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Thranduil is the first to find out.

His son, his beloved son, is only nine years old. Legolas is impossibly bright, his joy as radiant as the sun, and Thranduil can see his wife in that smile.

His son bounds up to him in his study one afternoon, grinning as always, a single messy braid down his left temple as if Legolas attempted to plait it himself.

"Ada!" Legolas exclaims when he spots him. "Ada!"

"Ion nîn," Thranduil says sweetly, hoisting Legolas off the ground and into his lap. "What is it?"

"My eyes changed color! I saw it in the mirror!"

Thranduil stills. Gently, he cups Legolas's face in his hands and tilts his head up. As sure as the sky is blue, his son's eyes, squished from smiling, have shifted to a gorgeous warm brown. They're so unlike his mother's green eyes or Thranduil's own striking blue, but he could have sworn Legolas's eyes were a mix just earlier in the day.

"So they have, 'Las," he murmurs. "I wonder how that is."

Legolas just shrugs. It's unhelpful but endearing, and his smile widens impossibly more. Thranduil, with his hands still on his son's face, says "I have the world in my hands now, ion nîn."

Legolas looks up at his father reverently, leaning against him fully. Thranduil undoes the messy braid in his son's golden hair with intent to reweave it in a moment, and he knows for the hundredth time in his heart that he would burn the world for his little elf.

Mithrandir arrives unannounced one day when Legolas is just under a century old, still so young. Two of the guards bring the wizard into his halls, and he doesn't even have the decency to look sheepish. Mithrandir simply looks at him with wise eyes and a serene smile, both of which fail to hide the power simmering underneath his skin.

"Elvenking," the old wizard says.

"Mithrandir," Thranduil responds in turn. "What brings you to my halls so abruptly?"

"I come simply to know you are well," Mithrandir says. "I wish to know how you fare with the darkness that plagues your forest."

Thranduil glowers at him. "You speak falsely. You do not come simply for a check. Tell me, wizard, what brings you to the Woodland Realm."

Mithrandir says nothing, but Thranduil see his eyes flick all around him, landing for just a fraction of a second on each elf in the vicinity.

Thranduil sighs to himself. He looks up, looking into the eyes of every other being in the room. "Leave us," he commands. His guards and staff look at him warily, but one hard look sends them away.

When the room is vacated, Mithrandir speaks again. "I feel a different power around here," he says. "It is not dangerous as of now, but it’s present, and I come to assess."

The utter gall, Thranduil thinks, for Mithrandir to waltz into his hallowed kingdom only to say he senses something odd. "There is nothing here," he objects. "Yes, evil lurks in the forest. Yes, grief weighs heavily upon the land. There is nothing else."

"Ah, but there is," says Mithrandir. "You know it too. There is something that weighs on your mind. Something that haunts your thoughts. Speak, Elvenking, of what small thing has changed in your forest."

Thranduil does not react. He does not stand. He sits perfectly still and attempts to bury the thought of his son in his head.

Legolas is different, that much Thranduil can say. His eyes do not stay the same shade for more than a few days at a time, or even a few hours, and he has such a special connection to the trees and stars for such a young elf. He's taken up archery recently, and his aim is better than many of Thranduil's warriors. He is light on his feet, like all of their kind, but his grace is otherworldly.

Thranduil remembers a time, about half a century ago, when he and Legolas took a walk through a safe, close section of the forest. Legolas was walking so lightly it looked like he was gliding over the roots. He had paused on a thin root that by all means should have snapped under even the lightest of elves. Legolas had turned to face his father, eyes bright and smile wide. "Ada, look!" he said. "My balance is better!"

And indeed it was. Legolas was on the ball one foot, the other hovering just above the branch.

"Very good, ion nîn," Thranduil said. "Soon you will be able to dance with the trees."

Legolas hopped off the root and onto a low hanging branch of a tree, climbing only a few feet up and barely disturbing the leaves. He hooked his legs over a sturdy branch and swung upside down, and Thranduil felt his heart plummet. He rushed to his son in case he fell, but Legolas just giggled at him.

"I am fine, Ada. I am stable."

"Yes you are," Thranduil had said. "But perhaps a warning next time." He could not help but smile through the light chastising, and Legolas mirrored it. It was then that Thranduil witnessed, for the first time, his son's eyes change. They were as they are supposed to be, a lovely light blue with a hint of green, perfectly suiting his son. He had seen then the deepening of color, where they had gone from blue to dark grey. Legolas closed his eyes, squeezing them shut for just a moment before opening them again. When he did, Thranduil saw the loss of color and light (but not life, never life), and it took everything in him to show none of his surprise.

"'Las," he said softly. "Your eyes have changed again."

If he was surprised or upset, Legolas didn't show it. He simply said, "Yes," and descended from the branch to continue their walk.

Thranduil thinks about this, with Mithrandir expectant below him, and makes his decision. "There is nothing," he says again with conviction. "Only the grief getting heavier with each passing day. You have my word, Mithrandir, that should something arise, you will be among the first to know."

Mithrandir sighs. He looks disappointed in Thranduil, but he will not let it shake him. "Very well, Elvenking." He says nothing more. He turns and exits the halls, grey robes billowing behind him in a way Thranduil knows is magically charged.

Later that evening, Thranduil sits next to his son and teaches him the fishtail braid using thin strips of fabric. Legolas watches his hands weave the braid intently, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.

"Speak your mind, ion nîn."

Legolas startles. It is moments like these where Thranduil truly sees how young his prince is. Legolas is just a few months shy of a century, but he looks like a Man just before adulthood.

"I am thinking about the man that came to the forest," he says. "You did not warn me of his arrival."

"I did not know of his arrival myself until the guards brought him before me."

Legolas's expression darkens. His dark green eyes narrow as he says, "He dares come unannounced?"

"He does," Thranduil says, "because he is powerful. He is Mithrandir, an old friend, but not a very considerate one."

Legolas laughs at that, the sound sweet and feather light. He turns his attention back to the braided fabric, dropping the topic, and Thranduil spends the rest of the evening teaching his son what will become his favorite style.

There are few things Thranduil knows so deeply in his soul that the fact is ingrained in his very being. One of these things, something that will stick with him for the rest of his days, is the true color of his son's eyes. He will be the only person to ever know in his heart when the color is right, and he latches onto it like a lifeline.

Estel should not be in the woods.

He wandered in the middle of the night in a fit of mild rebellion, but he is quickly coming to regret it. He wasn't planning on going far, thinking he knew the trees like the back of his hand, but the forest is an entirely different beast in the dead of night despite the years he has spent in them. His feelings distracted him, and he finds himself unable to retrace his steps. It is cold, and each rustling sound of an animal makes his heart jump. He has to admit it to himself — he is well and truly lost.

He is old enough to know not to move. If he stays where he is, he lessens the chance of wandering further into the trees and away from Imladris. In the light of morning, he will have a better chance of finding his way back.

What should he do until then? Climb a tree, perhaps, to protect himself from the world. He would not be able to sleep like that, though. He elects to nestle himself in a particularly wild batch of roots. It isn't the most comfortable, but it will have to do until the morning. He makes himself as small and warm as possible and allows the sounds of the woods to lull him to sleep. After only a few minutes, his eyes start to close and he feels himself drift.

Before he can fully succumb to sleep, Estel hears the violent crack of a twig a ways behind him. He shoots up from his hiding spot and listens. He quiets his breathing and strains his ears. He can hear voices. They are deep and rough, but he cannot make out what they say.

He wants to blame what happens next on exhaustion, whether from the late hour or coming down from intense emotions, it doesn't matter. Fear shoots through him like an arrow, and he knows in his gut that he needs to get out of the men's path. He jumps out of the roots and scales the nearest tree. He is clumsy at it but he does the job well enough. He perches on a branch and intends to stay there while the men pass.

He did, however, make one mistake.

The branch is thick, but not thick enough. Estel is muscular and tall, and the branch will not hold him. The thought crosses his mind the moment it snaps under him and sends him flying towards the ground.

He wasn't very high, but the fall still dazes him. His head is spinning, and he almost doesn't notice the large hand that grabs him.

"Well, what have we here?" a gruff voice says. Estel looks up and sees the blurry image of a large man with dark hair and an unruly beard. "What's a kid like you doing in the woods?"

"I—" Estel starts, but he snaps his mouth shut. Elrond told him years ago to never tell a stranger where he's from. It is not common to find a Man in an Elven land, and wrongdoers would certainly take advantage of it.

They will take advantage either way, Estel thinks as his arm is nearly ripped out of its socket from the force the man uses to drag him to their camp.

"Let me go!" he begs. "Please, I won't tell anyone you're here. I just wish to leave."

"No can do, kid," says another man. He is smaller than the one pulling Estel but no less despicable looking. "Pretty things like you sell for too high a price to pass up."

Estel's blood runs cold, and the man who holds him can surely feel it if the upturn of his lips is any indication. Estel struggles, trying to to pull his arm from the man's grasp, but it's of no use. The man tightens his grip so hard Estel's hand starts to go numb. The second man grabs his other bicep, and no amount of fighting can free him from their clutches.

They make it to a fire with three other men sitting around it. The moment the first one spots them, he silently picks up a rope. Estel's eyes widen and he struggles more. He manages to free himself from one man, but another swoops in to hold him even tighter.

They bind him, the ropes tied in a way that struggling to free his wrists or ankles tighten the ones around his neck. He is trapped, truly trapped, and only now does Estel allow tears to start pricking at his eyes. He looks down, not wishing his captors to see his weakness. It's like this for what he thinks is an hour before four of the men settle down for the night. The one on watch is not very observant. He is tired and more than a little drunk, but Estel can't figure out a way to escape without strangling himself in the process.

He sits back against the tree he was dropped by and feels tears start to flow freely down his face.

"Help me," he whispers in Sindarin, hoping that maybe a wandering elf will hear his pleas with their keen ears. "Please. They plan to sell me."

He sobs as quiet as he can. He hears nothing but the men's snores. The forest is silent and no one is coming to save him.

Thunk.

Estel's eyes snap open. Embedded in the man on watch is an arrow. It's buried deep in his heart and he didn't even have time to scream. The man falls back and lands softly on the grass, blood seeping around the arrow and soaking his shirt. Estel looks up to where the arrow should have come from, but he sees nothing.

Thunk. Thunk.

Two more arrows pierce the hearts of the men who grabbed him. The smaller one dies instantly without stirring, but the larger one wakes for only a moment. He catches sight of the arrow in his chest and tries to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled groan. He dies with furrowed brows and a sneer.

Estel's eyes are wide open now. He looks again to where the archer should be, across the camp from the first shot, but he finds no sign of life.

Two more thunks. Two more arrows. The last two men dead. Estel sits bound in a small clearing with five dead bodies and a mysterious archer in the wind above him.

None of this means anything if he can't unbind himself.

He maneuvers his hands to find the knots, but the ropes around his neck tighten only slightly. He lets out a distressed whine, more out of panic than pain.

He can't unbind himself. He can't go home.

"Hello," says a voice in Sindarin, sweet with a Silvan accent.

Estel looks to his left and his breath is knocked from his lungs. An elf stands before him, gracing him with his effortless beauty, but beautiful doesn't even begin to describe him. He's ethereal. His white-gold hair falls down his back, adorned with three masterfully crafted braids. His clothes are simple traveling garb, but they're unscathed and unblemished even though the elf must have traveled for days to get to the forests of Imladris. His eyes captivate him the most. They're a lovely amber color, warm and lively, and they look as if a fire is lit behind them. The elf could be radiating sun beams and Estel wouldn't be shocked in the slightest.

"Hello," Estel says. "What's your name?"

The elf gives him an amused smile and Estel thinks he might melt. "You are bound and hurt, yet you ask me what my name is."

Estel blushes. "I am sorry."

The elf laughs. "There is nothing to apologize for, mellon nîn. Be still. I will release you from your bindings."

Estel sits as still as he can. The elf produces a dagger out of a some unknown place on his person and makes quick work of the ropes around his wrists and ankles. When he brings the knife up to his neck, Estel can't help but flinch.

"It's okay," the elf soothes. "I'm unburdening your neck. I will not hurt you."

"Okay," Estel whispers,

True to his word, the elf's blade never even touches Estel's skin. The ropes fall to the ground and he rubs his wrists. They're raw from scraping against the rough rope but it's such a lovely feeling being free.

Estel stands, though he's slightly unsteady on his feet. "Thank you."

"Legolas," the elf says.

"What?"

"My name," his smile is blinding, and his eyes look even more radiant than before. "It's Legolas."

A beautiful name for the most beautiful elf Estel has ever seen.

"I am Estel," he says in a much less elegant matter.

"Well met, Estel." His name sounds perfect in Legolas's Silvan lilt. "What brings you to the heart of the forests of Rivendell at such an hour?"

Estel feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment. "A fight with my father. I never meant to wander so far. I had overestimated my ability to navigate the woods at night."

The judgment he fears from Legolas never comes. He nods serenely with a genuine smile still gracing his features. "Perhaps I can assist you," he says. "Where are you from?"

His father's warning comes to his mind again, but Legolas isn't a bad man. He's kind and beautiful, and he saved Estel without asking for a thing in return.

"Imladris," he says quietly. "My father is Elrond."

Legolas brightens. "What a coincidence!" he says. "I come to meet with your father. I will bring you home. Come, Estel."

Legolas beckons Estel to follow, leading him in a direction indistinguishable from the rest of the woods in the oppressive dark of night. Estel walks slightly behind the elf, and he's glad for it because he cannot take is eyes off of Legolas no matter how hard he tries. It makes him easier to follow, which Estel is grateful for, but awfully distracting as well. Legolas looks perfectly at home among the trees of Imladris. He is golden and radiant, warm against the cool tones of the night, and Estel could believe that Legolas has lived here forever.

They walk in comfortable silence until Legolas brings them to the edge of the forest. Estel sees the towers of his home and feels relieved and frightened at the same time. Legolas notices.

"What troubles you, mellon nîn?"

"My father will be unhappy that I left," he says.

Legolas puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps, yes. But, he will be relieved that you are alright." A slow smile creeps across his face. "You will get quite the talking-to, however."

Estel looks down in shame, and Legolas laughs beside him. "Come. We will face your father together."

The guards let them in at the sight of Estel, but they send quizzical looks towards Legolas. It burns something in his chest, making him want to pull the elf away from anyone that looks at him dirty.

Estel leads him to his father's study. Elrond isn't there, as Estel expected. "Wait here," he says. "I will find my father." Legolas nods in assent, clasping his hands behind his back, content to wait until Estel comes back.

Estel weaves through the walls of his home. Dread pools in his stomach the closer he gets to his father's rooms, and he knows there is no way Elrond isn't aware of Estel's leaving. He passes the odd elf in the halls, each one greeting him with a smile, though their eyes ask why a Man is out so late. He sighs. Almost eighteen years has he lived and grown in Imladris, but so many acquaintances think him younger than he his.

He reaches the large wooden door of his father's room and knocks, loud yet timid, before he can convince himself not to. It swings open instantly, and Estel is met with the imposing figure of Elrond, dressed as if he is going hunting.

Elrond's face is overtaken with relief, just as Legolas said, and Estel is swept up in his arms.

"Estel," he breathes, "you're okay." He puts his son down and puts both hands on his shoulders. "Ion nîn, where were you? We were just about to come looking!"

Estel doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to tell Elrond that he ran into the forest despite being told not to. He doesn't want to prove his father right about him still being too young to go off on his own. So, all he says is, "Legolas is here."

Elrond's eyebrows shoot up. "Prince Legolas? He wasn't supposed to arrive until tomorrow."

"I told him to wait in your study so I could find you." He's a prince?

"Bring me to him then, Estel."

Estel once again moves through the twisting halls of his home, this time with his father in tow. He's not so foolish as to think he got away with missing, but Legolas said he would be there when he dealt with it. He intends on holding him to his word.

He finds Legolas in the same stance he left him in. It boggles Estel how it doesn't look like he moved an inch. The illusion of his stillness breaks the moment he sees Elrond, and he falls into a sweeping bow.

"My Lord," Legolas says, his accent still as sweet but his voice holding only a fraction of the casualty Estel heard just a short hour ago. "My deepest apologies for arriving at such an unseemly hour. Someone changed my plans." His eyes (are they greener in the torchlight?) find Estel's, mirth dancing behind them. Estel goes to him, if for no other reason than to have a steady figure beside him when he tells Elrond of his night. When he's by the elf's side, Legolas puts a hand on his shoulder, and Estel is quickly distracted by its warm pressure.

"You need not apologize, Your Highness. It is of no concern. Your room has been ready for hours," Elrond says. "I must ask, though, how you came to be with my son."

"I—"

"It's my fault," Estel interjects. "I ran into the forest. I… there were men. There were too many and I couldn't fight them off. I am sorry." His apology is aimed at Legolas as much as Elrond.

"It is not your fault, Estel," Legolas says.

"Prince Legolas is correct," Elrond says in turn. "You should not have run off, but whatever the men did to you is not your fault."

"I know," Estel says. "I'm sorry for running off."

"We'll talk about it later. For now, would like you like to tell me how you met Prince Legolas?"

Estel shifts. "He didn't tell me he was a prince."

”Estel."

"He saved me. In the forest. I called out and he saved me," Estel says.

Elrond looks at Legolas. "Is that right?"

"Yes, Lord Elrond. I killed the five men who took him and brought him straight here."

Elrond crosses the space to Legolas and grasps both of his hands in his. Legolas's green eyes widen at the gesture, but Elrond takes no note. "Your Highness, Legolas, I cannot thank you enough."

Legolas, taken aback, responds, "It is of no matter."

"No," Elrond says vehemently. "It means everything. Thank you, Prince Legolas. I can never repay you."

"You need not call me Prince," Legolas says rather than accepting the thanks. "I am here to aid you. I am a hired hand, no more."

"You do not claim your title but you will still be treated with the respect you deserve. Come," Elrond beckons. "I will take you to your room."

"Thank you."

Estel follows his father and the strange elf, once again, through the halls of Imladris. His father and Legolas talk about their lands, using political talk that Estel isn't completely familiar with yet. He hears something about Mirkwood, a land Estel has heard about but never known.

"How does your father fare with the evil that resides in your forest?" Elrond asks.

Estel cannot see Legolas's eyes, but he can imagine the sadness in them by the way his shoulders tense. "He fares as well as he is able," Legolas replies. "I was only able to come because things have been quiet."

"We are here if Mirkwood ever needs help," Elrond offers.

"Thank you," Legolas says, "but I would never allow your people to grieve in the way we do. I appreciate it, mellon nîn, I truly do, but neither I nor my father will ever take the offer up."

Elrond responds so quietly Estel can't make out what he said. Soon, they made it to where Legolas would be staying. Elrond has given him the most elegant of the guest quarters, which would surprise Estel less if he had truly grasped with the fact that the strange elf he met in the woods is a prince.

He is about to leave with his father, to leave Legolas in peace, when Legolas says, "Estel, would you stay a moment?'

Estel stills, feeling blood rush to his cheeks and he hopes it isn't visible. "Of course, Legolas."

Elrond smiles down at his son, a knowing glint in his eyes. He squeezes Estel's shoulder and walks off, not before bowing his head to Legolas. Estel takes a step in the room and shuts the door behind him.

"You did not tell me you're a prince." Great start, Estel.

Legolas doesn't grace him with a response. Instead he takes the few steps necessary to reach Estel, and gently Legolas cups his face. "Are you alright?"

Estel freezes, not knowing how to react or move with Legolas's hands on him and moments of the night playing in his mind. "I am fine."

Legolas frowns. "Estel. You were taken. You were hurt. You do not have to be okay tonight."

For the second time that night, tears pool in Estel's eyes. Not out of fear or hurt, but as a result of the gentleness in Legolas's voice, in his eyes. They shine earnest and sympathetic and it loosens something in his chest.

"I am not okay," Estel admits to himself as much as Legolas. "Not tonight, but I will be. I am here to recover thanks to you. Because you saved my life."

Legolas's eyes soften and he lets go of Estel. He finds himself missing the touch, and quickly shakes the thought from his head. "I will be here for a few weeks," Legolas says. "You are free to come to me whenever you need."

"Thank you, Legolas. I am forever in your debt," Estel says, and he takes a step back. "I will leave you now. I will find you more during your stay in Imladris. I wish to hear your story."

Legolas smiles. "Good night, Estel."

Estel opens the door. "Good night, Legolas."

In his own quarters, Estel thinks about his night. His mind is drawn time and time again to Legolas. He most remembers what he thought were warm amber eyes comforting him the moment he saw them. He's grateful to be able to look into them, though rarely, for the next few weeks, and he hopes dearly that he will have the privilege to see the elf again.

Six days into their quest, Frodo does not feel any more confident in himself. In the rest of the Fellowship, of course. They are a band of warriors, and Frodo can't help but feel like he and the rest of the Hobbits weigh them down.

Frodo tends to stay near either Sam, Gandalf, or Strider, though perhaps he should call him Aragorn now. And being near Aragorn means being near Legolas.

The elf confounds Frodo. He has seen elves before, was just around them in Rivendell, but Legolas is unlike any he's ever seen before. His beauty is beyond anyone Frodo has ever met, but it sets something off deep within his gut. Legolas is other, but Frodo cannot describe it. He's too graceful, too light on his feet. Frodo has seen Legolas stand atop mud and dirt that had the rest of the Fellowship sinking.

And then there are his eyes.

When Frodo first met Legolas, he remembers looking into fascinating blue eyes, so warm they were almost violet. They contributed to his otherness, along with the fact that Frodo swears on his life the elf glows. He can't see it when he tries to look, but it almost seems like Legolas emits just the softest light. Though perhaps he is just so radiant that it only appears that way.

It's dusk, and Sam is starting to prepare dinner while Aragorn and Boromir create a fire. Pippin and Merry chat idly on a log while Gandalf stands sentry off to the side. Frodo's eye is drawn, as it always is these days, to the elf.

Legolas is checking his arrows while conversing with Aragorn in Elvish. They say the same words but Legolas's sound different than Aragorn's. They have a certain lilt to them, as if he was taught them differently. The sweet accent transcends languages, wrapping around Westron words as Legolas speaks them.

Frodo isn't careful, and Legolas looks up to see him staring. Their eyes meet across the starting embers of a fire and Frodo could get lost in the darkness of the elf's eyes.

That cannot be right. His eyes have been so light that it was evident even in total darkness, so why do they look like entrances to an abyss now?

Legolas smiles at him blindingly, and goes back to caring for his weapons.

Frodo feels a presence next to him. "How are you, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asks. Frodo glares at him. "Yeah, okay, stupid question." Sam eyes follows Frodo's, and they land on Legolas, as many people's tend to do. "He's really quite captivating, isn't he?" Sam asks quietly.

"That's one word for it," Frodo says.

Abruptly, Boromir's voice booms over the camp. "Speak so the rest of us can understand, if you may." He tries for jovial, but only comes off as irritable.

"Apologies," comes Legolas's sweet voice. "We talk about nothing of import, I assure you."

Boromir glares at him and Aragorn. "Then you don't mind sharing with the rest of us."

"We're just reminiscing," Aragorn says. "We've known each other for many years. It is nice to have someone to speak to in my native tongue."

Boromir begins a retort, but Pippin beats him to it. "How long have you two known each other?"

"We met seventy years ago and reconnected ten years after," Legolas responds.

Pippin bounds up to the elf, beaming. "You must have so many stories!"

"Yeah!" Merry exclaims. "You must tell us some!"

"Perhaps you can include us in your reminiscing," says Boromir.

Frodo sees Legolas and Aragorn share an unreadable look right as Sam grabs his wrist. "We don't want to miss this, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo wouldn't mind if he missed it, but he supposes he is interested in learning more about the elusive elf. They all sit on the grass and logs around the fire, Legolas and Aragorn sitting next to each other. Even Gandalf stood closer, his eyes firmly on Legolas, unmoving.

"I was twenty-seven," Aragorn starts. "I had been traveling east, tracking a band of orcs, when I came to the edge of a forest."

"What forest?" Pippin interjects.

"Quiet, Pippin," Gandalf says. "I'm sure he will tell us soon enough."

Aragorn smiles and continues on. "I entered the forest, thinking the orcs had taken refuge in it. I knew immediately upon entering that there was something wrong with it."

"Careful, Estel," Legolas warns, leveling a mock glare at his friend.

"Worry not, meleth nîn." Aragorn smiles. "As I was saying, the forest was odd. The trees were thick and oppressive, and the sun struggled to shine through the thick canopy of leaves. I chose a direction and went, knowing not where I was going or what I would find."

"A habit you are yet to grow out of," Legolas says. He turns to the group, humor dancing in his dark eyes. "Estel, for all of his experience as a ranger, does not think before he travels." Even Frodo laughs quietly at Aragorn's offended expression.

"Be that as it may, it worked out in my favor," Aragorn says. "I walked for two days within the trees. I felt eyes on me every second I was there, and knew there was an evil lurking just out of sight. At the end of the second day, I had thought it finally came for me. I was asleep under a tree when something grabbed me and pulled me up effortlessly. I opened my eyes and grabbed my knife only to find elves in front of me."

Frodo glances around. The sun is fully down now and the fire blazes, but everyone's eyes are on Aragorn. At some point, Sam finished the meal, simple soup and bread with berries he found on their trek. The rest of the hobbits eat, along with Boromir, but Frodo isn't hungry quite yet.

Aragorn continues. "They looked nothing like the elves of my homeland. These ones were fair and fierce. They possessed more strength than any elf of Imladris I've ever seen, and they were dressed for battle. Each one was dirty and carried a weapon, and I remember thinking I would be their next target."

Legolas says something in Elvish to Aragorn then, who replies in kind. The elf's eyes are wide and earnest, and he calms only when Aragorn puts a calming hand on his thigh.

"I had survived, of course," Aragorn jests. "The elves spoke to each other in Sindarin, but they had an accent I had heard before. You see," he leans forward, "the elves of Mirkwood are Silvan, and their accent is the most musical there is. I had heard it ten years prior when Legolas came to my home."

Legolas smiles. "He found himself, against all odds, in my land, and the first this he did was get captured by the King's guard."

Aragorn nods. "I conversed with them, pleading my case. I said I was a friend of the prince and I meant no harm."

"You know an Elven prince?" Pippin pipes up. "Who?"

Merry elbows him, and Pippin grunts. "Legolas is the Elven prince, fool! Right, Strider?"

"That's right," Aragorn confirms. He gestures a grand motion at his friend, who glares at him with a force that would kill anyone else. "Legolas, the Prince of Mirkwood, here to serve us his bow."

Legolas puts a hand up before anyone can react. "There is no need for formalities," he pleads. "I am equal to you all on this journey."

Aragorn puts a hand to the side of his face and stage-whispers, "That is the ever-polite way of elves to say that if you refer to him as a prince, you will become a demonstration of his aim."

Boromir, who has been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the story, speaks up. "I cannot imagine warrior elves believed a common ranger."

Legolas's eyes sharpen and burn, and his fingers twitch where they rest next to Aragorn's. Ice shoots through Frodo, the unusual fear he has around Legolas coming back full force.

"They did not at first," Aragorn placates. "They subdued me and took my weapons and dragged me to the halls of King Thranduil."

"Ada was not pleased," Legolas laughs.

"Not at all," Aragorn agrees. "So there I was, flanked by four fierce Elven guards with the Elvenking just before me. He questioned me endlessly, asking who I was, what I do, and why I claim to know his son. After far too long of this, who walks in but the prince himself!

"Now, when I had met Legolas ten years prior, he was there to help my father. He wore the same battle gear as the rest of the warriors, and I had only been able to see him a few times over his few weeks in Rivendell. Here, though, he was elegant. I suppose someone had found him to inform him of the man claiming to be his friend, because he rushed into his father's halls in silver clothes and a circlet upon his head."

"Estel," Legolas interrupts. "I had left a meeting to save you from my father. Do not make it seem like I dressed up just for you."

"Why do you call him that?" Boromir asks abruptly.

"What?"

"Estel. You keep saying it."

"It is my name," says Aragorn. "The first one I've ever known."

"You've lived a very interesting life, Mr. Strider," says Sam for the first time. "You and Legolas."

"I suppose we have," Legolas mutters.

"Oh, that's not the most interesting story," Aragorn says. "Simply what we were speaking about when the fire was being made."

"Tell us the most interesting then!" Pippin demands.

Frodo sees movement in his periphery, and turns to see that Gandalf has stepped closer. "Perhaps something about his eyes," he says, jerking his head toward the elf. The tension in the camp rises more than it does whenever Boromir speaks.

Curiously, Legolas and Aragorn both freeze. "I don't—" Legolas starts, but Gandalf interrupts him.

"Shut your eyes, Thranduilion," he commands. Legolas looks at Aragorn who nods minutely. He puts a hand on Legolas's when he closes his eyes, shielding the deep black irises.

(For not the first time, Frodo wonders if there's more between them than they all think there is.)

"Now," says Gandalf, "who can tell me what color his eyes are?"

"They're blue, of course!" exclaims Pippin, and Merry nods enthusiastically next to him.

"I thought they were green," Sam mutters.

"Yes, though perhaps more hazel," offers Boromir.

"They're black tonight," Frodo whispers, causing Sam to look at him quizzically.

Aragorn makes no move to answer, but he doesn't looks like he is thinking about it either. More like he knows something the rest of them do not.

"Allow me to tell you all a short story now," says Gandalf, and finally he takes a seat on a tree stump. "Countless years ago, I too visited the Woodland Realm. I had felt great power come from Mirkwood, a place I knew was overrun with darkness. I went to question the King, who told me in no uncertain terms that there was no new power within his lands."

No one says a thing. Gandalf's eyes land back on Legolas. "Open your eyes, elf, and tell me what your father did not."

Legolas obeys, looking at everyone with stark black eyes that somehow lost none of his warmth. "I am unusual among my kind, but I possess no more power than any other Mirkwood elf. My eyes change, my steps are light, and my aim is true. That is all."

"You speak falsely," Gandalf says.

Frodo's eyes dart around. Boromir is leaning forward, a hungry look on his face as he stares at Legolas, for knowledge or companionship, he knows not. Frodo has noticed his growing dislike for Aragorn throughout their journey, and he can guess why.

He and the rest of the hobbits make eye contact with each other before looking back at the elf and wizard's standoff. Frodo swears he can feel a charge in the air, but for once he can't tell if it's pure energy from Gandalf or something else from Legolas. He can feel the ground rustle and the trees shake at the edge of his senses. The fire goes wild, blazing high and erratic.

"Enough."

The trance breaks, the world goes calm again, and everyone looks at Aragorn.

"He has told you what his father did not. Leave it be." Aragorn's voice is hard, and Frodo knows this is how he will rule as king. "It is late. Finish your food and put out the fire. We sleep here tonight. I will take the first watch."

In the earliest hours of the morning, Legolas sits alone. His love has finally settled down to sleep, so he takes the final watch until dawn.

He listens to the trees and a far away river and looks at the stars. They twinkle as if speaking to him, and he knows they are, but he worries too much to hear them. The entire world speaks to him. The trees tell stories, the soil holds memories, and the water whispers promises of life and death. He could bend the earth if he tried.

Legolas sits back against the tree he is perched on. He hears nothing, and neither do the trees, so he allows himself to close his eyes for just a moment.

They sting when he does. He rubs at them with his thumb and forefinger and when he opens them again, the world is brighter.

They must be blue now, he thinks. Or perhaps the lightest green.

He remembers vividly the first time they changed. He was sat in front of a mirror attempting to braid his hair. He had taken his eyes off of it for just a moment, focusing solely on weaving the three strands together. When he succeeded, albeit messily, he holds them together with a silver clasp he took from his father.

When he looked back in the mirror, he looked for his mother. Ada always said he could see her in the shape of his eyes and the light of his smile. He looked himself in the eyes, attempting to put together a clear picture of her in his head, when he noticed the blue fade as slow as the evening sunlight. He kept his eyes open a second longer, but then they started to sting.

He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could and rubbed at them with his fists. When he opened them again, the blue had gone entirely, replaced by a deep brown. Legolas, too young to know that it wasn't supposed to happen, had been fascinated. He ran to his father, the messy braid forgotten.

I have the world in my hands now, ion nîn. Legolas smiles softly. He has always held those words close to his heart.

He thinks now about his eyes, about the connection with nature he has that sets him apart so much from the rest of his kind. He does have power, he knows that, but he doesn't want to use it here. Not while he's around the One Ring, where the smallest taste of power is dangerous.

He doesn't feel its pull as much as the others. Boromir is going mad over the Ring, and Aragorn and Gandalf are not resistant to its pull either. Legolas feels it as little as the hobbits — there, but more easy to suppress. He wonders if it has something to do with the odd way he was born.

He hears rustling below him. "Are you alright, meleth nîn?" Aragorn calls in Sindarin. He stands directly below the branch Legolas sits on, looking up with all the love in the world glowing behind those eyes.

Legolas jumps down, landing without a sound in front of Aragorn. He cups the Man's face gently and pulls him in for a soft kiss.

"I am fine, Estel," he says when they break apart. "You should sleep."

Aragorn makes no move to lay back down. He looks lovingly into Legolas's eyes and says instead, "They're blue again. Perhaps with some green."

"Their true color," Legolas says. "Or close to it."

Aragorn's eyes soften impossibly more as he stares into his eyes, searching, committing them to memory. "They're beautiful."

"They won't last more than a few days. Estel," Legolas says his name reverently, "you must survive this journey to see them again."

"I will," Aragorn promises. "I will, meleth nîn, you have my word."

Aragorn doesn't go back to sleep. He sits under the tree with Legolas until the sun rises and the Fellowship has to be on their way again. They sit hand in hand in this peaceful moment away from the watchful eyes of friend and enemy, where Aragorn sporadically voices his awe of his love's eyes, and his appreciation that he can be with Legolas as he is fully. Legolas vows to show him more of himself one day.

The night is quiet, and Legolas's eyes don't change again until a few days later, and the cycle starts again.