Legolas sang his elven song, strolling silently through the trees, his bow slung casually over one shoulder. He had travelled through these trees many a day, and knew many of them by name. He paused, his ears catching the sound of sniffing; as though a child was struggling not to cry. Taking the bow from his back, keeping it at the ready, he made his way towards the sound, stopping at the edge of a shadowed clearing. His sharp eyes saw a small dwarven child sitting atop a mossy log, rubbing his red eyes and trying not to break into sobs.
Legolas’s hand drifted towards an arrow, the corner of his mouth twitching a little in anger; the dwarves had come yet again! A half-suppressed sob from the child made him stop; the boy wasn’t much more than an infant, after all, the elf reasoned. How could he kill a child, dwarf or not? He had to have been less than five! Dwarves, Legolas knew, were notoriously prideful – even at this young age they tried to put on a brave face, but the fact the little dwarf broke into tears at all spoke of his young age. Sighing inwardly, Legolas slung his bow onto his back again and stepped silently into the clearing.
The boy didn’t notice anyone else was there until Legolas had knelt by him and touched his shoulder gently. With a surprised little gasp, the dwarf tumbled off the log, scrambling to his feet and running wide-eyed towards the trees. With two long strides, Legolas caught him, holding him down by the shoulders as the boy shouted and fought fiercely. He waited until the young dwarf slumped to the ground in exhaustion, then picked him up – earning a feeble blow to the shoulder – and carried him back to the log.
“You can’t hurt me!” the child said a little shrilly, in stumbling Common tongue. “My father Gloin is as strong as a troll and so am I and he came with a hundred dwarves and they all have axes that can chop down a strong tree in a minute!”
Legolas’s heart went cold at the mention of the act of chopping down his beloved trees. Once again he considered leaving the child; he would either die by the forest, or one of the less tender elves. But leaving him in the often cruel forest of Mirkwood was nothing less than a brutal punishment for such an innocent; a quick dagger thrust would be a mercy. The child was still ranting on about how strong he was and what he was going to do to the elf if he didn’t let him go; but the slightest of tremor in his voice decided Legolas. He sat by the log, arms around knees and watching the dwarf carefully with his bright eyes.
The sun passed overhead. Dusk approached, and the dwarf began having difficulties staying awake. It was an hour from full night when his head finally nodded, and he slipped off the log to snore gently on the ground. Silently, Legolas rose and picked to boy up, moving into the darkness of the trees.
The dwarves couldn’t be too far away, he had reasoned as he waited. Not more than an hour or two for an elf; granted, his kinsmen had most likely already driven the dwarves from the forest.
Only several minutes had passed when Legolas found the dwarves’ trail, easy even for a child to follow, by the prince’s elven eyes. He moved more swiftly, once he had caught the trail, and it was not more than an hour and a half when he emerged into a clearing. In was obvious someone had abandoned a hastily erected camp quite recently; and signs of a battle reinforced Legolas’s presumption that it had been the dwarven camp.
His sharp ears caught the musical sound of voices, and the Prince of Mirkwood melted into the trees, having no wish to encounter any other elves or explain why he was carrying a dwarven child. He waited until the voices faded away, not seeing any sign of the other elves, before he emerged from the trees again and found the way the dwarves had taken, following the trail easily.
A scarce half-hour later saw him walking amongst the trees again. He had crept into the rough camp the dwarves had erected, outside the border of Mirkwood, leaving the boy in a place he was sure to be found, before creeping away, satisfied the child would be safe. Out of earshot of the camp, he began to sing his song again, from the same place, as though nothing had happened.

Years later, Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood, met the dwarf again, this time as a proud dwarven warrior known as Gimli son of Gloin. Together with seven others, they embarked on a journey to destroy the One Ring, eventually becoming fast friends. In the 120th year of the Fourth Age, both left Middle-Earth, sailing over the sea to Valinor.