watched the sun slide toward to the horizon. Finally, it dropped out of sight, hiding behind one of the Elven houses of Rivendell. The sky remained bright, but the earth became dusky, and dark shadows stretched to wrap about the silent Company. That could be a bad omen, and Boromir was surprised to feel a shiver course down his back, long and cold.

“May a star shine on your path and guide you safely to the dark woods.” Elrond said then, slowly, raising one hand in wave. Aragorn’s whole face lit up, looking even more like a child.

“A star shines on us, indeed! The most beautiful of all!” He declared, leaping off from his seat. Boromir whipped around at the sound of his Prince’s voice, just in time to see the other Man hopping up a patch of rocks and jump down the steeply ravine.

“Estel!” He screeched. Ioreth (the old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old-old—well, you got the point, woman who had raised Aragorn) fell backwards, strangely enough right into a handsome guard’s arms, and didn’t seem willing to move away from there anytime soon. With a screech Arwen hid her face in her palms, yet she parted her fingers to peer through them. Gandalf sent a thin stream of smoke from his lips, unruffled. After a moment of hesitations Boromir and the twins strode to edge of the ravine, the Man as pale as a ghost. There they stopped and gave a yell, and a stream of unrepeatable words sprout from Boromir’s mouth.

Curious, Arwen stepped closer, and peered over Boromir’s shoulder to the bottom of the ravine. Aragorn hadn’t even *grimaced* when he’d reached the ground, bent on all fours. Instead he’d immediately leaped onto his feet like a cat, and was now waving up at the rest of the Company with a huge, brilliant smile.

“For it’s this one most beautiful star we’re going to retrieve! A star the Valar are giving me to keep and cherish!” There he paused, raising an eyebrow in the same way he’d seen Elrond do for years. “What are you standing all there for?!” He said, sounding genuinely puzzled, as if nothing wrong had happened. “Hurry up!” And without another word he dashed down the narrow path that sneaked into the lush woods of Imrails. With a laugh the twins dashed after their cousin, deaf to Boromir’s protests that at least *them* could use the stony path as any civilized creature would.

Arwen turned to giver her father one last kiss and jogged up to the where their horses were. It had been decided that the Company would proceed on feet, as to be swifter and less conspicuous, but Aragorn and Boromir’s stallions, Hasufel and Arod, would come along and carry the Company’s gear nevertheless. Arwen collected the beasts’ reins and began dragging them to Man’s side, whispering soothing Elven words to them as they went. Once by his side she stopped, glancing down at the dashing shadows that were now her brothers, barely visible as they skipped through the vegetation.

“We’d better move.” She said reasonably. “They’re already more than half-mile ahead of us, considering the path we’re using to get down there is stony and winding.”

“And they’re moving swifter than we ever will. Let’s get going?” Gandalf released a last puff of smoke and patted Boromir’s shoulder warmly, appearing at the Man’s side as if from thin air.

Boromir nodded wordlessly and smiled, grateful that at least someone in the Company seemed to be sane and heed what he said, too. Carefully, he strolled up to the Arwen and took his stallion’s reins in his hands. Arod let out a happy whine when the Man stroked his golden neck, softly. Aragorn’s own stallion snorted angrily, skidding his hoofs violently on the ground. Are we moving or not? Aragorn’s alone down there!! Boromir chuckled, almost sensing the horse’s urgency, and with a last look at the fair Rivendell he headed to the narrow path carved in the stony hills, barely visible between the rows of bushes that lined it from both sides. Boromir took his time moving the branches from the way, and behind him Gandalf sighed, sounding as old as the world itself.

“What a pity.”

“What is?” Boromir queried, his eyebrows creeping up without his consent. He stepped away from the path he’d just freed, and watched as his two companions started descending, the Wizard and the Elf chatting amiably. Gandalf shrugged, casually almost, and Boromir felt the embers of his headache stir.

“A pity I’m too old to do such things as leaping down that ravine. I would have loved to follow them.” The wizard say, massaging his back theatrically. “Why didn’t you?”

“Oh,” Arwen shrugged, frowning down at her Amazon outfit. “Had I know we where to leap down highs I would have worn leggings – such a pity I chose to wear a skirt.”

Boromir blinked. Glanced wistfully at the far borders where he knew war was raging, then ahead at Arwen and Gandalf, and blinked again. Rubbing his forehead, he hastened down the path, head bowed low. He had said it, hadn’t he? He wouldn’t survive the headaches… they hadn’t even left Rivendell and his head was already throbbing.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, in Mirkwood…

King Thranduil read the parchment in his hands for the umpteenth time in the last half-hour, glanced up at the Eagle who’d delivered it, and then read it again, just for the hell of it. Upon her seat the Eagle shifted, craning her neck to get a better look at the letter Lord Elrond had given her. Oooh… a marriage was approaching, it seemed.

Thranduil glanced up at the Eagle again, who gave a hoarse cry before fluttering her wings impatiently. Didn’t a poor messenger get some food or water in Mirkwood? The Elven King ignored her protests as he sighed, folding the paper, and leaned back against his throne, gazing unseeingly at the huge gilded door of the throne room. Upon her seat the Eagle wavered, almost loosing her footing, and fluttered her wings again.

As if on cue the door burst open, and the very person Thranduil wanted to see entered. Or, to be honest, was shoved inside.

He was flaxen, tall and graceful, not unlike the other Elves of Mirkwood, and a light similar to that of the glowing moon surrounded him. Almost all elves have fair complexions and colouring, with a few exceptions like the Lady Arwen, but this one Elf stood out. Even covered in mud as he was, with his golden hair in a pretty mess and his clothes marked by hours spent in the forest, he was still a delight to gawk at. Despite his usual composure his lovely features were twisted in anger (but that did not make him look less than perfect) as he struggled ineffectively against his restrains. His wrists and ankles were tied, and two guards were at his sides, holding his arms so that the blond Elf was carried rather forcefully forwards, feet floating few inches from the floor.

A fourth person came behind them, wearing a satisfied expression as she went, even though the captive Elf wouldn’t stop yelling names at her.

“You… you… you betrayer! How dare you tie me?! *ME*?! The Prince of Mirkwood! I thought you were my best friend! My personal Knight! You’re supposed to stand by *me* and not by him!!! Betrayer! I trusted you!!” The woman beamed, blue eyes glinting maliciously, as she bowed her head half-mockingly. Or it may have been completely mockingly, there was no way to tell for sure.

“Sorry Prince Legolas, I may be your best friend and personal guard, but it’s still your Lord Father who pays me.” Legolas gave an angered screech at that. “So, when he ordered me to drag you here – I did.”

The party reached the middle of the hall, and the woman nonchalantly waved a hand. Legolas stopped ranting when he felt himself being raised higher for a moment and then abruptly released. He landed on his feet with almost no noise at all – a rose petal falling on snow – and as quick as lightening he turned, reached for one of the guard’s sword and threw it in the air. Both guards gasped – all elves are quick, but Legolas had moved with a speed unknown to them. Legolas turned to glare at the woman then, who smirked back at him with a touch of arrogance, even as the blade began falling down toward him like a guillotine. Mere instants before the sword could touch him, Legolas leaped, watching as the blade sliced the tips of hair that weren’t fast enough, and swung backwards; a jump that had nothing human. His tied hands came free as if on magic, and so did his feet, as the blade flied past them before firmly embedding itself into the floor. The Elven Prince landed down gracefully, moving as if dancing, eyes still narrowed and teeth gritted and bare.

He straightened up, tossing his hair back and glared at his father, ignoring as he could the mockingly applause of his personal guard and supposed best-friend. He opened his mouth, then his mind registered what was before him, and his jaw snapped close.

“Father?” he asked, an eyebrow raising without his consent. “There’s an *Eagle* on your head.” Thranduil looked up just as the Eagle looked down, and the two shared a look. They both shrugged, or whatever we may call what the Eagle did, and looked back down at the young Prince.

“Of course.” Thranduil replied matter-of-factly. “Who else do you think had delivered the message I wish to share with you?”

“But, Father, it’s on your *head*.” The King and the Eagle traded looks, and then blinked owlishly down at Legolas, heads tilted.

“So?”

“…never mind.” He sighed, shaking his head. “What is it that you wish to tell me?” At those words Thranduil straightened, and seemed to become suddenly taller, and stronger. His shadow stretched and crawled toward Legolas like a spider, and Thranduil’s bright azure eyes dimmed to a unfeeling blue. Upon his head, the Eagle gave a high-pitched cry, spreading and folding again her wings, she made herself comfortable on the blond mane, seriously considering to make it her aerie.

“Legolas, my son.” Thranduil spoke slowly and evenly, his voice like the rumble of distant thunders. “War has been raging between Mordor and the free races of Ea for hundreds of years. Brave Men and Elves – with few Dwarves, and Ents even!- are spilling their blood on the front lines. Our army is strong, indeed, but the tides of war are uncertain. We’re few, just *too* few, and the Valar know if we need the help of the other races if we want to put an end to Sauron’s evil plots.” His voice was grave, and Legolas suddenly felt cold.

“I know,” he said. And his voice, usually so proud, sounded strangely feeble echoing in the huge hall. “That’s why I want to join them at the borders.” Thranduil sighed.

“And thus you try to run from Mirkwood each and every day. Thanking the Valar Éowyn always knows where to find you and brings you back.” Éowyn beamed, while Legolas’s frown came back full-force on his face.

“Do you think you alone can be enough help to our army to defeat Sauron?” Thranduil continued after a while, and Legolas’s response was a mere shrug.

“Maybe I am not, but the way things are going, I’m sure I –no, all of us Elves of Mirkwood- will have to fight him first hand, sooner or later. Why can’t I face him now?” Thranduil nodded gravely, and the Eagle, who had been dozing quietly on his head, gave a cry as she slid some. “I suppose so, but... do you not agree that continuing the way we have been going is rather hard on everyone? I think it is time we try to get help from a greater number of people.”

“I know what you’re about to say.” Legolas stated quietly, his frown fading into a look of exasperation. “…‘Elrond and I found a way to stop the war’.”

“Err… You could put it that way, yes.”

“What do you mean... ‘You could put it that way’?” Legolas’s other eyebrow joined his partner in crime, arching upwards. “Father… the last time you and the Lord Elrond came up with one of your ‘plans’, you organized a Tournament for all the free races as to find new recruits for the army. And when it was over Dwarves decided to never talk again with a race that breaks its oaths, since you two refused to send the winners to the borders… and only because it was Arwen and me!”

“That… was an accident.”

“And the time before, when you wanted to sneak into Mordor and decided to allure Orcs away from their posts… and ended up using Arwen and me as *baits*, tying us to a tree we discovered afterwards to be an Ent?!”

“Ehm… another accident.”

“And the--” Thranduil snuggled deeper into his throne, arms crossed across his chest, expression sullen.

“That too was an accident.” He shook his head, raising his chin proudly, index finger stretched out and pointing upwards. “But this time, we found a wonderful solution. Legolas…” he put a dramatic pause, here. “You’re getting married.”

A moment of silence passed, and Legolas’s eyes widened to the size of teacups. Of all the things he’d expected to hear – the crazy, absurd oddities he *knew* Lord Elrond and his Father together could come up with- that was surely *not* something he’d seen coming. He purposely told himself that it was all a lie, or a cruel joke. He didn’t think he would have ever heard those words leave his Father’s mouth, even thought he’d been raised with the knowledge he’d have been handed over to some unknown spouse for politic purposes.

Still, he could not believe it.

Sweat began dampening his palms as he balled his fists. He wanted to say something, but his mouth had gone dry. He even forgot to breathe for the longest of moments.

“WHAT?!” He shrieked out at last, outraged, but Thranduil didn’t even had the decency to wince. Instead he hardened his features further and leaned forward – so that the Eagle, now completely asleep, fell to the floor with a screech and a loud thump.

“You’ve always known this day would come.” He said icily. “Since when your mother sailed to the West. Haven’t you?” Legolas’s hand came up, as if after its own volition, and curled around the green jewel shining around the Elf’s neck. It was pale green of colour, and resembled a leaf in shape. Legolas’s mother had given it to him centuries before, asking a promise in return.

I will marry after my Father’s will, out of duty, if this will put an end to this insane war.

Yes, Legolas. You will. But take this with you and keep it, until you’ll find…

“I do.” He sighed softly, freeing himself of his thoughts with a toss of his head. “I will wed the one you chose for me.” Then a thought occurred to him, one he didn’t like in the slightest, and Legolas looked up with the wide, scared eyes of a child. “It’s not Arwen, is it?” He may have been fond of Elrond’s daughter: they’d been close friends back when they were just kids of just a couple of centuries after all, but to spend the rest of eternity bonded to someone whose favourite past-time was to pull his hair and to break the bows and arrows she took without permission… well, it’s wasn’t what Legolas would call a ‘charming option’.

Seeing Legolas actually *shiver* Thranduil threw his head back with a laugh, and the poor Eagle, who’d been trying to scamper back up into her aerie, fell back down again, eyes round. They don’t even let messengers *sleep* in Mirkwood?! What kind of uncivilized country had Elrond sent her to?

“No, my child. Your chosen mate is a mortal.”

“Mortal?” Legolas spluttered.

“Of course. Men and Elves must be united by something stronger than mere words if we want the other free races to believe in us and follow our lead toward victory. And the children you will have will be the final proof of how close our races actually are.” Legolas groaned, a hand on his forehead.

“Who?”

“Oh, the Heir of the Realm of Gondor, of course. A human of royal blood, half-elf and half-mortal, named Estel after—“

“Yeah, yeah.” Legolas waved his free hand, still gazing at his own shoes. “Is she pretty, at least?”

What exploded from Thranduil’s lips then could be called laughter, but maybe hysteric peals of amusement could describe it better. Legolas and Éowyn both started away from the throne, sharing a worried glance.

“Pretty? I don’t know if that’s the right word. I’ve heard Estel is very handsome, though.” Who said Elves can’t go pale? That’s exactly what Legolas did.

“You don’t mean…” Has any of you ever seen Thranduil smirk? I don’t want to scare you… picture an alligator baring its teeth. There. You have it.

“A male.” He nodded.

“BUT FATHER!”

“And don’t tell me you’re bothered by same-gender relationship. You’ve never seemed to mind any of your brother’s lovers.”

“It’s not that!! How can you ask me to conceive heirs if my mate is a *male*?!” Thranduil waved a hand dismissively.

“There’s always adoption, or we could ask Mithrandir to mix a potion to make you fertile.” Thranduil wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Then again, when one is as young as you are, what matters is not succeeding… but trying!” Legolas’s snowy cheeks had gone the colour of roses in bloom and seemed to be darkening with each word his Father uttered, shattering the myth which says Elves do not blush.

“This.Is.Nonsense.” The Prince muttered under his breath, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

“Nonsense or not, a group of warriors is already journeying toward Mirkwood to escort you to Gondor, where you and Estel will wed. It may be dangerous to send you almost unprotected through such a journey, but it’s true as well that we can’t give you a bigger escort: you’d become an even too easy target for the Orcs.” The King leaned down, resting his chin on the back of one hand, and looked Legolas up and down with a smirk. “There is another solution, though, to assure you more protection…”

I don’t want to ask it. I won’t ask it. I won’t ask it. I won’t ask it. I won’t-

“Which is?”

Damn!

The Eagle landed on top of the Elf King’s head, tilting her own at an angle to watch his face. The grin Thranduil flashed Legolas then was more than slightly wicked, as if he was plotting something a great deal more mischievous than an arranged marriage.

“Have you ever noticed that you and Éowyn are the exact same size, my son?” He cupped his chin in one hand, regarding the woman appreciatively. “Both with long blond tresses; both of fair skin; both of azure eyes… and few outside Mirkwood even know about your gender! Probably the warriors sent here reckon the Aurêl is a maiden, not…” He didn’t even get to finish his thought that Legolas had already bolted to the door, only to be grabbed rather roughly by the guards standing there. The poor Prince struggled ineffectively against his restrains for the second time that day, and glared up at his father murderously.

Éowyn walked closer to Legolas, and placed both hands on her hips, cocking her head slightly to one side.

“I doubt I have clothes that could suit a *Princess*,” she said with a grin, blue eyes glinting, “But I can check – maybe there’s a gown hid somewhere amidst the leggings, who knows?” She gestured vaguely at the blue tunic and silvery pants she wore, and the sound Legolas made could have easily passed for either an insulted screech or a curse. His embarrassment made her laugh, and she stepped forward to friendly pat his shoulder, grinning when he glared up at her.

“It’s all right, my Prince. Even the greatest Men have dressed up as women sometime in their lives – I think.” He snorted at her wryly, ducking out of reach.

“Men maybe, but not *Elves*.” She cocked her head to the other side, batting her eyelashes outrageously.

“But, you’d look so *lovely* in a dress. Absolutely lovely. No Men in his right state of mind could ever resist you.” She grinned wider when he glared again, amused to see the a faint blush come with his scowl. Thranduil laughed again, head thrown backward, but this time the Eagle was ready, and curled her claws around the silvery blond tresses, waving her wings madly as the Elf kept laughing.

Legolas’s head snapped up, and even amidst his rage he found himself wondering about his father’s sanity.

“I warn you.” Legolas said slowly. “I’m *not*, and I repeat *not*, dressing up as a woman.”

“Oh, but don’t have to. In fact, I forbid you to wear clothes any different from those you chose to wear today.” The guards released him, aiming now for a new target, but Legolas remained oblivious as he quickly glanced down at himself. He raised an eyebrow at the grey leggings, the dark boots, the pale green shirt and olive tunic he sported. He glanced briefly at the bow, twin daggers and quiver of long arrows he had on his back then. In total honesty, he looked like a mere archer, a servant even. He looked up to check on his Father’s expression. He was still grinning.

“It’s Éowyn who might have to change her wardrobe… a snowy gown would look lovely on her, wouldn’t it?” Éowyn would have bolted away then, if one of the guards holding Legolas before hadn’t already swung her onto his shoulder and wasn’t carrying her toward the Queen’s old chambers.

What was Thranduil planning, Legolas wondered as he watched Éowyn punch madly at the guard’s back.

Well, as long as it didn’t involve him wearing a gown, whatever it was it had to be a good thing…

…right?

TBC

Sorry to all of you who wanted to see Legolas in a gown… he’ll wear the same outfit he has in the movie, in this story… *grinsgrins* Maybe in some other story? ^_- Are you wondering what Thranduil’s plan is? Stay tuned then! Next chapter, Aragorn (hopefully) arrives in Mirkwood! *cheers and waves her Aragolas flag*