Chapter Text
The Fellowship was made of races from all over the realm of Middle-earth- men, hobbits, a dwarf, and even a Maia. Surprisingly enough, it was their elf who had the most trouble with communicating.
When Aragorn truly mulled it over, though, such was only logical.
All firstborn were wise, but unlike the peredhil of Imladris, who knew nearly every language under the sun and harbored many a traveller over silken sheets and lavender chai, Mirkwood was all but entirely secluded. Their kingdom lived shadowed by a shroud of leaves so thick that sunlight could not hope to penetrate, much less the weary wanderer. So, naturally, all with whom they interacted were other elves. Other woodland elves, that is.
Aragorn recalled what Elrond had said before the Fellowship’s departure. When the elven lord had pulled him aside in a marbelline alcove and spoke in a hushéd tone.
“You are lucky to have the help of Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, though I advise that some may not take kindly to him, for he is the seedling of Thranduil, and for Thranduil is not kindly to some. I selected him for this quest as his knowledge of the earth and prowess of the bow will be imperative, this I have seen. I bid thee, as well, that eldar of the dark of Mirkwood may not be as linguistically sound as us from the House of Elrond, far west as Gildor Inglorion’s troop, though our kind is those with which you are accustomed. No, in Eryn Lasgalen, Westron is not practiced, and furthermore, not taught. Though… I suspect this you know to be true, having dragged the creature Gollum to their hallowed halls. Lelya, Estel, have patience, find hope in your party’s difference, and help where you can.”
What Elrond had failed to mention, though, was that he could hardly fall back to the rampart of Elvish when speaking with Legolas, for his Sindar accent was thick. So thick that he could slice through it with his longsword and even then be lost to the bramble.
That said, the Fellowship had been faring well (all things considered). Thankfully, Legolas was decently fluent in the mannish tongue to start, credit to his journeys in search of Strider (himself), the hunt for Gollum, and such before the hearing of the Quest of the Ring.
But there were always hiccups: Unfortunate, yet unavoidable.
The Fellowship was finally winding down after a day of travel. A day of travel that had been less than ideal, per se. The rain had started early, and the rain had started hard. It remained that way long into the evening, utterly uncaring of their layers of leather and woolen cloaks. When the cloud-stained sky finally cleared, they found themselves uncomfortably, thoroughly, hopelessly soaked.
Now, they sat around a fire that had been built up by Aragorn (using the driest wood he could find) and lit thanks to wizardry. They were all shivering cold (except for the elf, but they never got cold, so that was beyond the point). Said elf was now combing through his hair, wringing it like a silken rag. It was almost unfair, truly. The way the firelight danced over the contours of his face, reflecting in his eyes like inset marbles of blue.
Aragorn sighed, turning back to the sharpening of his sword or whatever in Arda he had been doing.
Sweet Aulë, forgive me.
Somewhere across the fire, Merry and Pippin had taken to animatedly gossiping about Shire-tide happenings. Frodo and Sam were huddled under a single cloak. Gimli was grumbling something along the lines of ‘This is why we dwarves have the sense to build our homes underground. Rock’s not so soggy.’ Boromir had hung his breeches on a rotating pike over the flame like a campfire roast straight out of Mordor. Finally, Mithrandir was off Elbereth-knows-where, probably smoking.
What a beautiful, non-dysfunctional Fellowship.
“And then— get this!— Bluebell Bracegirdle got engaged to Popper Brandybuck— my second cousin, mind you,” started Merry before Pippin interrupted.
“Excuse my language, but— Hold your hashbrowns! I thought Bluebell Bracegirdle was seeing Bordeo Proudfoot!”
“That's just the thing, Pip! It was at the same time!” Merry talked with his hands as Pippin gasped, incredulous. “While they were engaged, Bluebell was sleeping with ol’ Mister Proudfoot— and my bet’s he’s not the only one! Y’know, I never cared much for Popper-Chop, honest, but still felt bad ‘cause he was the one to find ‘em.”
“A fianceé sleeping around with Proudfoots— er— Proudfeet?!" Pippin whistled, kicking his feet up with a dimpled smile. "That’s gotta be the biggest thing since my Old Took passed! Them Proudfeet are not pleasing on the eye, I’ll tell’ya that! Bet their fallout was realll ugly with that nice hobbit hole over The Water and lil’ Kitten Shmooks.”
Aragorn shook his head, huffing a laugh.
Legolas tilted his head, apparently also listening to the hobbits’ gossip. It was hard not to, in all honesty, with how loud they were. When the elf spoke, his accent was like crunching leaves on a forest bed, elegant but sharp. “I don’t understand. Why would Popper Brandybuck break ties over Bluebell Bracegirdle simply sharing a bed with another?”
Several members of the Fellowship turned to stare at Legolas. Aragorn stilled his whetstone, cringing.
There it was: Unfortunate, yet unavoidable.
Legolas noticed their stares. “What? It seems extreme— Popper’s reaction— does it not?”
Aragorn’s jaw clenched. Just slightly.
‘Have patience, find hope in your party’s difference, and help where you can.’
“Do you truly know what that means, mellon nîn? To… sleep with someone?” Aragorn murmured.
The elf gave an almost indignant snort. “Of course I do!” Said Legolas, who did not truly know what it meant. “I may be lacking in some Western speak, but I know how to say that somebody is resting alongside another!”
“Sex,” Aragorn blurted, switching to Sindarin. “It means to have sex with someone.”
There was a moment of quiet filled only by the snickering of a couple cinnamon-curled hobbits and the popping of the fire as Legolas took this in. They didn’t have to know Elvish to know exactly what Aragorn was saying.
“Now, why did you not just say that?” Legolas asked, notably not in Sindarin. “Intercourse, to my people, is considered sacred, not to be hidden in riddle! And couples will often have relationships open to ‘sleeping around’ as you so deem it.” The prince had begun lacing his hair into one long braid, cradling (now dried) golden tresses down a single shoulder.
“Who knew the elves were freaky, aye?” Merry asked. Or maybe it was Pippin. Regardless, Aragorn shot them both a look as their snickering verged into cackle territory.
“Well, they’ve gotta entertain those long live somehow, I suppose,” said Boromir, glancing up with a lopsided grin from where he was now redressing his travel pack, and not helping at all.
“Exactly. Thank you, Master Boromir,” Legolas replied, also not helping at all.
By now, Sam, who had been listening to the whole ordeal (he was dropping eaves this time, sir), had turned as red as the tomatoes he would grow in Mister Bilbo’s garden. Aragorn was fairly certain that he himself had a faint brush of fluster himself, hearing such taboo topics spill from the fair prince’s tongue, smooth as honey.
Well, maybe crystallized honey, because the Sindar accent was anything but smooth.
“I’d say it is due time for rest,” Aragorn declared, standing up before more could be said (particularly by a certain elven prince, not to call anybody out, though). “Gimli, would you be so kind as to put out the fire? We cannot risk the Nazgûl’s gaze more than had already come to pass.”
The dwarf grumbled, but obliged nonetheless. Which was all Aragorn needed to see before he rose to look for Gandalf, pipe in hand.