Finding a Place (Lord of the Rings, Faramir/Legolas)

Legolas perched on the edge of a white stone railing, his eyes fixed absently on the distant hills. A cool breeze lifted from the River Anduin, carrying with it the pungent smell of dirt and blood from the Pelennor Fields. Two weeks of infrequent rains had barely wiped away the stain of death from the tattered earth. In the south, fires still burned, consuming the bodies of their dead foe. The men of Gondor and Rohan had been laid to rest a week earlier, but the city was still healing. It would take skilled hands months, perhaps even years, to fix all that was broken.

Soft steps echoed on the balcony behind him. Legolas didn’t turn to face the man, waiting instead for the human to make his presence known or continue on to further business.

“You look lost.”

Legolas slowly turned to face the newcomer, his face still in its neutral mask of contemplation. Though they had never met, he recognized the newcomer instantly. As sure as the sun shone behind him, there was a son of Gondor standing before him. The family resemblance was most noticeable in the eyes, he thought. If he ignored the rest of the man’s face, he could almost believe that Boromir was standing there, alive once more. But Boromir was gone, and his brother had almost joined him.

“Are you here with the visitors from Rivendell?”

A smile quirked on Legolas’ lips as he shook his head quickly, belatedly realizing that he had been quite rude in ignoring Lord Faramir’s query.

“No,” he corrected quietly. “Mirkwood was my home.”

Surprise painted the human’s face with an easy smile, and Legolas was struck with how different in manners Faramir actually was from his brother. While not overly given to dour moods, there had been a more solemn quality to Boromir’s moods.

“A wood elf? I thought King Thranduil’s party wasn’t to join us for another fortnight.”