The Legolas Story
The Legolas Story
Written by: Namesake
Legolas was a perfect child, and that was why nobody liked him. His father was cruel and evil, delighting to torture him constantly in strange and unusual ways. His brothers were also mean to him, but this was because he was more handsome than they and they were just jealous. Sadly, his mother was dead, but that was because she had saved him from the Necromancer when he was young. She had flung herself in the way of a deadly bolt of magic, and he had lived, with only a bizarre but attractive ‘z’ shaped scar on his forehead.
Legolas was good at everything, especially archery. In frequent completions he beat other professional archers who were thousands of years older than him. That just made his father mad.
His father was evil because he was constantly drunk, but despite this the poor delusory Elves of Mirkwood thought he was a wonderful king. Only Legolas knew better.
One night Legolas was writing things in his journal. This was so that people could read about how wonderful he was years after he’d finally gone to Valinor for his eternal reward. Suddenly his evil father, King Thranduil, came stamping into the room.
Our darling prince got worried that his father might beat him up again, since Thranduil was a creature of habit and liked to clobber his child before bedtime every night.
“I’m going to beat you up,” said King Thranduil. He liked to have the element of surprise, but was too drunk to be subtle. He was also very predictable, since he was a creature of habit.
Legolas’s fears were confirmed.
“You won’t get me this time, fiend!” yelled Legolas, looking for something dangerous to throw at his father’s head. (It is recommended that you not call your father ‘fiend’, especially if you are hoping to pacify him.) Legolas found his pet squirrel and tossed it at his father. “Catch this!” he shouted defiantly.
Thranduil tried to catch the squirrel, but it jumped on his head and began biting his ear. Legolas ran out the door, bursting with youthful laughter.
Legolas ran for a long time, because he was an Elf and never got tired. He was also afraid that his father would set his pet spiders on him. That wouldn’t be fun.
“Aaaahhhhhh!” someone yelled.
“Eeeeeeeeekkkkk!” Legolas shrieked, tripping over the someone and crashing gracefully to the ground.
“Unhand me, vile Orc,” the someone continued, groping for his sword, “or you will regret the consequences!”
Legolas already was regretting the consequences. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Aragorn,” said the person grandly, “son of Arathorn, Ranger of the North.”
Legolas did not realize it for some time, but meeting Aragorn was the worst thing he ever did.
Legolas was sure that there were nice people out there, but in Aragorn’s company, he never met any. Those that they encountered while traveling where always evil Elves, evil Men, slavers, Orcs, thugs, thieves, murderers, bad-guys, and beautiful women who seemed intent on marrying him. He never had fun anymore. There were no more people to beat in archery competitions, no more people to look better than, no more people to admire and serve him. He wished he was back in Mirkwood. With the spiders.
Aragorn could not walk near a cliff without falling off it. He could not fight Orcs without getting hurt. He could not drink anything without being poisoned. He constantly got sick, got hurt, got really hurt, and got extremely hurt, but he never got killed. After two weeks in his company, Legolas wanted to kill Aragorn with his own slender Elven hands. It would have been a pleasure to do so.
Conversations with Aragorn generally went something like this:
“Aragorn, are you all right?”
“I think so.” (Whimper.)
“Your wounds are bleeding again.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Legolas, I can’t feel my legs anymore.”
“Aragorn, keep breathing. Here. I’ll sing for you.”
“Tell Lord Elrond I tried to get. . .that I. . .tell Elrond. . .”
“Aragorn! Speak to me!”
“I’m trying. . .”
“Oh Aragorn, you always were so witty.” (Sob.)
“I’ll make it yet.”
“Legolas, did that last Orc, the one with the huge jagged nasty dirty- looking sword manage to chop you up?”
“I’ll be fine, Aragorn.”
“No, you won’t! That’s what you always say and then you end up unconscious.”
“Legolas? Legolas? Can you hear me? Are you breathing? Great, he did it again. . .Now I feel guilty. . .”
“Ugg. . .where am I? It’s dark in here. . . This isn’t a CAVE, is it?”
“Aaaaahhhhhhh! It’s all my fault! I’m so sorry that the last Orc, with the huge jagged nasty dirty-looking sword got you! I should have paid attention and jumped in the way! I’m so sorry! It’s all my fault!”
Guilt. Legolas learned lots about guilt during his ‘adventures’ with his ‘friend’. Aragorn was always feeling guilty. So when they were actually uninjured, or recovering, Aragorn had to sit around feeling bad.
During these years, Legolas became more mature and responsible, which meant that he felt guilty too. Bad timing.
The next thing on his agenda was the Quest, of which he would be one of the Nine Walkers. It should have been called “Legolas’s Guilt Trip’ instead.
Legolas felt guilty about letting Gollum loose. He felt guilty when Gandalf died. He felt guilty when Boromir died. He felt guilty when Merry and Pippin were captured. He felt guilty when Aragorn tripped on the Plains of Rohan and hit his head on a rock. He felt guilty when Gandalf came back from the dead and he had tried to kill him again. He felt guilty when Aragorn fell off another cliff (though he should have known by then that Aragorn always came back). He felt guilty when he didn’t kill the Orc in time and the wall blew up. He felt guilty when they went through the Paths of the Dead and he had forgotten to bring a flashlight. He felt guilty when Aragorn was crowned king, because that reminded him that his father was really just mean and evil, and shouldn’t be allowed to reign Mirkwood.
Legolas felt SO guilty that he went to Ithilien, to do good deeds.
He brought Gimli with him.
Thus began a new phase in Legolas’s life.
Conversations with Gimli often went like this:
“You’re standing on my beard, you nitwit.”
“Maybe you should just cut it off, haystack hair.”
“Maybe you should just remove your big feet.”
“My feet aren’t big!”
“Yes they are.”
“No they aren’t.”
And Legolas would jump nimbly out of the way of Gimli’s axe and grin in a way that made the poor Dwarf go berserk.
But despite these amusing intervals, Legolas felt depressed. This was something else he had caught from Aragorn. It was probably a mortal ailment.
Legolas felt sad because the Elves were fading. He felt lonely at night when he thought of all the beautiful maidens he could have married. He felt miserable when he thought about Aragorn slowly succumbing to old age. He felt depressed when he thought about the sea. He missed his mother. He missed his father. He missed his ugly brothers. He missed Aragorn. He missed traveling around Middle-Earth feeling guilty.
“I’m going to Minas Tirith to visit Aragorn,” said Legolas.
And Legolas started the next part of his life: the ‘Counseling Phase’.
Everyone in Minas Tirith needed serious help. Legolas was willing to give it. He helped Éowyn raise her two children, helped Faramir get over his terrible childhood (surprisingly like his own), helped Arwen cheer up when she felt human, helped Aragorn relax when he was stressed out, and helped Gimli. . .well, he didn’t help Gimli. But he helped everyone else.
Legolas was such a ray of sunshine in the lives of the people of Gondor, that they made a statue of him. (“Really, you shouldn’t,” Legolas said weakly.)
Unfortunately, some of the stubborn humans in Gondor DIDN’T like Legolas. (“That’s strange,” said Gimli sarcastically.) If he wandered through the streets unarmed someone always managed to clobber him. If he wandered through the streets armed and ready for anything, there was simply MORE people lying in wait for him. It made him feel right at home. Things were back to normal again.
Then Aragorn died.
Legolas couldn’t believe it. Aragorn couldn’t die! He had been virtually unkillable for years. Legolas wandered around feeling guilty AND depressed for days.
“Aragorn can’t be dead,” he told Gimli.
Just then, Eldarion fell off a nearby cliff.
Gimli and Legolas looked over the edge. “I don’t think Aragorn is quite dead,” Legolas said. “Not in spirit, at least.”
“But is Eldarion dead?” asked Gimli.
“I don’t know,” Legolas replied. “I hope not.”
He told Gimli the sad news one evening in Minas Tirith, when Arwen had disappeared off to bed, and the sun was sinking slowly in the horizon.
“There is nothing left for me here,” he said. “I must depart.”
“Depart where?” asked Gimli, reaffirming Legolas’s opinion that Dwarves’ were not incredibly quickwitted.
“Go to Valinor,” he explained.
“How?” asked Gimli.
Legolas was about to give Gimli an unflattering nickname, when he realized something. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never made a boat before.”
The two went back to Ithilien, and there they made a boat together.
“I don’t think it will float,” said Gimli.
“Neither do I,” agreed Legolas.
The boat gurgled pathetically and then sank in front of their startled eyes, giving Legolas an idea.
The last stage of Legolas’s life on Middle-Earth was spent making another ship and calling Gimli names. And he sang.
“Stop singing!” yelled Gimli from where he was clinging to the mast of the boat. “I’ll drop a hammer on your head.”
Legolas grinned, and continued his song. It was a Mirkwood Classic, which isn’t saying much.
“I’m warning you!” bellowed Gimli.
Legolas rubbed his attractive ‘z’ shaped scar and pondered something. Then he announced, “Gimli, why don’t we make a submarine?”
Gimli forgot about the hammer. Dwarves know EVERYTHING about making submarines. He scrambled down the mast and began drawing up plans for it.
Two weeks later a submarine slowly surfaced in front of the Undying-Lands, while an invisible choir sang the ‘Carmena Burana’ and the panicked Elves of Valinor ran for cover, dragging their beach chairs with them.
Legolas, son of Thranduil, Elf-Prince, Adored Hero, etc. . .
. . .was home.