Chapter Text
The games with the children slowly quieted as their laughter faded into small, contented murmurs. Pebbles rolled across the sand as they knelt, intent on the new challenge, their fingers tracing paths in the warm grains.
Legolas' eyes lingered on Aragorn, his brow furrowed, pebble poised, the children's anticipation reflected in his calm, steady focus. A small smile tugged at the corners of Legolas' mouth. Even in such a simple game, Aragorn's presence carried weight, a quiet gravity that drew attention effortlessly.
With the children absorbed and Aragorn bent on the game, Legolas' gaze drifted to a lone tree at the edge of the camp. Its gnarled trunk and embracing branches seemed to beckon. Silently, he rose and slipped away, unnoticed, feeling the wind lift at his back as he climbed, the leaves brushing his skin like tiny sparks of life. Nestled in the dense crown, he let himself breathe, letting the height and solitude cradle him.
Enfolded in the crown of leaves, he let his attention wander over the camp. Strips of weathered leather and shifting shadows between the fire pits passed beneath him. Quietly, he searched for the young woman who had traveled with them on the black horse, daring to hope for a glimpse of her. For a moment, his breath caught as his gaze reached Taria’s tent.
A woman and a man approached, carrying pots of food. They stopped a few paces away. When Taria stepped out, rising with quiet authority, they instinctively lowered their eyes, avoiding her gaze — just as Amar had done the day before. Their hands, cautious and deliberate, extended the pots toward her. Taria took them with a slow, steady motion, then slipped back into the tent. The pair lingered for a heartbeat before turning away, their eyes still cast down.
Then — … His heart stumbled as he caught sight of the figure clad in blue moving toward Taria’s tent. She lifted her scarf, concealing her face as she drew nearer. Even without seeing her features, he knew her at once — in the set of her shoulders, in the silent, fluid precision of her steps, as though she moved across the sand without disturbing it.
He held his breath. No one was there to see him. He let his gaze rest on her, drinking in the sight as if he could preserve it before it faded.
She paused before the tent. For a brief moment, the air itself seemed to hold still. It didn't take long before Taria appeared, sunlight touching her dark, silver-streaked hair. Their palms brushed briefly, no more than a whisper. Words followed — soft, foreign, earthy. Legolas listened. Their voices merged into a melody, deep and steady like water gliding over smooth stones.
The young woman's eyes met Taria's — calm, unshaken.
She did not lower them. Legolas wondered why, yet the reason eluded him.
Then she bent to follow the older woman into the tent and disappeared into the shadow of the entrance. Legolas did not move, his eyes fixed on the empty shadows where she had stood only moments before. A faint sting of loss pierced him, and with it grew a longing to see her again.
Legolas was still caught in his daydreams when the fresh evening breeze brushed across his skin and whisked him back to the present. A fleeting thought passed through him: Aragorn was surely wondering by now where he had gone.
He stretched, straightened, and settled himself more firmly upon the branch, drawing in the cool breath of the coming night. She had not stepped out of the tent again.
With a quiet sigh, he reluctantly turned away from Taria’s tent, letting his gaze pass once more over the deepening shadows before he began to search the camp for Aragorn.
He found Aragorn speaking with Amar. Aragorn shook his head in what looked like exasperation — and Legolas could have sworn he saw him heave a long sigh. After a few more words, Aragorn left Amar and slowly strode back to the spot where they had been playing with the children. From above, Legolas watched as he scanned the ground.
A smile flickered across Legolas’ lips. Was the Dúnadan tracking him?
Soft laughter bubbled out of him as Aragorn slowly made his way toward the tree, eyes fixed on the ground. Every so often he crouched to inspect some faint disturbance in the sand — marks that only one with a ranger's keen sight could discern.
Legolas shifted, deliberately rustling the leaves, and popped his head down, out of the leafed canopy. Aragorn spun around, his brows raised, as if he had sensed the movement by instinct. In the next instant, Legolas swooped from the tree and landed lightly before him.
"I should have known where to look for a flighty wood-elf without tracking him," Aragorn muttered, "so please — do not say anything."
"You should have, I agree," Legolas smirked. "Nevertheless, I admire your tracking skills, master ranger."
His laughter drifted softly through the camp, light and playful.
Aragorn rolled his eyes but then laughed with him. The firm squeeze of his hand on Legolas' shoulder, and the light in his eyes as they jested on their way back to their tent, filled Legolas with joy. And in turn, the more Legolas sparkled with mirth and mischief, the more it seemed to lift his friend's spirits. They were so good for each other.
Night had already fallen. A final shimmer lingered on the tents, then faded, and darkness took its place.
Not long after they had settled on the small carpet at the edge of their tent, Amar appeared.
"I invite you to join us around the fire," he announced. "Tonight will be a night of stories."
His voice softened. "We love telling stories — stories with truth."
The men, women, and youngsters gathered around the fire were silent, as though they had been waiting for them. A faint thrill of anticipation hung in the air.
Amar spoke first, as if it had been agreed that he would open the night of tales. He addressed them in Elvish — ever since the previous night, when Taria had astonished them by speaking the Grey Tongue. Each sound seemed steeped in history and experience, and Legolas felt as if another space were unfolding around him.
"It is an honor, Estel and Legolas, to welcome you into our circle."
Amar spoke slowly, each syllable infused with respect and warmth. His words lingered in the air for a moment, as if refusing to fade away.
Aragorn’s curiosity was barely contained; a faint smile played at his lips, yet he remained alert. In Legolas, questions, hopes, and uncertainties stirred, still hidden in shadow.
He drew a deep breath, holding it for a moment before lowering his gaze to take in the circle once more. The flicker of the fire danced in the eyes of those gathered, all sitting motionless, as if holding their breath.
Aragorn turned to Amar and spoke with calm openness: „Darf ich von eurer besonderen Freundschaft mit den Elben erfahren?“
Legolas now listened with rapt attention.
"You dare, my friend!" Amar replied, his eyes gleaming. "And I will be glad to tell you the story."
He took a deep breath, as if he gathered time itself, then began:
"They came from the North, long ago — ages ago..."
His eyes grew distant, unfocused, as if seeing through the veil of time.
"I speak of a time deep in the past. The Taruen are a people who have endured since the days of old. We do not count the days — we live into them — and we carry the treasures of the past along with us in our stories."
Legolas listened, letting the words settle within him. In the firelight, a quiet current of awe and wonder stirred through him, yet he held himself back, content to simply observe. His heart beat steadily, carried by the melody of the tale.
"Our people first met the Elves when they camped in the lands further north, where the grasslands merge with the desert. Yet the desert in those days was not as harsh as it is now. Wellsprings were scattered richly across the land, and around them grew green jewels of life, and our strength blossomed."
Legolas listened, letting the words settle within him. In the firelight, a quiet current of awe and wonder stirred through him, yet he held himself back, content to simply observe. His heart beat steadily, carried by the melody of the tale.
"Our friendship with the Firstborn grew swiftly from that first meeting. Their wisdom and profound connection with nature and the ways of the world resonated with how we lived and saw all things. They sang to us of the richness of the forests in the lands they had left behind, and we showed them the vastness of the desert, with its rare yet radiant jewels of life preserved from ages past. They cherished all that grew and lived.
"Yet they sorely missed the trees. Still, they were determined to journey onward, even if it meant crossing the harshest wastelands.
"Our warriors were forged in endurance. They read the desert as one reads a living scroll, following the faintest traces of water and life, and their skill was handed down from one generation to the next, enduring even to our own time.
"They accompanied the Elves on their slow journey through those lands, offering hospitality at the nomadic encampments of our ancestors, until they reached the southern borders, where the grasses grew thick and lush.
"From there, their path led them into the forests of the South.
"For a long time, the Taruen held back the tide of darkness pressing from the north. But the army of Evil laid waste to most of the rare and precious water sources. Our people suffered grievous losses to sickness and hunger, for the wells ran dry. Our strength waned, and we scattered into small clans, striving to survive as free people in the harsh conditions of an ever-drier land.
"The Sirith — 'The Flowing', as the elves called themselves — sustained us in our survival, sending gifts from the rich forests where they had made their new home.
"In the Sirith, the Taruen found steadfast allies. We learned from one another, our lives intertwined in spirit, and together we combined our knowledge of healing to accomplish great things."
Silence followed as Amar's throaty voice ebbed away. All listened, gazing into the fire, as if from its flickering heart surged the warriors of the past:
Proud, blue-veiled camel riders, moving across the desert side by side with fair Elves.
Tall and slender, their bearing noble and graceful, they seemed to rise from the flames themselves, their silhouettes licking upward into the night.
Amar found his voice once more. It was deeper now, husky and forlorn, carrying the weight of one pensive and lost far away in the past.
"We have never believed the lies Sauron spread. We have never seen death as a curse. It is part of life. Even the wind, the sand, and the precious water of the desert are alive. We listen to the elements, living in balance with them, in peace and respect with all creation, as a part of it — never claiming superiority.
"We know we are born into this world with a free spirit, no matter the pain or the challenges we face. Our faith remains unbroken, that one day we may rejoin with the One — a faith many humans have lost in their struggle, deceived by lies.
"The Sirith encouraged and strengthened us in this belief. Our friendship with endured until they departed for their lands of light, they called The Undying Lands. Though we are saddened by our parting, we rejoice as well, for they have finally found the light they long sought.
"It is an honour and a joy to have one of the Firstborn — and a man named Hope — among us. Our friendship is forever granted to you."
The tale sank into Legolas, stirring more questions — questions that required no answers just yet. Something stretched within him between waking and dream, so delicate he could scarcely grasp it.
His gaze fell on Aragorn, equally caught in quiet fascination. The weight of his friend's shoulder against his confirmed that this was no dream.
A young woman in the circle lifted her eyes from the fire. The flames cast flickering shadows over her unveiled features. Her skin was smooth and luminous, like a perfect statue, an artwork of a culture deep-rooted in time. She fixed her gaze on both Legolas and Aragorn, serene yet intense.
"Please," she said softly, "Tell us about your home — tell us stories of elves."
As she spoke, her eyes glinted with expectation and excitement, like the eyes of a child.
Legolas was shaken by her request, and by the way it was brought to them — unveiled, direct, and utterly genuine.
He would have liked to tell them of his home — of forests once alive with breath and memory, of trees that whispered softly to the Elves and stretched out their branches in gentle welcome… lifting them high into their crowns and toward the light.
He thought of the song of the woods, the murmur of leaves, the rush of streams, the birdsong threading through it all — the countless small and great wonders of Eryn Galen. A quiet sigh escaped him as the memories drifted through his thoughts like shafts of light.
Tears pricked his eyes. He swallowed the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him, casting his gaze to the ground.
How could he speak of the evil creeping into his beloved home? Of a majestic wood, darkening, bending, withering… of the songs of the trees and the birds violently silenced… of Elves forever at war… of friends never returning from patrols… of searing battles claiming too many immortal lives?
How could he tell them?
He could not.
These people were suffering; he could see it in their eyes. A creeping malice had claimed their lands. They survived. They struggled against the odds.
They needed hope.
Slowly, Legolas lifted his eyes, holding the tears at bay with quiet effort. His gaze met his friend’s — brief, fleeting. His lips trembled as he fought against the ache rising within him. He felt the weight of the words that remained unspoken.
Aragorn’s nearness was both steady and unyielding. No words passed between them, yet that single look anchored him, a silent reminder that he did not bear the turmoil within him alone.
He let out a slow breath, allowing some of the tension in his shoulders to ease, though the sorrow lingered like a faint shadow beneath the surface.
Aragorn still felt his friend’s gaze on him as he turned back to the circle. For a moment his hand pressed more firmly against his knee, as if gathering himself before he spoke. The fire crackled softly. Sparks leapt upward and vanished into the dark.
He lifted his head and looked at those assembled. Their faces lay in the flickering light, expectant. The words he was about to choose were not meant for them alone — they were meant for Legolas as well, seated beside him.
Slowly, Aragorn drew in a breath.
He listened for a heartbeat to the quiet around him, then began to speak. The images of his homeland rose before his inner eye: the birdsong, the soft rustle of leaves in a gentle wind. He felt the warm air drifting through open windows, saw the gardens where vines wound gracefully around carved archways, climbing high into the starlit sky. As he spoke, the present almost slipped away; the world he painted stood vivid before him.
And when he told of the waterfalls — of their strong, unceasing song as they plunged through the beauty of the land — the listeners’ eyes widened further, if that were even possible. Aragorn himself was wholly immersed in his tale, feeling the living nearness of his home, and as the images settled into the minds and senses of those around the fire, a longing for his father rose in him, steady and inescapable.
“And in the heart of that radiant place, called Imladris,” he said softly, “dwells a wise Elven lord. He is gentle and just, and he bears the gift of sight. Once a valiant warrior, he is now a devoted healer — and a loving father.”
Thoughts of home and family stirred within Aragorn. Precious memories wrapped around him like a warm cloak, smoothing the turmoil left by the trials of the past days. Here, in the still desert night, beneath watchful stars and the steady glow of the fire, peace returned to him.
Legolas squeezed Aragorn's shoulder gently in the silence that followed the tale.
"It is so good to hear of elven home," he murmured. "And you have pictured it beautifully."
His gaze lingered on the blazing flames, then drifted across the circle, catching on a pair of dark eyes — the eyes of the only woman wearing a veil. She watched over the fire as if following the picture the tale had evoked… looking toward Imladris.
Or was she looking at him?
The thoughts of home and family tugged at Estel's heart. The fond memories wrapped around him like a warm cloak, soothing the stir of emotions after the trials of the past days. Here, in the quiet of the desert night, beneath the watchful stars and the steady glow of the fire, peace settled upon him.
He only wished to give Legolas time to recover. Then, at last, they would return home.
Deep in his thoughts as he was, Legolas' soft voice gently reached Aragorn's awareness. His friend was singing — a melody that seemed to rise naturally with the nightly breeze. It came lightly, as if carried from the forests of his home to the desert, painting in sound the growing strength of trees and the rustle of green leaves woven into the song of the wind.
Aragorn shivered at the beauty of it, at the quiet joy in his friend's voice.
"You give us hope," came Amar's deep voice, echoing what all the eyes around the fire seemed to say. "There is such fairness in the lands far to the North. It is good to hear that bright places still exist, and that the Elves still dwell within them."
He paused, his voice thick with feeling. "The Sirith carried the beauty of their woods in their hearts. It kept them alive. They could not have endured the dry vastness of the desert otherwise. Yet they understood as well how we could carry the hidden depth of that same apparently dry vastness within our hearts."
A tall, graceful silhouette emerged from the night, slowly stepping into the circle of firelight. She stood proud and straight — Taria, the queen of the red tents.
Silence fell. All around, the people grew still, sensing the quiet strength of her presence.
Now Legolas understood why her eyes seemed unlike those of any other mortal — deep and old, as though they had lived through ages. And as he looked at the people around the circle, he saw that their eyes, too, held a depth beyond a single lifetime — more than mere human experience or knowledge.
But hers… hers were older still. They carried within them all the wisdom and memory of their ancestors, passed from generation to generation – deeply valued and closely treasured, never lost.
Her voice, when she spoke, was both rough and tender — coarse and soft at once.
"The sand is not evil. The power that drives it to creep forward and extinguish life is — but the sand itself is not. It has its own spirit. It is a rough spirit. We have learnt to live in alliance with it.
"The desert is a challenge; it tries one hard. It throws us back to the essentials, yet it teaches us to cherish even the smallest spark of life, every drop of water, to value oneself and the other. It teaches us to listen closely — to see the hidden, to smell, to sense, to feel.
"It teaches us who we are, deep inside.
"The desert is not our enemy. It is our ally — part of Eru's creation, as we are. And we are part of the desert."
The words blended with the crackling of the fire and the gentle wind drifting over the sand.
"We do not fear death, because we love life so deeply that we see it even in death."
A faint shiver ran down Legolas’ spine as he sensed Taria’s steady, yet gentle presence within the circle of the fire.
She sat down close to the fire. Her hand emerged from beneath her wide garment, holding an instrument — beautiful in its simplicity — with a single string stretched over a gourd covered in goatskin. Black ornaments, surely bearing a deeper meaning, adorned its surface. She took the bow and gently drew it across the string, as if caressing it, and the instrument began to sing.
It was the song of their ancestors, of the wisdom carried on through generations for ages; never forgotten, never lost. Legolas sensed the passing of time it bore as it merged with the air around them and the immense multitude of grains of sand beneath. It also sang of their friendship with the elves. Taria's voice resounded in that soft, dark tone that reached deep into the soul.
"The Sirith built their dwelling within the rich forests of the Far South, stilling their longing for light and for the deep bond with all that grows and lives. Only those who have been there can fully comprehend what impact their forest home could have on human eyes and senses. The plants and trees had slowly grown into intricate, twining shapes, their wild nature lightly tamed by the gentle hands and hearts of the elves. Strong, immense trunks, vaulted boughs, and winding, leaf-laden branches interwove, ever growing, ever developing, forming the refuge of the elves. Something for us, accustomed to wide, open spaces, so foreign, of another world — magic.
"How different they were from us, and yet how close our hearts had become… Our souls intertwined and so our bodies joined in love. From these unions, new life was born, with both our blood flowing in their veins."
She looked at those present.
"Yet never did one of these children choose to remain among us. Too strong were their elven bonds. They had sundered from their kin in the North, bound closely together among their own. Their sense of belonging would never have allowed them to part... a Sirith who severed that bond would have faded."
Legolas sat quietly, his gaze fixed on Aragorn. He recognized the same feelings in his friend’s eyes. Their hands brushed briefly, and a warm thread of connection wove between them — a shared appreciation for the night among people, calm, warm, and openhearted.
They stayed awake for a long while, staring into the fire. Legolas watched the flames dance and felt the song echo within him as the stories came to life. Elves, unnamed in the tales of Middle-earth, appeared as vivid images before his mind’s eye, accompanied by the unceasing song of the desert, drifting softly through the night.