.|. Radical Dreamers .|.

Chapter 5

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“…And I still remember when my precious *sigh* little *sob* Leaf *sniff* was but 50 years old… he had this petit little bow he carried around all the time-” A pause to blow his nose and then crumble the tears-soaked tissue in one palm. “-and he would shot fake arrows to all that *sob* crossed his path… he broke many precious ceramics and wounded a few Elves, and I would yell at him… *sniff* YELL at him! How could I? Such a lovely creature…” Another pause, this time to dry a little tear at the corner of one blue eye with the crumbled tissue. “Luckily he wouldn’t heed me and would keep shooting at everything within his eyesight… which meant anything in the close 50 miles…” Thranduil stopped for a moment, tears gathering in his eyes, and then hid his face in his palms, howling and bawling so loudly a Nazgûl could have seriously considered to take lessons from him.

Loud as he was weeping, the King didn’t get a reaction out of Arwen and Boromir, who kept staring at him in complete speechlessness. The two were frozen in twin positions in front of the King, still sitting on the pink and bluish little thrones Thranduil had pushed them in, and still risking to drown in the fluffy cushions. Snowy feathers swayed around them, reminders of their previous war with said cushions, and one raven curl was actually swinging in dark contrast across Arwen’s forehead, having escaped the Elf’s otherwise perfect hairstyle. The two had been staring at the bawling King for the past couple of hours, holding a cup of tea loosely in one hand, and the plate it was hovering above in the other. Marble statues would have offered Thranduil more attention. Not that he would have let them comment in any way if they were to: that would have meant for him stopping to talk, after all…  

“And now he’s getting *married*! My precious little Leaf is leaving… and it seems yesterday that he was a still child…” Thranduil’s head rose from its cradle, and the King rubbed at his nose and eyes theatrically, sniffling every so often. Bottom lip trembling, he wrung out the tissue he held, and a number of droplets rained in a puddle at his feet. Taking pity on the poor thing the Eagle –who had been standing on the low table at the King’s feet, munching on some bird seed- tottered up to a box of Kleenex, caught one in her beak, and then toddled back up to Thranduil. The Elf accepted the tissue gladly, immediately blowing his nose with it and throwing the old one away at the same time.

Arwen and Boromir watched the tissue as it flew, drawing an arch in the air before landing on the quickly growing heap of its discarded brothers behind Thranduil’s high seat.

“…I still remember when he was but 51 old… such a lovely little thing he was! You see, he had this pair of petite little daggers, and with them he would…” Arwen and Boromir turned to each other as one, eyes meeting above the long-cooled tea.

Time for a rapid estimate, here.

It had gotten Thranduil two good hours to get from Legolas’s birth to his fifty-first year of life. Considering that Legolas was almost three-thousand old, and that Thranduil had a heart-attack each time he mentioned the upcoming marriage, Boromir’s lifespan would have been long over when the Elf-King finally got to even start explaining *why* exactly Éowyn was pretending to be the Morning Star.

Maybe not *that* much, but surely more that they could spend there.

With choreographic synchronism the pair dropped their cups on the respective plates; held one arm out to drop cup and plate on the low table; returned the now empty hand to their lap and turned to Éowyn. Right eyebrow raised, they watched the woman as she stuffed herself with the pastries that had come with the tea and that had *never* made it to the other guests.

Between a mouthful of cookies and another she noticed them staring and smiled, before deliberately and possessively clutching the tray of pastries to her breast.

“Yes?” Spectacular synchronism again: Arwen and Boromir’s left brows joined their partners in crime, arching sharply upward, as the two turned to better face Éowyn. Then they leaned slightly forward, hands clasped together on their lap and gazed at her wordlessly for a minute. She just kept eating, actually fighting over a newly-arrived tray of pastries with a passing servant. She smiled at them once she had won the tray and sent an affronted servant scurrying back to the kitchens; she watched with her head tilted as they nodded silently to Thranduil, eyebrows back in place. Éowyn followed their gazes to the bawling Elf and the Eagle who was awkwardly trying to pat his back with a huge wing.

“—and he almost tore one of his nurse’s eyes away while practicing with his daggers, I remember. Oh, he was such a darling!” Swallowing one chocolate pastry Éowyn grinned apologetically at their guests, already holding another one in two fingers.

“I’m terribly sorry, but his Majesty tends to overreact a little whenever his son is concerned-” An amazingly choreographic blink from Arwen and Boromir. If that was what she called overreacting ‘a little’… “-I guess you’re asking yourselves who I am, and why I pretend to be the Morning Star, do you not?” Amazingly choreographic nod. Éowyn flashed them another radiant grin and moved to place the tray back on the table – before thinking better about it and seating it on her lap.

“Well, you see, my name’s Éowyn and I’m a human. My family comes from the long-gone lands of Rohan and Éomer is my brother’s name. I’ve been Prince Legolas’s personal guard since I was tall enough to hold a sword, and I have protected him ever since. Now he’s getting married to a certain Estel of Gondor, (a human, and a male at that) and a company of Warriors has been sent here from Rivendell to escort him to Minas Tirith- but you already know of this because you *are* that Company. Never mind. Anyway, as I was saying, this Company is but a small one, as the Lord Elrond stated into his letter. You realize that three Elves, two Men and one Wizard are not enough of an escort for the Heir of Mirkwood, don’t you? But granting the Prince a huger escort would just make him an easier target for the Orcs swarming in these woods. So the King decided that since I was going along (because I *was* going along, no doubt: I’d never leave Legolas’s side, after all) we could use this little stratagem and pretend *I* was the Aurêl while Legolas was just my loyal servant- After all we both have blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin, and since few outside Mirkwood know of Legolas’s gender (I heard not even his future husband knows he’s a male) we could be easily mistaken for one another. Once we reach Gondor we’re going to apologize to our escort and to introduce Estel and all the Gondorians to the *real* Aurêl, their soon to be… well, King-in-law.” She plopped another pastry into her mouth, clutching the trail possessively and frowning to the servant from before, who had came back, acquired several supporters, and was now trying to pry the tray away from Éowyn’s clutch.

Amazingly synchronized blink again. Then the synchronism was broken when Arwen whispered in awe, “You never stop to take a breath, do you?”. Éowyn grinned in response, still wrestling with the servant over the tray, and casually plopped another pastry in her mouth. Beside her, another drenched issue flew, leaving a glittering trail behind. In a flutter of feathers the Eagle managed to keep patting Thranduil’s back with one wing and to stretch one claw enough to grab a new tissue for the weeping Elf.

“And I still remember when he was but 52… such a precious little thing! He had this one petite little sword and…”

Boromir leaned against the back of his seat and massaged his temples. Great! Now who will explain them that they could not keep this up, without letting it slip that Estel himself was in the Company? Just as easy at it would be to convince Estel to reveal himself… killing a Nazgûl would surely prove an easier task. And THAT was a worldwide-known *impossible* thing to do.

He foresaw dark times ahead… very dark times… At this point, it might prove better to shut his mouth and keep lying to both parts, hoping in Arwen and Gandalf’s help and praying the Valar to keep other troubles from getting in their way…

“…”

Yeah, as if *that* was possible.

Hold on a second, hadn’t he brought with him one of those lovely, lovely brochures illustrating all the comforts of Helm Deep and all those other fortresses at the borders? He’d better check - maybe he was still in time to join Monday’s supply of recruits…

* * * * *

Legolas poked a heart-shaped smoke ring as it flew past, grinning when it dissipated into a snowy trail. Behind him Aragorn was nodding off into sleep, and would tighten and release his hold on the blond Elf’s waist as he intermittently dozed off and started awake. Sitting quietly in a corner, Elladan was polishing his dagger meticulously; Elrohir found it better for his weapon to get some action, and thus had kept shooting his daggers to the poor Elven tapestry hanging from one of the walls for the last hour. Unruffled, Gandalf leaned back and puffed some more hearts out of his mouth. When would Thranduil realize he had to be introduced to his plan as well? How planned him too keep Legolas’s identity secret for the whole travel without his help? Another heart-shaped ring sailed from his lips to die beautifully when Legolas poked it. Not that he didn’t know of the plan already. Let’s face it, what on Middle Earth does Gandalf know *not*? Yet, he would have appreciated some more consideration. And no, he was not sulking, thankyouverymuch.

“Why do you think it’s taking them so long?” Elrohir queried, pulling his blades out from the wall and checking them for any flaw. Legolas poked Gandlaf’s latest smoke ring and grinned to the aged mage– even being three thousand old, the Prince could still be awfully childlike when he wanted.

“When my fa—uhm, King, summons you, you are sure when you enter those Halls but not when you get out.” Legolas shrugged, his blonde hair sliding across Aragorn’s cheek with the movement, and found himself pinned even tighter to the Man’s chest as Aragorn became fully awake. Elladan gave a laugh, throwing his head back.

“Exactly like Father.” Elrohir’s own laughter joined Elladan’s as he made himself comfortable beside his brother. Aragorn just mumbled a small assent in reply, nuzzling Legolas’s neck. The blond Elf gave a low chuckle and a breathless little moan. Elladan and Elrohir couldn’t help it, nor could they hold it in any longer - they burst out laughing. Immediately Aragorn and Legolas turned toward them, a bit late on the news, but since no one deigned them with some attention, they had all the time to catch up. Actually, it was when they tried to stand and go asking for explanations that they realized their were tangled together in an intimate embrace - and without even knowing *why* exactly that was. They turned toward each other, eyes round, and a multitude of heart-shaped smoke-rings fluttered around them as if caught in an exceptionally slow small whirlwind. Sparkling stardust glittered amidst the hearts as the smoke turned rosy in colour, and a sweet perfume seeped into the air – Gandalf’s work, of course: he’d always been a bit of a romantic, deep down. Deep, deep, *deep* down… somewhere.

It was the Wizard’s private opinion that those two were the perfect couple. He’d known both Princes since they weren’t tall enough to reach his knees, and had always been fond of them – not that he would tell them *that*. Somehow it felt good to him to see them together. Legolas was a force of nature, untamed and lawless, just as Aragorn was the natural-born leader. They completed each other. Equilibrated one another, even. And then, let’s admit it: Gandalf just *loved* to play matchmaker.

After about a couple of seconds of staring, Aragorn and Legolas both blinked. Another three seconds, and their eyes widened. One more second and they managed to move their mouths, albeit no sound came out. By that time, the twins were all ready rolling on the floor. Aragorn would have loved to tell them to *stop* -would have loved it dearly- but lacked the wit to even think, let alone form coherent words.

By the way, what are words again? Uh…

A minute of silence passed before Aragorn cleared his throat.

“Legolas.”

“Strider.” The Elf replied, an eyebrow quirked up.

“You… can leave my lap if you want, now.” He shrugged. Legolas nodded.

“And you can let go of my waist. If you want.” The Man nodded in response. Still neither he or Legolas would move.

“You can move now, Legolas.”

“So can you, Strider.” Elladan and Elrohir were trying desperately to catch their breath, but it seemed impossible as they kept laughing. Even Gandalf rose a thick eyebrow, but otherwise restrained from saying anything. Aragorn looked around swiftly, frowning at his cousins. Could anyone help the twins stop laughing? He was trying to *think*! Not to mention it must be healthy to breath from time to time – something they hadn’t done in ages. He whipped away from the offending image and around, and found that to be a mistake.

A *huge* mistake.

He found his nose buried into Legolas’s hair, the Elf’s scent tantalizing to his senses, and inhaled it deeply, wondering what the Elf’s skin smelled like. What it tasted like. He bet it would taste like honey. A part of his mind disagreed discreetly and suggested it would taste more like vanilla. It was not the time to have his mind battling with itself, so another part of him settled down the question, deciding the best way to know was to get a sample. The two parts of himself who had been bickering before went silent, having nothing to reply to *that*, and leaned back to cheer Strider as he lowered his lips toward Legolas’s neck.

Oblivious, Legolas was staring at the twins with a cross, but vaguely hurt look on his face. He didn’t like being laughed at, and was determined to do something about those annoying chuckles.

“On three?” he suggested. Aragorn snapped back to reality just as he was about to run his tongue across Legolas’ neck, and glanced up at the Elf dazedly, as if in trance.

“Uh? *What* on three?” not that Legolas was listening to him anyway. Deliberately forgetting to count one and two he hissed a resounding “Three!” and leaped to his feet, disentangling himself gracefully from the Man.

Strider had different plans though, and ruined Legolas’s perfect performance.

Lacking the agility that came natural to Legolas, he found himself swinging back and forth on the back legs of his chair when the Elf moved. Trying not to fall, he flailed his arms wildly and grabbed onto the closet thing – which happened to be, again, Legolas. The two came crashing down, the Elf draped across the Man’s chest when they landed, and found themselves face to face and speechless for the second time that day. After a long silence that left them still staring at each other, they moved to talk, their faces hovering closer for some alien reason unknown to them both as well as any other.

“I…”

“I…”

Then the screech came, and Aragorn couldn’t say he hadn’t been expecting it.

“Cut his head off!!!”

His beloved soon-to-be bride had returned, Aragorn acknowledged. Now why wasn’t his heart swelling with happiness, he wondered. He rolled his eyes and doing so met Legolas’s gaze, wide and apologetic above him. Anxiety surged inside of the Man, and an instinctive reflex inside his mind told him it was time to retreat – or maybe it was those parts of his mind from before, still indignant at not getting a taste of the Elf’s skin.

Quick as lightening Aragorn swooped to his feet, caught Legolas around the waist, hoisted the thrashing Elf across his shoulder, and dashed towards the front door.

“We’re going to scout the area to… err… find the safest route to Gondor! Meet us in front of the Castle as soon as you can, and we’ll depart without… uh… further delay!!” In the background, Éowyn screeched again, held back by Boromir before she could launch herself at the fleeing Ranger. With a laugh Elladan and Elrohir dashed after him, beckoning to their sister to follow them. She ignored them though, busy as she was trying to pry Éowyn away from Boromir: the Rohan Lady had all but glued herself to the Gondorian Knight when she’d understood it was him who was holding her back.

“Leave him alone! *NOW*!”

“If no one holds me back, I’ll get that Ranger’s head! Hold me back, noble Boromir?”

“…”

He only hoped to have enough supplies of athelas to cure his headache with, if he had indeed forgotten home that one brochure about Helm Deep…

TBC

I’m still deciding whether or not Gimli & co. should show up. If I end up putting them in the fic they will probably meet with Aragorn and Legolas without joining them… we’ll see. Though they *may* (this isn’t definitive) be playing parts none of you would expect… ;)

Sam: “Err… C’ptain Gimli, sir?”

Gimli: “Whaddya want?”

Frodo: “There’s an *Elf* in here.”

Merry: “Pointy ears, blonde hair and everything.”

Pippin: “And very cute, too!”

Gimli: “Stop sayin’ nonsense an’ keep moving yar feet! We’re gonna chase ‘at Company of fools out of *our* woods!”

Legolas: “Oh, my…”