The War was won, the Ring destroyed forever.  A new King ruled in Gondor, beside him a fair Elven Queen.  All seemed poised to be right and just and good in the world now, and there was great rejoicing in all the surrounding lands despite their sorrows.  A new Age had come with the Return of their King. 

But joyous though it was to dwell and celebrate with Aragorn in glory, several of his companions had at last begun to hear the call of the homeward road.  Legolas the Elf was no different, and he felt again the need to walk beneath the familiar trees of his own land, to return to his father and to his own people.  He still felt misplaced in Gondor, where he and his kind were still regarded with awe, if not with lingering fear or mistrust.  The Men of the South would be better disposed to accept them in time, for their Queen would open their hearts and gently purge them of all stain of doubt and aversion to the elder race.  Her companions from Imladris had not yet quit the city, and so Legolas was not a lone Elf amid mortals.  That was a comfort here away from home when he felt the need to speak to one of his own kind, or when he would have alone borne the brunt of unthinking Gondorian reverence or antipathy.  It seemed he had been largely eclipsed after the arrival of the great Elven Lords and Ladies, obscured in the shadows cast by their light, and in that he was strangely content.  He knew the part he had played, and that was enough.

He sat now in the palace courtyard, high above the rest of the city with nothing but free-flying cloud above him, cross-legged on the flagstones beside the royal white sapling.    Gently he ran a hand along the contours of the sapling’s slender trunk, each delicate limb, now in bloom in mid-July, singing softly all the while.  The young tree seemed to thrive beneath his touch and at the sound of his voice, for such was the Elvish way with all good things that grew.

This rarest of heirlooms represented in its own way everything for which he had fought and risked death in the past war, the precious right for those of a new age to live and grow in peace unmarred by fear of conquest or destruction, free to feel the warmth of the sun while it would shine.  His last months in service to the Fellowship were privately significant in their own way, but of this he spoke little to anyone, if he spoke at all.  His griefs were his own, and he would trouble no other with them.

The tread behind him was light, but he heard and recognized it at once, his song fading into a smile.

“Good day to you, Elessar, my lord,” he greeted the newcomer graciously, though he did not turn.

“Do not name me your lord, Legolas,” Aragorn protested gently from above, rounding him in a bright swirl of white mantle to take an easy seat near him.  “I bid you as a friend to honor me only as such, for I would lay no other claim upon you.  Elf-friend for me is title enough.”

Legolas smiled but did not reply.  His kind spoke eloquently with their eyes, a silent and subtle language Aragorn had learned long ago.

“You feel the day is coming, my friend, when you must return to your father’s halls at last,” he ventured in their native Sindarin, and without question in his tone.

“Yes,” Legolas admitted.  “All things must come to end in time.”  He sighed, then smiled.  “But if the Fellowship must be broken, it is breaking now in friendship,” he said, “and many of us will yet be united again.”

Aragorn nodded with a flash of his winged crown.  “We will have need of you and Gimli both when you should see fit to return and help us rebuild.”

“I would be using my father badly if I did not stay with him for some time after my return,” Legolas said.  “He will have been disappointed that I did not accompany the heralds he sent for me.  I would not be surprised to hear that he worried himself sleepless each night I have been away beyond his power."

Aragorn, Legolas knew, perhaps appreciated his position more than any other of their company.  Mirkwood had endured the foul tyranny of Sauron over the past twenty centuries, and it seemed only right that one of their own should represent all of Elvendom in his fall.  They had earned the satisfaction.

Legolas had been silent regarding the means by which he had secured his father’s permission to pledge his allegiance beyond their own borders, but he knew Aragorn suspected already that it had not been easy for either of them.  Thankfully it seemed the Powers had seen fit to keep him by their grace whole and hale, without so much as a wound to show for his audacity. 

“Frodo, too, has expressed his wish to depart soon,” Aragorn said at last.  “If you all will but wait until Éomer’s return we may all honor Théoden by accompanying him to his final rest beside his fathers at Edoras.  Then may we continue in our separate ways.”

Legolas met his gaze again, kindly.  “So be it,” he agreed.  “When the others of Arwen’s escort go, so shall I.” 

They both glanced skyward as a merlin soared gracefully past them, several of which nested in and around the city.  On a whim Legolas called it down, catching the dark bird easily on his wrist.  His father was fond of falcons, and although this one was not as large as those Thranduil generally preferred, it was proud nonetheless. 

Aragorn sighed, and seemed almost frustrated.  “Legolas,” he said at last, “you are a son of Kings, a Prince of the Immortal Eldar.  Yet you follow me unreservedly and never say a word for yourself.  You defer to my every wish.  You seek my will in everything, and you sit silently in the shadows while others are honored.  I knew you would be the last to tell me you were unhappy here.  You must understand I do not desire lordship over you who should be free from all bonds but your own; I would not command one who saw the dawn of my forebears, and who had earned his right to stand amid Lords Undying ere I took my first faltering steps.  I trust you have not taken too deeply to heart that which I said in Rohan, for I was weary and crass and my courtesy suffered for it.”

Legolas had arched a brow during this forthright speech and apology, unexpected as it was, the merlin alighting to his shoulder.  “You said I had forgotten to whom I spoke,” he returned solemnly.  “I have not forgotten, then or since.”

“I know you have not,” Aragorn assured him.  “For my sake, I would have you stand more oft upon your own authority, assert your own will, lest I again forget to whom I speak.”

Legolas was silent.  He had not imagined his deference was irksome to Aragorn; it was simply his nature to be agreeable, strikingly contrary to that of his proud-spirited father.

“If it be your will, I shall consider it,” was all he said in reply.  “But who told you I was unhappy here?  I am loath to leave now that your reign has just begun.  It is true that I must go, for the north road calls me, but while I stay I am content.”  He lifted his shoulder to the wind, and the merlin took flight again, gliding majestically back toward the portico of the palace.

“Legolas Greenleaf,” Aragorn said in wondering admiration.  “To me it seems you walk in the spirit of your kinsman of old, Beleg Cúthalion, rightly named the truest of friends.  Ask of me your desire and you shall have it.  What reward would you have for your service to me?”

Legolas looked askance at him for a long moment as though the thought had never before crossed his mind.  It was not in hope of rich honors that he had thrown his lot in with them.  He could think of no single desire to name, though he could plainly see that Aragorn greatly wished to grant him something, and it was the way of great lords to give gifts.  The Dark Lord had been defeated and they lived to see it; who could ask for more?

“I would have your happiness,” he said at last.  “If you wish to honor me and the battles we fought together, you will restore to Gondor the pride of yesteryear, and maintain the peace as you can.  If you wish to honor me, see that my efforts were not spent in vain.”

Now Aragorn was silent, considering such an answer as that.  “There are few indeed who yet live in this world,” he said, “who, when offered the unreserved generosity of the King, would ask only that he fulfill his duty.  That I will do, and more.  But, come, Legolas.  How may I reward you?”

Legolas said nothing.  In fact he seemed deliberately to ignore him.

“Very well,” Aragorn said at last, drawing himself up regally where he sat.  “If you will name nothing you desire, I shall have to grant you a victor’s crown of my own choosing.  No,” he insisted, raising a hand to silence any protest, “let me speak.  Whenever it should be that you return in days to come, I shall grant you a fiefdom of your own in the fair land of Ithilien.  I have heard the others mention your wish for such.  Ah, yes, they tell me more than you know.  You shall be accorded royal peerage with myself and Prince Faramir, and whatever Elves accompany you shall dwell there beneath your rule.  I should also like you among my confidants, for you are ever above suspicion, and a trustworthy friend is often more than a king may hope for.  Will you accept these small tokens of my esteem, for my sake?”

Legolas regarded him in silence for a while yet.  “For your sake,” he consented at last.  “Though I was willing to accept the rule of Faramir.”

“Oh, no,” Aragorn protested.  “Mortal Men, even Men of Gondor, shall never rule the Firstborn.  It is only right that they follow a lord of their own.  And moreover, I would have no other than mighty Thranduil’s son with Faramir upon my eastern flank, for such a league of friendship will strengthen Gondor immensely.”

These points Legolas had to admit, and in this Aragorn was appealing to his more altruistic inclinations, purposefully it seemed.  “Very well, Aran Telcontar,” he said.  “I shall be your peer and confidant if it pleases you.  But I have at last a request of my own if you are yet disposed to grant it.”

“By all means,” Aragorn urged, “name it!”

“That you treat me no differently than you did during the war,” he said.  “With you, I am a friend before aught else.”

Aragorn smiled.  “As you wish, Legolas,” he said.  “If such is all you ask, how can I refuse?”

Éomer King of Rohan returned not many days afterward, with him his companions the twin sons of Elrond, riding at the head of a proud éored of the fairest knights of the Mark, two thousand spears strong. 

King Elessar and Queen Arwen received him graciously.  That night the two sovereigns and their attendants feasted in the Merethrond, celebrating the alliance of their realms and their victory in war.  Also present were the Lords and Ladies of Elven Lórien and Rivendell in solemn and ageless majesty such as Éomer had never before seen.  Legolas attended by express wish of Elessar, for the King already accounted him among the Princes of Ithilien whether Legolas wished it or no, but he called no attention to himself throughout the duration of the evening, quietly observing the proceedings as was his way.

The Rohirrim seemed rather uncomfortable in the presence of such august Lords, their King no less so as he sat at the same table with them.  Legolas kept a loose eye upon Éomer, observing his concealed agitation thoughtfully, even as he felt he was in turn clandestinely observed by Celeborn.

Legolas had kept to himself a good deal after the war, but Celeborn had spoken to him often during the last weeks as they had dwelt together beneath Aragorn’s roof.  For himself, Legolas was full of questions, and he listened avidly to all Celeborn could tell him of Thranduil his father, the fall of Dol Guldur, the new division of Greenwood, the alliance of Lasgalen and Lórien.  Celeborn had no desire to hear anything of the devastation of Mordor, so the matters of Gondor were more oft than not foregone between them.  Moreover, Legolas opened his heart fully to very few, not out of disdain, but courtesy.  So, Celeborn continued to afford him his privacy.  Glorfindel had been after him with patronizing solicitude at almost every turn, but Celeborn seemed to know that if Legolas wanted his counsel he would ask for it.

After the feast, Legolas slipped away before he could again be entangled in the circles of foreign society, wishing instead to simply sit beneath the stars on such a clear evening as this, not to be wasted in crowded company one does not understand.  No one would miss him.

He returned outside to the precipice-like courtyard, but found it ablaze in golden torchlight, not the moonlit retreat he had in mind.  His own person was not as inconspicuous as he would have liked, dressed in deep blue and silver of Celeborn’s gift.  But that would matter little if once he could find a secluded spot all his own. 

Paying no mind to the taciturn guards, Legolas tread lightly to the far side of the palace façade, near enough the edge to look out over the sheer drop to the roofs of the hewn levels below.  An easy leap set him lightly atop the guard-wall, another from there to a handhold on the royal edifice itself.  In but a few short moments he had scaled the outside wall and crouched comfortably upon the roof.  

On cat feet, he crept over the roof tiles through the darkness, easing down beside one of the many gables lining the sloping sides.  There he at last found his desired perch, nestled into the corner.  None would find him here, not unless they came out onto the balcony and turned around.  Now the indigo raiment of Celeborn suited him perfectly, reclined against the roof in the starlight.

Legolas lay back and closed his eyes, enjoying the silence of the night, the caress of wind on his face.  The heat of the day had long passed, and everywhere all that lived seemed to breathe easier.  He had told Aragorn he was contend, and for the most part he was, but a Wood-elf of the North was wasted on hot stone.  If only Éomer had intended to stay some days before returning with them to his country, he would have had again the chance to take Arod for another blood-stirring ride across the Pelennor.  Gimli had disdained to accompany him during his frolickings, and perhaps for the best.  One could not rightly perform the impressive airs above the ground with a querulous dwarf along for the ride.  Legolas had been pleasantly surprised by Arod’s proficiency with such artful maneuvers, taught him by different masters with a different style, but the spirited grey stallion had already grown accustomed to his new Elvish lord and was willing and able to learn from a new hand.

Thranduil had always frowned upon the breaking of a horse’s spirit.  The proud steeds the Elvenking mounted were disciplined, surely, but in truth untamed yet, steady beneath his hand but wild at heart, vicious as any warrior in close combat.  Legolas knew his father would commend whoever had worked Arod as a colt, for the touch of a master was evident.

Just imagining his father’s voice was enough to make him pine for his home again, but he comforted himself with the thought that they would be going soon.  Legolas had heard from the heralds sent to him some months ago that his father had been wounded in the final battle, a term it seemed was understated considering the circumstances.  Thranduil himself made no mention of it in his letters, but the slow and deliberate hand in which they had been written confirmed the rumor of trauma to his wrist and shoulder, among other injuries. 

It was at times like these that Legolas sorely missed his mother.  He had never really ceased to lament her loss.  After she had died, Legolas had often found himself trying to fill her place, for it was she he resembled most in form of manhood, in both appearance and temperament.  Queen Lindóriel would not have allowed her husband to labor over letters in an injured hand; she would have gently but firmly set him aside and done it herself from dictation.  So would have Legolas, but he could not be everywhere at once.  Others would have offered, but they would have been refused.  He had long considered himself his father’s keeper, a position he was quite content to fill.  As a result, after all the long years past Legolas had his formidable father wrapped securely around his finger.  Doubtless this influence would be put to good use when he wished to introduce Gimli into the household.  Elbereth, there he would be sure to tread carefully.

Time passed unnoticed as he lay there in the darkness, lost in thought, listening to the sighing of the wind over the city.  An hour, two hours, perhaps three.  It mattered not to him.  But at last his reverie was unexpectedly disturbed by the sharp rattling of the window latch below him.  He heard the door swing open, and a darkened figure paced out onto the balcony. 

By tread and profile, Legolas recognized Éomer of Rohan.  The Rohirric king seemed worn by care, dressed for sleep but obviously restless.  He stood long in silence while Legolas debated whether or not to make his presence known.  At first he was reluctant to disturb him, but eventually he was moved by sympathy and ventured to speak.  Besides, it would be rude to watch and say nothing.

“Do they comfort you also?” he asked softly.

The unseen voice gave Éomer a violent start, and he spun round at once.  Descrying at once the familiar Elf reclined panther-like against his dormer, blending uncannily with the shadow-dappled roofing, he heaved an unsteady sigh. 

“Forgive me,” Legolas apologized, as Éomer recovered from his fright.

“I forgive you, right readily,” Éomer assured him, having steadied himself.  “All the Powers forbid that elves should ever become assassins!  I am not yet accustomed to the strange and silent courtesy of your kind.”

“No matter.  But I asked, do they comfort you also?”

“What?” Éomer asked, expecting to be confounded by some elvish profundity.  “Who?” 

“The stars," Legolas clarified patiently. 

“Oh.  Yes, I suppose they do, when they shine on a clear night.” 

Legolas smiled at this, an expression that seemed to restore the man’s confidence. 

“Legolas of the Wood,” Éomer said at last, “of Elves you are the one I know best, yet it seems still that I know you not at all.  In memory of our companionship in war, will you be so kind as to disregard the differences of place and rank that have arisen between us?  For I would speak with you if I may.”

“You shall know me better than many Men if already you do not question why I lurk about the roof of your chamber at night,” Legolas observed with a smile, willing to disregard more than Éomer knew.  “Speak and be comforted.  Will you come up, or shall I come down?”

Éomer laughed.  “Please, my friend, come down.  I should not trust myself to climb about the heights of this city by night.”

Legolas eased his way down in silence, dropping lightly onto the balcony, ready and willing to listen.  “What troubles you, King of Rohan?” he asked gently.  “I see a shadow of doubt behind your eyes.”

Éomer sighed.  “Doubt, yes,” he said.  “We have shared friendship before, Legolas, you and I.  Would you now have me confide in you freely, as a brother?  I am the only son of my father, and the war took Théodred my cousin.”

“I would,” Legolas consented softly.  “For I too am without brethren, though reared with a kinsman I dearly love.   Speak to me freely, son of Éomund, and I shall do the same.”

It seemed to Éomer that Legolas was opening to him, dismissing the aloofness that had characterized him before, becoming – well – almost human to Éomer’s eyes.  He could see that he understood.  At last he felt as though they stood upon common ground, all thought of race or rank dismissed for the moment as they faced one another as comrades in arms, tried and scarred alike.  And thus Éomer could at last unburden his heart to him.

“I doubt only myself,” he said, turning away.  “I was not named heir to the throne of my country until the deaths of my royal kinsmen but a few short months ago.  Now I wear the crown of Rohan, as is my right, but still I do not feel I am indeed king.”  He paused for a moment, searching for words, as Legolas attended in silence.  “I feel I am but striving to imitate those I cannot match, that somehow I have been misplaced in my uncle’s stead.  I can only conclude that I am young yet, unprepared for my succession, for still I feel most at ease when I put off the royal air as though it did not suit me.”  He looked up at the Elf, who regarded him solemnly.  “Do I grope in vain, or do I strike near the truth?”

“Do not think yourself unworthy for your doubt, Éomer,” Legolas told him.  “Had you the grace of final counsel with your kinsman Théoden, I am sure he would have had much the same to say of his first days upon the throne.”

“Perhaps,” Éomer admitted, his voice seeming rough to his own ears after the smooth timbre of the Elf.  “Elessar does not doubt himself, but he was far more advanced in years than I when he claimed his lordship.  And his father was of the line of kings.”

“His claim was longer in the making,” Legolas reemphasized.  “His was a fate he had dwelt long upon through many years.  Had he been thrust onto the throne even as you, I do not doubt that even Aragorn of the Dúnedain would have wavered for a moment.”  He paused, considering the last bit.  “I know little of your lineage,” he said, “but you are a grandson of Thengel, even as was Théodred.  The blood of Elvenking Thingol was carried only by his daughter, the same that runs in the Lord Elrond, and thin but true in Lord Aragorn.”

Éomer said nothing in reply, so Legolas continued in a more personal vein.  “My own Elven-lord,” he said, “was for three thousand years of Men the sole heir of his father.  Often a prince of the Eldar may safely resign himself that he shall never come to rule.  But upon the death of the Elvenking at the Last Alliance, his son was left alone in his stead.  He rules us still today and is named our greatest king.” 

Éomer listened thoughtfully as Legolas recounted the tale of his own lord, another living figure of legend.  Could it be that such trials were the heritage of every king, even of Elves?  Moreover, it seemed that Legolas himself was at last speaking more freely, not merely granting answers to questions given, but opening ever further, coaxed on by Éomer’s trust.

“Often has he spoken to me of the anxiety even he endured during his first years,” he continued, with a hint of a strange smile, “of the uncertainties that haunted him ere he at last found his footing in the paths trod by his father, and then learned to leave them for paths of his own.  All this he has taken care that I should know, lest someday I . . .”  Legolas’ voice faded somewhat abruptly then, and a shadow seemed to fall upon him as though he feared he had said too much already.

This was not lost upon Éomer, who already thought it odd that an Elven-lord would confide so candidly in one of his archers, and thus he had begun to form suspicions of his own, strengthened by previous observations that until now had gone unnoticed.  Just who was Legolas of the Woodland Realm? 

“Why?” he asked guardedly.  “Who is your Elven-lord?”

Legolas regarded him more cautiously now, and it seemed that he had closed again against him.  He was colder, more withdrawn – haughtier, if such a word could be given him, ageless and deathless, so much so that Éomer could not help feeling a mere child beside him.  “He is Thranduil, son of Oropher,” he said simply.

“And who is Thranduil, son of Oropher?” Éomer persisted, pronouncing those strange names without thought, determined to have the whole truth, for in evading him Legolas only further strengthened his suspicions.  “Who are you?”

Legolas surrendered at last beneath his scrutiny, for he was not one to hold out long against the rightful inquiry of a comrade.  “Very well, friend Éomer,” he consented with a reluctant sigh.  “And I did promise to speak to you freely, did I not?  Since you ask it of me, Thranduil is my father.  And had he fallen in the battle that ravaged our realm, I should even now have been Elvenking of the North.  So you see,” he continued, as Éomer stepped back a pace, “I understand your fears.  I have faced them many times throughout the long war, for my father has been stricken often, yet he is far too stubborn to die.”

The King of Rohan saw laughter in the Elf’s clear eyes as he said this, revealed at last.  He had never imagined Legolas as any more than an a bondsman commissioned by his lord into the service of Aragorn, hardly the Elfengel himself.  Until now Éomer had not even known his father’s name, though ‘Thranduil’ would have meant nothing to the Rohirrim, who had long ago named him Dernhere in the earliest lore of the Mark, a figure of mystery almost as innately treacherous as the Sorceress of Dwimordene.  And yet here in one extraordinary night, Éomer son of Éomund had not only beheld the Golden Lady herself, but now discovered for a glad-hearted friend the very flesh and blood of the perilous Woodland King.  The Lady seemed to have in her no evil, and though he had not yet met him, Éomer was inclined to think much better of even Dernhere if he had reared such a son as Legolas.  He vowed that during his reign the myths and legends of his time would see some considerable revision.

“You do not wish to rule?” he asked at last, wondering at Legolas’ careless tone before.  Many princes of men grew weary waiting for their fathers to pass and leave them their inheritance.  How long had Legolas lived in his father’s immortal shadow?

“No, I do not,” the other said.  “I am content as I am, and would have my father live many long ages to come.  But nevertheless, Aragorn has insisted that I accept a fiefdom when I return.”  He smiled.  “It seems we may all look forward to facing the same trials together.”

“But why would you leave your father to come fight and perhaps die with us,” Éomer asked, “with people you have never known or seen, to whom you owe nothing?  You served our King at Helm’s Deep, you followed the Lord Aragorn through Dunharrow and the dread Dwimorberg, you fought here at the Pelennor, and marched beside us even to the black Gates of Mordor.  Why?”

“Why not?” Legolas returned simply.  “First, the Ring was to be destroyed, and of all Elves Elrond chose me.  Second, I could do more good for my kinsmen by seeing Sauron defeated than by waiting to die valiantly beside them.  Third, the Dúnedain have long been faithfully allied with my father, and it seemed only right that Lord Aragorn have the aid of at least one of the Lasgalenath when he chose to assert his claim.  Moreover, my very dear friend and kinswoman Lady Arwen Undomiel had given her heart to Lord Aragorn, and I had promised to see that he came to no harm on the road.”  Éomer could plainly see that this last was given partly in jest.  “The rest,” he finished, laying a hand over his heart, “I keep to myself.”

“Very well, friend Legolas,” Éomer acquiesced amiably.  “I shall demand no more of your secrets this night.  The hours wane unmarked in your company, and I fear I keep you from your rest.”

Legolas laughed softly to himself at Éomer’s tact.  “Nonsense,” he insisted.  “It is I who am keeping you.  I only hope I have been able to afford something of the comfort you seek.”

“You have, indeed,” he said.  “I believe I shall sleep soundly this night after all.  Your comrade Gimli the Dwarf and I have settled our score regarding the Lady of the Wood.”

“Have you?  Did he force you to swear with bared head and on bended knee that Lady Galadriel is the fairest ever to grace this earth?” 

“He did not,” Éomer said, with a touch of pride.  “I stood firm in my own mind, and chose instead Queen Undomiel.  He granted me this, and we parted amiably.” 

“That is good to hear,” Legolas smiled. “For a time I feared he would hold that over you forever.  For myself, I have long forgiven your less than kindly reception of us on the plains of your land.”

“And I for your audacious threat in return,” Éomer returned.  “May I never again find myself looking down one of your shafts, son of Thranduil!”

“Indeed not,” Legolas agreed. 

Meeting his gaze, Éomer saw again that kindred light, one that seemed to say Elves and Men were not so different at heart, and promised a long and abiding friendship in the days ahead.  Certainly they would meet again.

“But come,” Legolas said at last.  “You will be in no shape for tomorrow if I persist in lingering into the early hours.  Shall I go whence I came, or would you have me use the door?”

“The door, by all means,” Éomer begged, showing him inside.  “I would not have it said of me that I shut an Elf-prince out to wander along rooftops.”  

Leaving Éomer to his sleep, Legolas drifted through the corridors to his own chamber.  What little must be prepared must be done tonight, for tomorrow began the great procession to Rohan, the first steps of the journey home.

The mid-summer sun dawned clear and full the next morning over the White City and the plains of the Pelennor, a final salute to the obsequies of Théoden son of Thengel, King of Rohan.

Legolas stood before the crystal mirror in his stark Gondorian bedchamber of white and black, arrayed again in emerald green and burgundy foisted upon him by Lord Glorfindel.  If one was to pay one’s respects to a fallen King, one must dress accordingly.  And none would ever say of a royal son of Thranduil that he could not act the part when the occasion demanded.

Death struck the immortal heart deeply, and such was the underlying vein of sorrow that ran always beneath the joy of victory, rendering triumph bittersweet.  There would be many empty chairs in Greenwood, he knew, just as there were everywhere.  Survival was a grace dearly bought.

The final touch was his silver crown of beech leaves, which Thranduil had taken special care to send to him.  He was no longer the obscure Wood-elf who served in Aragorn’s shadow, but a son of the High Sindar, the Firstborn Heir of Lasgalen.

“Ho, there, laddie.  I would hardly have recognized you.”

The rough and familiar voice effectively shattered his moment of introspection, but not unpleasantly so.  “I shall consider that a compliment, Gimli,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder to see the Dwarf in the same armored ensemble he had worn through journey and battle, albeit clean and new-burnished, and not without an overlaying cloak of rich crimson he had acquired during their stay, his thick beard forked and braided.  “Does the assembly begin, my friend?”

“In a moment I would not be surprised to hear the trumpets flare,” Gimli replied in his rolling accent, one that was strangely endearing once it had ceased to be annoying, very like a rumbling stampede of horses.  “So it will be farewell to Minas Tirith and to Gondor at last.”

“For the moment,” Legolas corrected, gathering together what other gear he was to bring back with him, notably his weapons and the bundle of his own clothes.  “I trust there will yet come a day when Elves and Dwarves are common as cats in this land which sorely needs them.”

“If they could only get by together without hissing and spitting at every turn,” Gimli returned glumly, wryly extending Legolas’ metaphor.  “And there we must tread but one pace at a time.  I shall do what I can to placate my own father’s ill-will against you and yours, if you agree to do the same for me beneath your roof.”

“Agreed,” Legolas smiled.  Gimli had not been there at the time, and did not realize just whose hand had guided the reconciliation between the Wood and the Mountain before this.  “You are riding with me, then?”

“Well, lad,” Gimli reasoned thoughtfully, “it is indeed a long and weary walk from Rohan to the Mountain.  And it is pretty coincidence that we shall indeed be going the same way.  And it just so happens that you have promised to see the Caves with me if I follow to Fangorn.  So, yes.  If I must ride, I can think of no company I would rather keep.”

“Not even that of the Lady?” Legolas teased.

Gimli blushed furiously at the unexpected prod.  “Now, Legolas,” he scolded, “you should know better than that.  The last thing a brilliant lily like her needs is an old mushroom like me bumping along behind her.  Why, it just wouldn’t do!”

Legolas feigned offense.  “And yet you feel no qualms in bumping along behind me?”  

“You aren’t a lily,” Gimli maintained.  “You, my friend, are a . . .” he waved a gloved hand about for a moment as he searched for an appropriate epithet, “ . . . a daffodil.”

“Thank you, Gimli,” Legolas replied, his voice heavy with irony.  “Think what you will of me.  Though I would advise you to restrain your more poetic comments in my father’s presence, at least until he knows you well.  Think of him as a daffodil or tiger lily or even a snapdragon if you like, but I do not imagine he would much appreciate such comparisons.”

“Certainly,” Gimli agreed.  “I know my own father would not have thought of him as such.  However,” he continued, in a mock-thoughtful voice, “many are the times he has likened him rather to a bear.  Or even an ass.”

Legolas instinctively took a sudden jolt of genuine offense at that, but then slowly smiled.  “Perhaps not so very far from the truth,” he confided in a hushed tone, lest Thranduil hear them two hundred leagues away in his palace.

“It seems you take perverse pleasure in mentioning the Lady to me,” Gimli regressed.

“You never fail to react in your most amusing manner,” Legolas explained, flashing a slightly mischievous smile over his shoulder.

“Besides, I could swear you were quite taken with her yourself.  Friend Éomer was overcome by the sight of both, but pledged his honor by Queen Undomiel instead.  I maintain that no greater beauty ever graced the form of womanhood on this earth than in the Lady Galadriel.  What say you, Legolas?”

The other sobered somewhat then, an unnamed and distant regret passing over his face, all else forgotten.  “No,” he said at last, turning away.  “There are others I deem fairer still, if only to my own heart.” 

He did not explain, and Gimli resigned himself not to ask, at least not yet.  But such a statement made him realize again just how very little he knew of Legolas, whose past was a nigh unfathomable count of years into which he invited few.  What sorrows lay hidden there was anyone’s guess.  But Gimli now resolved to break that courteous barrier of silence, even if it meant chiseling away at it with brazen questions.  Otherwise his relationship with the Elf was alike to walking on a wetfield, never knowing when one would unwittingly tread upon sensitive ground.

He looked on from the doorway as Legolas attended the final thoughtful preparations of his room with the hard-working chambermaid in mind, throwing back the black and silver bed curtains and stripping the mattress of sheets, which he rolled into a neat bundle and left at the side, folding the coverlet and pulling the pillow cases.

To the Dwarvish mind, to whom masculinity was a very rough and taurine attribute, it was a wonder that Elven men could be beautiful while not effeminate.  For Legolas was admittedly a beautiful creature in his own right, surpassing even many of his fellows, yet he was just as virile as any man, and dreadfully strong despite his slender build.  Gimli had never yet beheld the Elvenking, but he had no doubt that Thranduil would be much the same, only more so.  Manhood for the Elves was feline, fair and perilous, a distinction Gimli the Dwarf was now able to appreciate, for he had seen their rougher edges.  And he supposed he could respect Legolas’ catlike ways if the other could tolerate his bullishness. 

The maidens of Gondor had seemed to find Legolas a wonder as well, and Gimli was not the only one who had begun to suspect, and to say as much, that many of those who had sought audience with Aragorn over the first months of his reign had come merely to catch a glimpse of the Elf, drawn to him as bothersome moths are drawn to a candle.  Gimli was often tempted to rue his uncomeliness when he thought of the Lady and how unworthy he deemed himself even to stand in her light; but when he observed Legolas and the desultory troubles his perfection brought him, he blessed Mahal anew for his coarse and practical Dwarvishness.

Legolas looked up to find Gimli staring rather vacantly at him.  “What?” he asked.

“Oh,” the dwarf said, coming back to himself and waving a hand with a dismissive chuckle.  “Just glad I am not you.”  And he turned to walk back from whence he had come.

Thoroughly puzzled by that last remark, Legolas nevertheless chose not to make an issue of it.  “So am I,” he murmured wryly to himself, gathering his things to join his stout-hearted friend in the hall, wondering if he would ever understand him. 

Kings Elessar and Éomer passed together into the Hallows of Rath Dínen, accompanied by a Gondorian honor guard and six Rohirric men at arms with Meriadoc Brandybuck the Halfling.  There the body of King Théoden was removed from its foreign resting place and laid in its casket upon a bier of gold.  The black and silver Gondorians led them then from the tombs, the Rohirrim bearing their fallen king with all due honor.  Éomer followed them, Merry before him, Elessar behind accompanied by the remainder of his guard.

From the Hallows they emerged into the sunlight, beginning their descent down through the city.  Pennons fluttered all about them, and the way was lined on either side by those who would follow them to Edoras, who one by one fell into line behind as they passed in silent procession, their own banners aloft in the breeze, the lords of Gondor, Rohan, and Elvendom, a greater salute than any King of the Mark had ever before enjoyed.  Queen Arwen assumed her place beside her husband with her maidens; Prince Faramir of Ithilien came behind with his guard and Peregrin Took; Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his retinue; the Halfling Ringbearers Frodo and Samwise; Legolas the Elf as the open but unheralded Prince of Greenwood, beside him Gimli the Dwarf; Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien; Lord Elrond of Rivendell with his sons Elladan and Elrohir; Glorfindel and Erestor, followed by the éored of Éomer, and then by all the Elves who had abode in Gondor, save those who awaited them beyond the walls.  It was a procession long and grave that at last filed out through the broken gates of the city and onto the green of the Pelennor, where the journey would indeed begin.

Théoden was laid now upon the great wain that would bear him to his homeland, and Merry his esquire rode there beside him, bearing the arms of the fallen king.  The green banner of the white horse was carried ahead by the riders, the bier following, attended by the éored placed before, behind, and upon either side, while the others prepared to follow. 

Legolas mounted Arod at the side, the Rohirric steed without ornament save a single ribbon of green plaited in behind his forelock.  The horse was standing ready beneath the hand of a grey-clad Elf of Lórien who seemed somehow familiar to Gimli, though most looked alike to his eyes. 

Legolas thanked him in their own tongue, as the other boosted the Dwarf to his place behind.  Orophin returned in kind, taking the hand he was offered and bidding him farewell.

Orophin left them to return to his own people, and Legolas sat his horse patiently as he awaited his place, a solemn figure in the mid-summer breeze despite the dwarf clinging to him from behind.

Éomer King followed first upon his mighty grey charger, behind him Gandalf the White upon Shadowfax.  Then came King Elessar astride his proud bay stallion draped in the royal black and silver trappings of Gondor, beside him Frodo and Samwise mounted on ponies. 

Legolas watched as they passed.  Aragorn beckoned to him, but he silently refused.

There passed Imrahil and Faramir with the knights of Gondor and Dol Amroth, Pippin among their number.  It was no small company, but Legolas waited by the wayside with infinite patience as it crawled forward.  Even Arod seemed to understand the gravity of the occasion, standing his ground without protest.

Behind them came the Lord and Lady of Lórien with their following, a slowly passing host bearing pale and wispy banners, then the Lord of Rivendell, with whom rode his daughter, Queen Undomiel.  There Legolas at last brought Arod into line, taking his place behind the Lords of Elrond’s household.

From Minas Tirith they passed northward at an unhurried pace, the procession stringing out behind for miles.  The fair weather was a blessing, lifting the hearts of many, for those who had known him imagined that Théoden himself would have bid them enjoy their ride through the north of Gondor and the fair meads of Rohan, that they not darken their spirits with sorrow on his account, who was now beyond suffering and care.

Even now Legolas felt more at home than he had in the city, riding in the open fields, the wind in his hair.  Summer’s manifestations were all about them, the occasional golden spots of buttercups highlighting the fields, the muffled stomp of horses through lush grass.

But as fair as the surrounds were, he could not help but imagine the most welcome sight he would see would be the green boarders of Lasgalen framed between Arod’s slender ears.  The true condition of his war-torn wood was a concern to him.  He had been warned of the devastation by the Elven heralds, who had advised him to imagine the worst so the reality would not be such a shock.  It was not an encouraging report, and having seen the Desolation of Smaug, he could imagine quite a bit.  He trusted Arod to keep their place as his mind wandered, lulled by the gentle pace of the horse, the rhythmic swishing of hoofs in the summer grass.

He had hung back for a reason, one Aragorn perhaps would not understand, for in truth he was avoiding him.  King Elessar thought it a triumph that the Elves would return to Gondor, but Legolas, who was perhaps more sensitive than many, could feel that not all thought the same.  It was enough that their Queen was a daughter of the Eldar, and that the heir to their throne would thus be Halfelven, akin and yet alien to them, Gondorian in nothing but name.  Legolas knew that had he ridden with Aragorn he would have been touted as a Prince of Ithilien alongside Faramir, and he did not wish to be thrust upon the Gondorian people yet.  Let them first acclimate themselves to the new order of things before too much was changed too quickly.  They had every right to resent the inheritance of their ancestral lands by foreign lords, and he would not have blamed them for protesting his appointment.  Many bitter words could be spared with patience.

As their journey continued through the long hours of the day the riders became further and further distanced from one another, no more than a horse-length or two, but enough for a reasonable measure of solitude.  It was not long then until the sons of Elrond reined in their mounts and fell back beside Legolas, the only three of their kind to have faced the final battles together in Gondor and in Mordor.

“Well met, again, Legolas,” Elladan greeted his fellow in their own tongue, thus barring Gimli from the conversation.  Ordinarily Legolas would have objected, but the Dwarf’s steadying grasp about his waist had slackened, and the deadweight against his back told him the midsummer heat and the lilting motion of the horse had conspired to put his companion to sleep for a time.

“The same to you,” he replied in kind.  “All was well in Rohan when you and Éomer left it?”

“Well enough,” Elrohir confirmed.  “If we returned for aught else but a funeral, I would say nothing could have dampened their spirits in victory.”

“Admirable of them,” Legolas mused.  “We may still learn much from the resilience of Men.”

“They were indeed grievously stricken,” Elladan agreed.  “But always their hope outweighs their despair.”

They rode for some time in silence, the procession snaking away before them to the horizon, before Elladan ventured to voice what had recently weighed upon his mind.

“Do you intend to take him into your father’s house?”

“You know my father well enough to know he will not slay Gimli on sight, Dwarf or no.”

“Do I?” Elladan asked incredulously. 

“You will if ever you admit it to yourself,” Legolas qualified.  “Provided there are no great disturbances, accidents, or other unfortunate events, all should be well enough.”

“And you expect this son of Glóin to behave as your father wills?”

“He will if I have anything to do with it,” Legolas insisted in an obdurate tone that always reminded them of Thranduil when they heard it.  Beneath his mother’s kindness ran a strain of his father’s determination, and it did manifest now and again.  Rarely did it ever put father and son at loggerheads, but the potential was there.  He let Arod have his head and lay a hand upon Gimli’s limp wrist, lest the dozing dwarf slide off his perch.

“If I knew no better,” Elrohir jibed, “I would think you were rather fond of that nogoth.  Forgive me if I do not see why.”

“I do.  But I do not doubt that if you endured his company for three months and more, you would find him endearing in his own way.  Even I must admit his worth in combat.  So callous and yet so devoted; so graceless and yet so skilled; so amazingly ignorant and yet willing to learn; so crass and yet so courteous.”  Legolas smiled.  “He says the most hideous things in the nicest way.”

“Well,” Elladan said at last, digesting all that, “pray he says nothing hideously nice to your father.  The fireworks may make you think Mithrandir was come.”

“I do not expect it to be as spectacular as you imagine,” Legolas dismissed him.  “True, my father has no special love for Dwarves, but neither does he bear any special hatred.  The death of his grandfather was avenged long ago.  King Dáin of Erebor was on gracious terms with him, and I hope Thorin III will be likewise, rather than his namesake.”

“Keep hoping,” Elrohir advised.  “Unless the two of you intend to do something about it yourselves.”

Legolas turned to him with a knowing smile.  “Perhaps we will, my friend.”

As evening began to fall, the entire entourage slowed to a halt and gradually proceeded to pitch their bivouac over the lush fields.  There was no hurry, and the whole atmosphere of the journey was one of well-earned leisure. 

Large pavilions were spread and erected all about, one of green for the King and lords of the Mark, white and silver for the King and Queen of Gondor, one of pale silk for the Lord and Lady of Lórien, and another of gold and autumn red for those of Rivendell.

After he had let down a drowsy Gimli and comfortably picketed Arod among the other steeds, Legolas discarded his crown for a time and did his share of pulling ropes and driving stakes.  Elladan and Elrohir were more often than not at his side as they and a host of others set up their father’s pavilion, but when they had gone Legolas found himself tying off a tent rope with the help of Lord Glorfindel.

“Well met, Thranduilion,” the mighty elvenlord greeted him amiably, pulling the silken rope taut so Legolas could easily knot it around the stake.

“My lord,” Legolas returned with all due respect.  His Sindarin kindred had always held their own reservations regarding the High Noldorin Exiles, but Glorfindel had won even Thranduil’s regard despite his checkered past.  Moreover, Glorfindel had no part in the wrongs done the Doriathrim, so there were no grievances between them.

Glorfindel, for his part, had ever entertained a strain of surrogate paternal affection for the endearing young Sinda ever since the King of Greenwood had sent his son for brief fostering and instruction in Rivendell before the long war had begun.  More than simply an education for the prince, it had been a gesture of goodwill between re-settled Lasgalen and Imladris, one that had done much to heal the wounds of the Last Alliance.  Glorfindel had been greatly relieved to find that Oropher’s heir, while retaining the legendary fire and bellicosity of his father, was more willing to be a part of the larger picture of Elvendom in Middle-earth.  And, continuing the lightening trend, Oropher’s grandson was so unlike him that, had he not known better, Glorfindel would have denied that Legolas was of his blood at all.

“You know you do not have to do this,” he continued in their Sindarin tongue, “Prince of Lasgalen.”

“Then neither do you, my lord,” Legolas countered pointedly, looking up from where he knelt in the grass, with a cheeky yet unfailingly polite smile.  “Do not worry; I shall not soil your robes.”

“I know you will not,” Glorfindel said.  “But the son of a King does not spend himself upon his knees erecting a tent for another lord.”

“A son of Thranduil does many things,” Legolas said soberly, securing his knot with familiar dexterity.  “Privilege and idleness should never go together.  You should know that well by now.”

“Indeed I do,” Glorfindel murmured to himself, testing the rope with a few good yanks.  “He must drive you, a prince of his own blood, twice as hard as he does the least of the royal household.”

At that, Legolas sat back upon his heels and held steadily the gaze of the other, a new and somber gravity about him.  “I drive myself,” he said, “and never as hard as my father is himself driven.  Lasgalen is not like Gondolin or Imladris.”

Even to Legolas, his words came as a surprise.  Rarely did he presume to gainsay an elder lord, much less call him naïve to his face, but the sufferings of his homeland had been weighing upon his mind and his latent passions smoldered now in a strange and ill-contented mood.  He knew Glorfindel had known more than his share of brutal warfare, but it was innately difficult to accept criticism of a long and openly besieged wood from an Elf of the Hidden City and the Hidden Valley.

Glorfindel took it calmly.  Neither apologized, for in truth there was no need; the point had been taken.  “Does the devastation of Greenwood often trouble you?” he asked instead.

“It does,” Legolas admitted as he climbed to his feet, not surprised that Glorfindel had guessed in part the nature of his agitation.  

“The hurts of Sauron run very deep,” Glorfindel sympathized, laying a hand upon his shoulder and inviting him to walk with him, “and only a greater hurt can begin to heal them.  Now that the sacrifice has been made, I believe your own may recover now in peace.”

“That is the least we may hope for,” Legolas agreed, “lest the wars bleed us dry.  What strength remains in Lasgalen has been sorely tried.”

“Yet it remains still,” Glorfindel insisted somberly, as together they walked round the back of the pavilion to join the others. 

As they rounded the bend, Legolas noted Gimli among the bustling Galadhrim, happily driving stakes for the Lady’s silver canopy.  All about were the sounds of their work, the clinking of spikes and the flapping and billowing of cloth in the wind.

“There is a waning realm before us now,” Glorfindel observed rather glumly.  “Laurelindorinan cannot stand, bereft of the power of Nenya.  And Imladris shall fade, deprived of the protection of Vilya.  Yet, in Lasgalen,” he sighed, “in that niche of northern Elvendom which has been held at the point of a blade for the past age, the power of Thranduil still holds, dependent upon nothing save the raw courage of his people.  Thus have they survived, and thus will they endure.”

“It was a difficult path to take,” Legolas remarked, remembering the blissful days of his youth before the Shadow, and then the dark years of toil and vigilance and bloodshed that had followed.  They made light of it when they could, but those years had by necessity made killers of them all.

“It was a path we should all have taken,” Glorfindel mused darkly, mostly to himself.

Ordinarily Legolas would have been insufferably proud of Lasgalen's independence.  But now, here at the end, the fact that they could continue on in Middle-earth while all the other Eldar took ship seemed hardly worth the suffering.  “Do not regret the guarded peace of Imladris,” he said darkly.  “Why should we stay when there is naught left here to endure for?”

Leaving Glorfindel’s company, Legolas stopped just around the far corner of the pavilion, pausing a moment before going on.  His vantage point now granted him a clear view southeast, and on the horizon he could still see the woods of Ithilien, a living belt of green beneath the looming black mountains.  For its sake, he was glad he had accepted Aragorn’s invitation.  A handful of Elves could often make all the difference in the recovery of an abused forest.  He would not ask many to come back with him, for there would be more than enough work of that kind to be done at home in their own wood.

He could only imagine what his father would say at the thought of him living so near to Mordor.

From here he could also see and follow the shimmering line of the river, the Great River, the same that eventually joined its waters with the Sea.

Just when he thought he had nearly forgotten it, the Sea encroached on his thoughts again.  Legolas sank down to sit upon the grass betwixt the tent ropes, deaf to all going on about him, feeling in his heart the anxious unrest that heralds an impending storm.  It may be years and even decades in the brewing, but it would come nonetheless.  And in that he recognized that his days were indeed numbered.

The ominous forewarning the Lady had given him through Mithrandir had been ambiguous at best, as were most Elven counsels, and afterward Legolas had followed Aragorn with the grim determination to meet his death with honor if it came to that.  Now he realized it was a different fate of which Galadriel had spoken, a wound that could not be healed on these shores.  But the invisible barbs of Belegaer had slighted their mark, merely grazing his heart rather than transfixing it, so he may yet have some time to linger in reasonable peace, at least until Aragorn’s reign had passed.  It was not an overpowering wound, but it smarted all the same, and with it all had changed.  Perhaps that was what had put him on edge today.

He had not yet seen the Sea; the crying of the gulls had been enough.  The woodland half of his heart was glad he had not, and turned him ever north toward his home where he belonged.  But his dormant Eldarin blood had been stirred now.  He knew what it was, he had seen it in others, but it was a bit unsettling to feel it himself.  In his heart of hearts, Legolas knew that it was not the sea itself which was the root of this proverbial yearning in all his kin.  It was the desire for permanence, for a home as timeless as themselves, a place where loved ones could gather and die no more.  It was a deep and debilitating homesickness.

The sun had begun to set behind the mountains, painting their white peaks in new and rich colors.  It seemed that even she was beckoning him West, dipping coyly behind the snow-crested range in ageless invitation.

“Ho, Legolas!” Gimli called as he found him there, jarring the Elf out of his reverie.  “Here you are, lad.  Come on, before we miss supper!”  He jostled the other’s shoulder in rough Dwarvish affection.  “The Lord and Lady expect us.”

Legolas sighed and reluctantly climbed again to his feet.  There were some things Gimli would never understand, and his bellowing interruptions were simply to be forgiven and forgotten, though he often felt as though he had been slapped.  Perhaps someday he would say something.

Together they walked through the growing darkness toward the glowing encampment of the Galadhrim, Gimli either unconcerned or unaware that anything was weighing upon his companion.  Legolas granted him the benefit of the doubt, knowing Dwarves such as Gimli were not as acutely observant as Elves such as Glorfindel.  Besides, the Dwarf heard no call now but that of his stomach.

They passed beneath the pale Lórien lanterns, met by the smiles and kind-hearted laughter of the silvan Elves sitting in circles all around in the grass while the aroma of food hung over the entire field.  Lights could be seen beyond in the darkness among the Elves of Imladris, the Gondorians, and the Rohirrim, a gathering such as the stars should not witness many times henceforth through the coming ages.

The Lord and Lady were easily found, seated royally upon the ground beneath the eaves of a silver canopy, the lesser lords of Lórien seated around them.  The two rose as Legolas and Gimli approached, and the others did likewise.

“Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion,” Lady Galadriel greeted him with warm and regal affection.  “And welcome also to you, Gimli son of Glóin,” she continued.  “How fares my doughtiest servant?”

“He fares well, my Lady,” Gimli replied, blushing furiously and shifting upon his feet, eliciting grins of endearment from the Elves.  “Even more so now that he is assured of your gracious good favor.”

“That you may never doubt, son of Aulë,” she assured him, “should your steps lead you along just and right paths.  But come, honor us, both of you, with your company.  For we are all here veterans of the Great War.”

Legolas and Gimli took their places among the others, seated comfortably on the living carpet.  Much was said during the course of the meal, from the details of the war to what Legolas deemed the future held for him in Lasgalen or Gondor.  For himself, Legolas answered their inquiries guardedly, speaking none too freely his deeper concerns, though he knew the Lord and Lady read and saw further than did the other Galadhrim.  However, they did not pry, understanding that he perhaps did not wish to bare his heart before so many.

After supper there was music and song through to midnight.  Much had been written of the war against the Dark Lord, recounting the victories of both the Elves of the East and the Men of the West. Only when Gimli’s eyes began to fall closed of their own accord in spite of him did Legolas politely excuse them both.  Lady Galadriel bade them good evening, as did the Lord Celeborn.

“Too seldom have we spoken, Legolas,” the latter added softly, maintaining a kindred hold upon his shoulder.  “For all your years, I find that I know you but little.  Yet I can see that not all is quiet within you.  If you will not open your heart to me, see at least that you speak to someone.  Sorrows will not often begrudge company.”

“I will try, my lord,” Legolas promised at least.  He was stricken again by just how similar Celeborn’s holly-green eyes were to his father’s.  “As you have perhaps guessed, the sorrow I bear shows many faces, and I have seen several fairer than this.  It will pass.”

“Perhaps,” Celeborn said.  “Perhaps not.  I cannot say.  Many of us you shall not see again this side of Belegaer.  Use these days wisely.”

Legolas said nothing, but regarded him solemnly, taking his words to heart.  This Celeborn saw and was satisfied.

Legolas thanked him and took his leave at last, leading Gimli along through the dark by the shoulders.

“That’s all right.  I can find my own way,” the Dwarf murmured drowsily as he stumbled up the slight incline, but Legolas paid him no mind.

“The sleepless should lead the slumbering,” he returned amiably.  “I fear we have kept you from bed beyond your time, my friend.”

Gimli grumbled something back, a protest of ‘bedtimes for children’ or some such thing, but his complaints were not renewed.

Turning back for a moment before passing inside Elrond's enormous pavilion, Legolas saw that most lamps had already been dimmed in the camps of Gondor and Rohan.  Only the Elvish lights illuminated the landscape, as soft and pleasing to the eye as their music was to the ear, a waking lullaby for others of the entourage.

For now Legolas turned away from the lights and passed into the temporary confines of Elrond’s domain, lit but dimly out of courtesy to those of mortal kind who shared their quarters.  Many eyes marked their passing in the golden twilight, but no one spoke.

Turning Gimli gently aside toward his pallet, Legolas then sat down upon his own and glanced out of the window cut into the canvas, for their places had been set very near the far walls. 

The stars were unveiled.

After what seemed an eternity, an hour passed.  Legolas lay upon his back on his pallet, feigning sleep but fixing his gaze instead upon the small patch of stars visible to him through the window, rolled and tied open to admit the fresh night air.

At last he sat up again in the dark.  He could never sleep with such roiling thoughts upon his heart.  And more than that, Gimli had begun to snore.

Turning to kneel beside the Dwarf, Legolas slowly reached over and righted his heavy head which had fallen aside, then thrust his own pillow beneath Gimli’s to quiet his breathing.  Just because he could find no rest did not mean the others among them must suffer the same fate.  Peace reigned again in Elrond’s pavilion, and though it did Legolas no good, he heard at least one other waking Elf's terse sigh of relief.

As Gimli now slept contentedly, Legolas turned to the places opposite them, where he could discern the small figures of the Halfling Ringbearers.  Catlike, he crawled over to them.  Legolas regarded the diminutive heroes affectionately.  In his mind he would always stand in their debt.  It had been the least he could do to lend them his aid among the Fellowship.  The greatest victory was and ever would be theirs.

Sam slept soundly, his breathing deep and regular, but Frodo trembled and grimaced, as though troubled still by some hideous dream.  Concerned, Legolas lay a cool hand over the hobbit’s restless eyes, willing him what quiet he could, a white hand that seemed to glow with more than just moonlight.

He had not his father’s power, but perhaps some vestige yet remained to him even here, far from home.  It must have, for Frodo quieted beneath his touch, his trembling stilled, and he sighed as though whatever had afflicted him had passed.

It was said the hands of the King are the hands of a healer, and not only in Gondor.  Long had the Nandor of Greenwood looked for protection in the shadow of their Sindarin lords, the last lingering few born of the Mighty of Arda before all had diminished.  Hands that wielded strength enough to kill could also bring comfort and solace.

Glad to have been able to do at least that much for him, Legolas gently pushed back the dark curls from the small careworn face.  They all owed these two small ones more than any could hope to redeem, even though honors be lavished upon them from every realm on the face of Middle-earth and even of Valinor beyond.  The riches of the outside world would mean little to them.  It would be the small things that mattered, if such lay within their power to grant them, things as simple as a good night’s sleep and dreams without shadows.

Not content with merely quieting the nightmares, Legolas gently stroked Frodo’s brow and dormant features until he had encouraged a smile there, no doubt in response to some lovely Elvish dream, likely of Rivendell, or perhaps of a fair green wood in the springtime if Legolas’ choice thoughts were given him, with the lilac and honeysuckle in bloom and the air alive with birdsong.

Sam was not deprived his attentions in the end, for Legolas made a point to sweeten his deep dreams as well before he sat back between them.  For all they had been told, if Frodo had been the Ringbearer, Sam had been the Ring-guardian, and all would have fallen long before but for him.  And for that he had Legolas’ undying gratitude. 

The hobbits slept, Gimli slept, it seemed everyone slept but him.  Legolas stood and padded silently to the door.  It was unguarded, but still Legolas peered back over his shoulder before leaving, feeling somehow that he was watched.  He could pinpoint no one in particular, and so he ducked out with hardly a sound, only the wisp of his garments past the rich red canvas and golden tassels at the door.

The open air was a welcome relief, the soft sounds of a summer night all around: the chirping of crickets, the wind over the hills, the subdued stamp and snort of many horses.  The thick grass of northern Gondor was soft and cool on his feet with the slightest hint of morning dew.

He walked back around to the rear of the pavilion itself, back to where he could gaze unhindered upon the view to be had from his bedside on the other side of the canvas.  Absently he ran his fingertips along the ropes staked there as he passed, standing regular as sentinels, somehow not as comforting as the living randomness of trees would have been.

Standing at last upon the westernmost side, Legolas breathed deeply the fresh green scent upon the air.  Before, he had been torn between the woodlands and the sea, but now those two loves melded together in a strange momentary harmony.  Surely there were woodlands in the West.  Had they not heard of the forests of Eressëa, haven of the Sindar?  And what of Tauron the Balan, Lord of Forests, beloved of his kin?  Perhaps there was naught to fear at all.

But then his moment of daring passed, and he remembered with a pang that no matter how great or fair the Woods of Valinor, they would never equal Lasgalen in his affection, no matter how superior they may seem.  One’s home was where one’s heart would lie, and for now the West held no call over him but one of new curiosity and an anxious irrational longing.  Burnt and broken Lasgalen called him back out of love.  Often had he shed his own blood in its defense, and he had not bled alone.  There for centuries Thranduil's Elves had fought and bled and died; no wood of the Blessed Realm would have been bought at such a price, and thus no wood of the Blessed Realm would ever be so dear to them as the weary and abused corner of Middle-earth where they abode now.  Thence he would return, surely, for he could not abandon it now even had he wanted to.  The call of the West must be answered, but for now it also must wait.

Legolas folded his legs beneath him and sank down to the grass, resigning himself to the sea-stricken struggle all the lingering Eldar had known.  Looking up, he could see Eärendil traversing the darkened sky to the side of him, passing again into the West before sunrise.  And there, by tale and tradition, he recognized the Silmaril of Lúthien, both the glory of the Sindar and the cause of their nigh-unspeakable downfall.  By the valor and blood of the Sindar it was the only of the Three Jewels to survive the upheavals of the ancient world, and never while its light still shone in the heavens would the remnant of that people forget the woeful injustice which had crushed them. 

Born in Lasgalen early in his father's reign, Legolas had never known the ancestral Sindarin lands in Beleriand; but his father had, and he had lovingly painted visions of their past for his son with both voice and brush, for another of Thranduil’s many unspoken talents had over time adorned the walls of Arthrand Lasgalen with memories of Doriath and the fair white cavern palace of Menegroth.  Mighty trees were painted there upon stone, their leaf-laden boughs overarching and trailing along the ceiling, roots often carven out of the very floor.  Hazy and unexplored vistas stretched away behind, visions of an elder time that lived on only in the minds of those who had dwelt in it.  Some were dark with blue twilight and dense verdure, others catching golden sunbeams that filtered down through the living canopy, scenes that were forever beautiful, but forever beyond reach.  Foregone only were any images of ships or the sea, for those who had survived the grievous fall of Sirion and the exodus from Lindon did not wish to encourage their love of sea-faring, nor pass it yet to their offspring.  It had taken some, regardless.

If Thranduil’s renowned warfaring had been the work of his more rampant passions, the murals of Lasgalen and their timely restorations were his labor of love when time could be spared from his duties of war, rule, and fatherhood, a silent tribute to his origins and to all that had been dear to him before its destruction.  His skill surprised many.  Fell-handed enough with bow and blade, in moments of peace he could wield also a delicate touch with brush or pen.  Only occasionally did he incorporate living figures into his scenery, and when he did they were small, such as in his midnight rendering over an entire wall of the depths of the Doriathrin wood, a clear stream in the foreground, beyond a hint of a path between the great dark trees so defined with light and shadow that almost it seemed one could step through it into an Age that was no more.  There among the trees, bathed in a white light from an unseen moon, he had brought out the dancing figure of Lúthien, the enchanting daughter of Elu Thingol. 

Later Legolas had asked why he had portrayed her from behind, showing not her face.  Thranduil had confessed that he feared to slight her beauty if he should try.  Legolas wondered if in the long years to come he would himself be one day sketching the sun-dappled paths of Lasgalen for a son of his own, the great hill and the Forest River.  It would not compare to the grandeur of Valinor, but the Lasgalenath who remembered would appreciate it still.  It would be no easy task to leave it.

His thoughts were disturbed then by the prickling of that sixth sense possessed by every wayfaring woodland scout.  Memories of home were banished, leaving him alone again on the northern plains of Gondor, beneath a sky studded with stars in the dark and small hours of the morning. 

“Is it your custom, my lord, to always approach without introduction?” he asked succinctly, without bothering to turn.

“It seems the only way I may enjoy your company these days,” Glorfindel replied from above and behind, the barest hint of amusement in his voice.  “Do you mind if I join you?”

Legolas gestured toward the empty grass beside him, inviting the other to sit as he pleased.

“Thank you.”

Their differences seemed petty here in the starlight.  Glorfindel Reborn of Gondolin and Rivendell, Balrog-Slayer and Nazgûl’s Bane, together with Legolas Thranduilion of Lasgalen Besieged and of the Nine Walkers, now merely two Elves together on the long road home, homes they both knew would never be the same again.  And in that they again understood one another, paying no mind to even the marked differences of speech which set them apart; Legolas’ Sindarin was the full and elegant dialect of his father and other kinsmen of Doriath, while Glorfindel’s use of the Grey-tongue was still tinged with that distinct Noldorin accent which characterized all the Exiles.

“I missed you this evening when you were summoned by the Lady,” Glorfindel explained.

And the Lord, Legolas thought ruefully, though he supposed he should not wonder that a Sindarin lord was eclipsed by his Noldorin lady in a Noldo’s mind.  Such was the fate of all his waning kind, the Aredhil of the East, in the long shadows cast by the Calaquendi of the West.

“I hoped perhaps you would speak with her there, or perhaps even with Celeborn your kinsman, though I wonder what counsel he could give in this regard.  But when you returned I saw you were restless still.” 

Legolas let his gaze fall and tugged absently at a handful of grass.  “I do not know why these last days have been so difficult.”

“Yes, you do,” Glorfindel insisted, a firmer note entering his voice.  “And I believe I may safely guess.  Would you like to try confiding in one who can perhaps understand?  Or would you rather let it fester unnamed unto Greenwood and beyond?”

Legolas sighed, finding himself backed into a corner, ready at last to face it.  “Very well,” he consented.  “What would you have me do?”

“You have heard the call of the West, have you not?” Glorfindel asked, though he knew the answer.

“I believe I have,” Legolas said.  “It was fair and welcome at first, but now it has become nothing but conflict.”

“It was welcome because it was new,” the other explained, “and then you had no thought but for where it could lead you, for all lay ahead.  Now you have begun to look behind, and you dwell upon what it will cost.  Optimism and pessimism will come and go like the tides, for not all is rational in grip of the sea-longing.  In the end it is for you to determine which road holds the best for you; to linger here, clinging to what vestige of dominion we possess as our race fades and time grows short, or rather to take the road left open to us and pass unto a land undying, where an immortal future is brightest.”

Legolas was silent, wanting to take Glorfindel’s counsel to heart, but still wary lest he be too easily taken by a Noldorin perspective that, no matter how Elven, was still fundamentally unlike his own.

“I see you do not yet wholly trust me in this regard,” the other observed, “and in your position I suppose I cannot blame you.  But this also will I say: if once the call has enamored you, and you accept it, often there is no choice to be made, and in the end it will either bear you away or make life here a misery.  Your father has felt it, and I know that he fears it, even as his kinsman Celeborn fears what he has not felt.  Thranduil fears what it would do to you if once it called your name despite him.  Perhaps he knows already that it has taken you, for so great a change in the fëa of his son would not go unnoticed by such as he.  The light in your eyes has changed.”

Legolas looked up sharply then, wondering just how obvious this change was.

“Was it not so with your mother?” Glorfindel asked softly, but pointedly.  “And also with she whom you loved?”

Legolas did not answer.  He did remember the heart-wrenching change that had come over the court and halls of Lasgalen after suffering the first invasion of the war of Mirkwood.  Many were wounded, many were slain, and some had been torn away by the siren song of a deathless land.  Thus had many lives been fractured, and thus all the greater had been their grievance against the foul Necromancer who had wrought all their woes.  But now he was gone, and Legolas felt some measure of grim satisfaction that he had stood at the very Gates of Mordor to watch all of Sauron’s dominion fall in crashing ruin, as it were, at his feet.  Justice had been done.  But justice still did not bring healing.

“You rebuked me earlier, my young lord,” Glorfindel began again. “I would know why.”

Legolas would not meet his gaze.  “Yes, I know.  And I ask that you excuse me on grounds of needless ill-temper.”

“Needless?” Glorfindel asked.  “Never have I known your ill-temper to be without cause.  Come, tell me.  Or do you mistrust me still?”

“No, my lord,” Legolas sighed, feeling younger and more insignificant in his presence than he had in a long time.  “If you ask it of me I will tell you.”

“Then why did you so object to my condemning the use of the Elven Rings?”

“Reliance upon the power of the Three crippled the ultimate defense of Imladris and Lórien, surely,” Legolas explained, echoing what he had so often heard his father say.  “Yet while the Rings endured, there was unmarred peace to be had there.  We stood alone, you said, and thus our realm will endure whilst the others fade.  But in the end, what is that to us?  Our time is ended, and we will fade regardless.  Perhaps we shall linger longer than you would be able, but it will not be many years hence before we too must relinquish all we have won.  But perhaps it seems so to me because I am now called, and I can no longer see clearly my own way.  Before, I was wholly of my father’s mind, that power not one’s own was an unnecessary risk and hazard, but now at the end of it all it seems our abstinence has gained us little.”

New compassion showed itself in Glorfindel’s eyes.  “Does your calling worry you?” he asked.

“It frightens me,” Legolas confessed.  “Mostly because I do not understand it.”

“You will,” Glorfindel assured him, “when at last you answer.  Your father understands it, but he is loath to listen.  He has shut his doors against it, and filled his ears with the sounds of trees lest he hear again the waves.”

“That is what frightens me,” Legolas said.  “I want to hear the trees again.”

“Perhaps you may.  Never will you forget the Sea if once its call is roused.  But do not fear it, for it is natural to us.  There across the foam-crested depths you will find your true home, one that will not fade away around you.”

Legolas nodded and would say no more.

“Very well,” Glorfindel said at last, standing, his robes rippling in the spectral light.  “I shall leave you with that.  Remember what I have said, and I hope that someday it will be a comfort to you.”  Quietly he started back toward the pavilion, leaving Legolas alone where he sat, but then he stopped and turned back one last time.  “Think of it not as losing those you have found,” he said, “but rather as finding those you have lost.”

After a moment Legolas looked back over his shoulder, only to find that he had gone.

There had indeed been much loss in their lives.  Legolas had never had a kinsman returned to him, but Glorfindel was living proof of the rebirth of their kind.  Who would they find waiting for them on the shores of Valinor?  His mother, his grandfather Oropher, or perhaps his cousin Celebrin?  Thingol himself?  Had the Kinslayings of Doriath and Sirion been righted?  

Despite these hopes, his fundamental reluctance still troubled him.  Glorfindel would assure him the Undying Lands were his true home, but that was easily said by an Exile who had been born there, and who would be expected to pine for that which was familiar.  Not so for a born Wood-elf.  Valinor was utterly unknown to him, save the traditional tales and legends.  

With a weary sigh, Legolas let himself fall back into the deep grass, somehow far more comforting than the pallet inside.  The stars wheeled above him in constant movement, the silver face of Ithil shining down upon him with what almost seemed like compassion.  His kind had always been called the Elves of Twilight.  It seemed that he stood in the twilight of his own life now, but whether he would emerge into darkness or a bright new day, only the Valar knew. 

He did not know how long he lay there, putting all his worries out of mind for a time to enjoy the simple pleasures of Middle-earth while he still could.  For now, time meant nothing to him, far from home and all his kin in a strange land, returning from a nigh-ludicrous misadventure which had somehow triumphed against all odds, and had now quite literally changed the world as they had known it.  The Shadow was gone.  Mirkwood was no more.  They would have peace again.

The very idea was difficult to realize.  The War was truly over!  Preoccupied with Gondor, Legolas reflected that he had known but not yet fully absorbed the implications for his own people.  Now that he was alone and had time to appreciate it, it was such a great and unbelievable relief that he could not help laughing to himself, mirth borne of pure joy and perhaps a touch of emotionally exhausted hysteria.  They had lived to see the end!  What on earth was he doing with this troupe in Gondor?  He could scarcely wait to see again the trees of his home, trees that would be clean again!  No more rabid wolves, nor monstrous spiders with their wretched webs!

“By Mahal, Legolas!” interrupted a harsh and indignant whisper from the window of the pavilion just behind.  “What are you giggling about?  I hope nothing more than putting that damnable crick in my neck and then disappearing to roll in the grass like a moonstruck dog.  Why don’t you come inside, for pity’s sake?”

“Come, Gimli!”  Legolas' voice was laced with good-natured ridicule and barely-suppressed laughter.  “Can you not see yourself mounted even yet?”

The pavilions were collapsing as the great entourage made ready to begin another day’s ride toward Rohan, the field teeming with busy Men and Elves, many already mounted.

The red-cloaked Dwarf snarled irritably as he endeavored to climb the light and wiggling picket rail and thus gain his seat upon Arod behind the resplendent Elven-prince.  “Not all of us can leap so lightly as you, you laughing willow wand!” he growled at last.

Now Legolas did laugh, for the sight of Gimli striving to maintain his cumbrous balance upon the third rail of a weakening excuse for a fence was amusing in itself.  “Very well,” he said. “Take my hand.”  

He extended his hand, which Gimli grasped rather callously, their eyes meeting then in an undeclared but mutual duel of wills.  The Dwarf at first held the advantage of surprise, though his boyish challenge of strength was then met equally by the Elf.  His leather gauntlets still in his belt, Gimli’s calloused hand was not spared Legolas’ near crushing grip, and eventually he had to admit a stalemate with a wry chuckle, though they did not release one another.

“Worthy opponents, you Elves,” he complimented him.

“And the same to you, Dwarf,” Legolas returned with a smile.  “But come!”

Gimli had felt it, too.  The picket began to fall away in the soft turf.  With a mighty pull, Legolas swung his companion up behind him as the little fence fell and Arod danced nervously beneath them.  Unfortunately Gimli landed upon the length of Legolas’ cloak, which slid over Arod’s sleek back.  Legolas choked as Gimli scrambled to keep his seat, the horse shying this way and that, unnerved by the panic of both.

“Hey! Whoa there!”

“Ai, Belain!”

As Legolas leaned back and thrust a hand beneath his strangling collar, Gimli flailed about and sized upon a great handful of his friend’s hair.

Legolas roared, a shade of Thranduil on the northern marches of Gondor.  Arod squealed and threw them both to the ground in an unruly tangle of red, green, and gold, a snarling cacophony of both Khuzdul and Sindarin expletives.

Legolas pulled himself to his knees at once lest Arod tramp upon them, seething with the indignity of actually having fallen from his horse in full regalia, dragging his – or rather Glorfindel’s – cloak out from under the Dwarf who still sat on it.  Gimli spat grass and grumbled upwards, hissing as he favored a bruised hip.

Arod pranced back to them, tossing his proud head and whinnying amiably as if to say, What a fine mess you two have made!  Shall we not begin again?

Legolas looked down at Gimli, and Gimli up at Legolas.  From the grass-filled beard to the cockeyed circlet, they could not help laughing rather freely at themselves.

“I must say, that is the first time that has happened,” Legolas observed, brushing himself off, and righting his crown.  “Are you hurt, my friend?"

“Not badly, I suppose,” Gimli admitted, shaking his beard clean of those little bits of chewed grass discarded by grazing horses.  “And you?”

“Well, you may explain the boot print to Lord Glorfindel,” Legolas said, twisting to have a look at his backside and what woe the Dwarf had wrought there on the rich green cloth.  “But come, I forgive you, at least.  You will go first this time.”

Finally mounted successfully, they cantered out over the bright green fields to join the others.  There in the distance, supervising the last details of preparation and repacking, sat Lord Elrond upon his grey steed surrounded by several others of his household, statuesque in the late morning light.  Some distance opposite them, Legolas descried also the fleeting form of Queen Undomiel returning to her father astride her handsome grey mare from the thin belt of trees beyond, wherein could be found a clear mountain stream. 

Brightening at the sight of her, Legolas sent Arod galloping over the green to intercept her course.  She saw him at once and gamesomely urged her horse to greater speed, both of them converging upon Elrond’s coterie with a swift pounding of hooves, laughing for a moment like children again as they drew in their panting mounts, their race a recognized draw.

“There seems an uncommonly light-hearted air adrift today,” commented Erestor, watching the near-disgraceful frolicking around them.

“The war is ended,” Elrond said with a smile.  “Let them play again.  Were I not so wearied of this world I would join them.”

“My compliments, Lady Arwen,” Legolas was saying, gallantly laying a kiss upon her slender hand.

“And the same to you, my Lord Legolas,” she laughed.  “You have ever run a worthy race.”

“Provided we don’t go and break our necks while we’re at it,” Gimli grumbled from behind, shooing Elf hair out of his face when at last he dared to loosen his grip about Legolas’ waist.  That kind of reckless abandon on horseback, bare horseback no less, seemed to him somehow impious.

“With you astride, Master Dwarf,” Glorfindel laughed, turning toward them upon his white stallion Asfaloth, “I should not wonder.  Ah, yes,” he continued with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, seeing the chagrin pass their faces, “do not think me so blind as that.”

“And what is this secret of yours?” Arwen asked, turning to Glorfindel and then back to Legolas.

“He shed them both like a wet stable blanket just a moment ago,” the golden lord continued, nodding at Arod, though there was no spite in his tone, only a lurking smile.  “My thanks to you, Master Dwarf, for one of the hardiest laughs I have enjoyed for many years!”

Asfaloth seemed almost to snicker himself, the bells upon his jeweled headstall jingling merrily.  Arod snorted in return, tossing his free mane as though scoffing at the other steed’s finery.

“Perhaps we should not mention that memorable incident just off the fords of Bruinen,” Legolas commented idly, though with venom in his voice.

Now Arwen laughed brightly, for she remembered.  It was an incident that had left both Glorfindel and her brothers dismounted, cold, and very, very wet.

The elder lord reined Asfaloth back a pace in gesture of surrender.  “Very well, Thranduilion of Long Memory,” he acquiesced.  “Here I hold myself outdone in blackmail, and shall say no more if you so will it.”

It was all in good fun, and Legolas held himself redeemed in the lady’s eyes, which was all that truly mattered to him.  And at this moment it was indeed a fond memory, he and Arwen several centuries younger, warm and dry in their furs on the riverbank, hauling a certain Elf-lord from the icy flood on a line, he crawling ashore at their feet like something belched from the Imladris sewer.  Legolas’ stay at the Homely House had not been all study.

Very soon all the pavilions had been folded and rolled by skillful hands back into their compact bundles.  Gradually the line formed again beginning the second day’s march, the Rohirrim leading them north into their own country.  Legolas and Gimli rode again with the Elves of Imladris, but today Arwen fell back from her father’s side and shooed her brothers away, saying she wanted to ride alone again with her friend of old.  This made Gimli a trifle uncomfortable, but she bid him stay.

She looked a beautiful young queen today, all in silver and that elusive indigo blue, her arms bared by her flowing sleeves to feel the sun and the summer breeze, strings of diamonds woven into her ebony hair.  

“It is a pleasure to see you smile again, Legolas,” she said then, “to see the war has not stolen the light from your eyes.”

“I could say the same of you, Arwen,” he returned appreciatively, with the easy grace that always characterized his manner in her presence.  Once very long ago their fathers had considered a marriage for them; they had become only friends, but precious friends who could speak freely one to another.  “Today I banish regret as unworthy, though please do not construe that I rejoice to leave your fair company.”

Arwen laughed lightly, as though she too had cast aside her long years.  “Of course not.  But I do hope you will return to us soon.  The White City is yet barren, and I do not doubt she will flourish to new life beneath your touch.”  She smiled.  “And I would that the heirs of Elessar be raised beneath the tutelage of both the Valley and the Wood. Not lightly does a mother name the guardians of her children, but you I already trust implicitly.”

Legolas inclined his head slightly, sliver flashing on his brow.  “May I prove worthy of such trust.”

Arwen turned to him with a glance that gently reproached him for seeming to think so little of himself.  Then she shook her head as though he were hopeless.  “Oh, Legolas.  Ever you have been almost a third brother to me, and ever have I loved you for it.  I doubt not that my father wishes even now that we had been wed long ago.”

“I told you then that you would find one meant for you alone,” he said.  “I had not imagined this, but if such be your choice, so be it.  Our loss will be Gondor’s gain.”

“A bittersweet choice it was, but I do not regret it for a moment.  But come,” she urged him, “let us not dwell upon darkness to come while the days are yet bright.  I dare say my father could not understand how it was that I chose a dark and lank Lord of Men over so fair a Prince of the Eldar.”

After some hours’ travel, they halted again for a brief midday meal.  Legolas escorted Arwen forward to join her royal husband, where the rest of the Fellowship was gathering. 

“Mae govannen, my beautiful!” Aragorn welcomed her with open arms.  “And Legolas! Why do you hang back so?  Come, we are all gathered here.”

There indeed were seated all four hobbits upon hastily spread cloths of pale silk, Pippin and Merry as diminutive knights of Gondor and Rohan, Sam and Frodo in robes fit for Halfling princes.

“Hallo, Gimli!” Pippin greeted his stout friend with barely-contained enthusiasm.  “Where have you been all this time?  It’s been dreadfully boring way up front without sight or sound of either of you.”

“It is Legolas who commands the horse,” the Dwarf excused himself.  “And he seems predominantly inclined to keep the company of his own kind.”

“Look at him,” Merry pointed out, in gesture of self-evident truth, though in jest.  “An Elf-prince is too good for humble souls like us.”

“I never said anything of the kind,” Legolas protested for himself, though it was true that he looked nothing like the inconspicuous woodland scout who had joined the Fellowship. 

Their meal consisted generally of light rations of waybread and dried fruit, the former not so sustaining as lembas, but equal to their needs.  Gandalf had also come to sit among them, and an enjoyable time was had by all until the short meal had concluded and the pipes came out.  Legolas and Arwen looked askance at one another across the way as most everyone else began contentedly puffing away.

“Frodo,” Gandalf said then, changing the subject.  “How do you fare these days?  Do the nightmares trouble you still?”

Legolas could not help but listen, hanging upon the answer even as Gandalf did.

“Sometimes,” Frodo replied evasively.  “At least they did last night.  It was horrid, but then a soft wind came to clear the air, and almost I heard a voice.  It left me in a lovely corner of the Shire, with a clear rippling stream, and bluebirds in the rushes.”  He smiled.  “Perhaps it comes of having so many Elves around.”

“Perhaps,” Gandalf agreed guardedly, indulging in another pull on his pipe.

“You know, Mr. Frodo,” Sam began thoughtfully, “I had an uncommon good dream, too, now that you mention it.  Rosie was out by her hole, trimmin’ the roses, but almost like an elf-maid she looked.”

Legolas twitched a bit, but no one else seemed to notice.

Again the long procession moved forward over the plain, a slow and weary pace that threatened to wear upon the mind if one had not another to speak to, the monotonous gait of the horse the only rhythm to mark the passing of time.  But then one of the Galadhrim on foot came out of line and approached Legolas, who rode again behind the household of Elrond.

“Hail, Legolas of Lasgalen,” he began formally in the Sindarin tongue, walking alongside him.  “My Lord Celeborn requests that you will grant him leave to ride with you.”

“I am at Lord Celeborn’s command,” Legolas replied graciously.  “I will come as he bids.”

The herald nodded and took his leave upon swift feet.  Soon after him, Legolas turned Arod aside. 

“Hold on, Gimli.”

“I wonder that you can breathe even now, lad.”

The Rohirric stallion made short work of the distance, glad to stretch his legs again, and it was almost reluctantly that he slackened his pace once more beside the Lord and Lady of Lórien. 

“You summoned me, my Lord?” Legolas asked dutifully.

“I did,” Celeborn said.  “I would that you would ride apart with me for a time.  Celos grows weary of the long march, and I would speak to you if I may.”

“Certainly.  But what is to be done with . . .?”

“Come, Lock-bearer,” Lady Galadriel beckoned gladly.  “You shall ride behind me upon Nieninquë while these Princes of the East take counsel together.”

Quite at a loss for words, Gimli was mounted behind his Lady, a greater honor than he would have dared hope for.  Legolas was happy for him.

Celeborn urged his mount away, bidding Legolas follow.  Together they left the lengthy procession behind, riding far upon the gently rolling hills.

It seemed that much had passed through the years to chill Celeborn’s heart into the fair but wintry figure he was now, but he seemed to warm in the presence of his younger and now beloved kinsman.  

“What did the night bring?” he asked at last as they rode, keeping the general direction of the others, but staying far from them.

“It brought Glorfindel,” Legolas answered quite truthfully, at which Celeborn frowned.  “He spoke to me of the call of the West, and I dare say I needed to hear some of it, but his perspective was very . . .”

“Noldorin?” Celeborn suggested ruefully.  “Speak to your father when you return to him.  He broached the subject to me when last we met in victory upon the New Year.  Perhaps he knew even then that it again touched him near.  I do not expect he will be surprised.”

“I shall,” Legolas promised, though he did not relish the thought of that conversation.

“Be good to him, Legolas,” Celeborn pleaded unexpectedly.  “I know it is needless for me to tell you that, but now I feel that he and I will soon find ourselves reft of everything despite our victories.  This was a war the Eldar could never truly win, not for themselves.”

“I know,” Legolas said softly.  “Perhaps life in the West will not be so dreadful after all,” he said, with some attempt at optimism.

“We may only hope so,” Celeborn agreed reluctantly, “for there seems little other choice.”

Since this whole story is something of a canon-hugger, any direct quotes will be underlined. Co-authored with Tolkien, if you will.

After fifteen days, the procession came at last within sight of Edoras, and there again was the golden hall, gleaming beneath the sun to welcome back both its kings, the fallen and the new-crowned.

There they all rested for three days while the men of the Mark busily prepared a funeral for Théoden.  At last the feast was ready and the ceremonies begun, attended by the Lords and Ladies of Rohan, Gondor, and the victorious Elven-realms.

The body of the king was borne solemnly to his barrow, prepared with love by his people, and there was entombed with the arms he had carried in the last battle, and many other things of his house.

Legolas stood silently beside Celeborn as the mound was raised and covered with white evermind blossoms.  Burial was not a sight he enjoyed, but as the son of the king he had attended many in his time, for it was the duty of the lord to answer for every death suffered beneath his command.  He had laid to rest many of his friends and grieved with their families.

But somehow the passing of this king of Men was different, for to lament it would be to lament the inevitable.  There were tears in the assembly, surely, but among the Rohirrim there was only passing regret beside grim pride, for Théoden King had died an honorable death in open battle, leaving the world in a blaze of glory that would hopefully be the envy of many to come.

Then the Riders of the King’s House who had assembled nearby rode slowly round the finished barrow, solemnly chanting a song of Théoden in their own sonorous tongue.  Legolas understood not a word of it, but its haunting notes and relentless cadence tugged at his heart nonetheless.  This lament of the horselords was not unlike many a threnody chanted in the dark hours of Mirkwood after the fashion of the silvan Elves. 

Merry stood at the foot of the mound, away from his fellow Hobbits, weeping unashamedly.  When at last the song had ended, the bereaved halfling cried, “Théoden King, Théoden King!  As a father you were to me, for a little while.  Farewell!”

The strident sorrow in his voice did at last wrench a tear from Legolas, who lay a hand then upon Gimli’s shoulder as the dwarf had begun to shift uncomfortably beside him and surreptitiously pass a gloved hand across his own eyes.

When thus the last farewells had been said, they all left Théoden to his peace.  Sorrow was forgotten amid the cheer of the feast inside Meduseld, for no expense had been spared to make it a worthy tribute for all those it would honor.  Festive banners adorned the walls, the tables were laden with food of all kinds, the hall filled with guests from all corners of Middle-earth.

Soon it came time to drink to the memory of the kings, a time-honored custom in Rohan where lore was preserved largely by memory.  Beautiful with gown of white and with pale blossoms in her hair, Lady Éowyn passed a full cup to Éomer her brother.  The assembly sat silent as the loremaster then impressively recited the names of the Lords of the Mark in due order.

“Eorl the Young; and Brego the builder of the Hall; and Aldor brother of Baldor the hapless; and Fréa, and Fréawine, and Goldwine, and Déor, and Gram; and Helm who lay hid in Helm’s Deep when the Mark was overrun.”

Not until now had Legolas fully realized the astonishing brevity of the kings of Men.  Rohan of the Horselords had not stood for but five centuries, and yet so many names already had come and gone.  The lineage of his own forebears could yet be counted upon one hand and still reach back into the dawn of the world.  To the immortal mind there was something sadly pathetic about these short-lived Men who made as great an effort as their valor and strength should allow, but who were denied time, much like small candles which burn brightly ere they fail, and which could have given much more light if only their wicks had been longer.

“Fréalaf, Helm’s sister-son, and Léofa, and Walda, and Folca, and Folcwine, and Fengel, and Thengel, and Théoden the latest.”

When at last they had named Théoden, Éomer downed the contents of his cup according to custom.

“Come,” Éowyn bid them then, “people of Rohan, Lords and Ladies of Elves and Men, let us rise and drink to the new king!”

“Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!” came the resounding reply from the voices of many nations.

Many glad hours passed in celebration of the new day that had dawned over Rohan with the banishing of the dark lords from power over the earth.  It was a rebirth shared by many, but for now it was the hour of the Eorlingas.

When at last they evening drew on, Éomer stood.  “Now this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King,” he said, “but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he should not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn my sister.  Hear then all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as have never before been gathered in this hall!  Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien, asks that Éowyn Lady of Rohan should be his wife, and she grants it full willing.  Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all.”

Amid the glad adulation and applause of their friends and kinsmen, Faramir took Éowyn in hand, and all drank to their glad future together.

“Thus,” said Éomer, “is the friendship of the Mark and of Gondor bound with a new bond, and the more do I rejoice.”

“No niggard are you, Éomer,” Aragorn spoke up jovially, “to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm!”

Éowyn turned to him as light-hearted laughter rang through the hall, her fine eyes shining with new life.  “Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!”

“I have wished thee joy ever since I first saw thee,” Aragorn assured her, Arwen upon his arm.  “It heals my heart to see you now in bliss.”

But there in Aragorn’s regal shadow sat another, and Faramir called to him gladly.  “Hail, Legolas!  May the stars shine upon your path, and the new saplings of Ithilien grow not overtall ere we meet again in our realm!”

"Indeed not," Legolas said brightly, raising his glass in return.  "I am certain we shall be very amicable neighbors."

But Éowyn for the first had truly met the bright eyes of the Elf, deep with unfathomable memory, and wondered that she overlooked him before.  Another who, like herself, had left home to face death and destruction, and she regretted now that she knew him so little.  Her generous love of Faramir had overcome the barriers she had raised about herself, revealing to her at last the kindred light in others.  

“Ah, Éowyn!” Éomer suddenly burst upon her, arresting her attention as he affectionately kissed her brow.  “I am happy for you, sister.  To imagine that only this time last year I would not have thought it possible.”

“Last year it was not possible,” she said.  “Much has changed, brother.”

“That it has,” Éomer agreed, folding her white hands in his.  “Let us hope that any more change shall be also for the better.”

“Surely,” she placated him, glancing back then for Legolas.

He was gone.

Her heart jumped a bit at his disappearance, suggesting a more eldritch aura than she had before imagined, and briefly she wondered if he had really ever been there at all.  But quickly searching the room, her sharp eyes caught a tell-tale swirl of green and gold at the door.

They say Elves are drawn to the stars.

The close air of the hall had begun to wear upon her as well, she decided, and Éomer was now fortuitously deeply engaged in conversation with Faramir. 

She simply must speak to him.

Excusing herself to her brother and her betrothed, Lady Éowyn negotiated her way to the door, taking up a pale green shall as she went and pulling it over her shoulders.  She left the bright hall of Meduseld, the glad crowds and music within, passing out into the clear summer night.  There she glanced about for a moment, searching either side of front stair, giving no regard to the taciturn guards.  There was no sign Legolas.  Even if she were skilled in woodcraft, to track the light footsteps of an Elf in this dark would be in vain, but she had instinct to guide her.

Like a white faerie-maid in the starlight, she descended the grand stairway, the only sound the light tap of her slippers upon the age-worn stone.  There were still lights to be seen within the homes of the peasantry as they celebrated as they might, but by this hour many had retired to their beds, safe now from hurt and harm if but for a little while.

Silently she passed along the village road, a lady alone and without escort.  But none would dare to lay hand upon the Lady Éowyn, and she walked without fear.  The stars were indeed captivating things, she thought, timeless as the Elves themselves perhaps, and in that she could see how they would revere them.  If the old and nigh forgotten tales be true, there had walked Elves upon earth before even the sun or moon was made.  But such high thoughts defied her practical mind.  War and honor she understood, but the ancient and inexplicable were beyond her grasp, at least thus far.  Her horizons were broadening.

She descended through the entire city, approaching again that place hallowed of Edoras.  Her search was not in vain; even as she drew near and left the protection of the city walls she heard a soft chanting upon the wind in a language she did not know.

She approached him slowly, keeping to the road between the barrows.  He stood motionless before the mound of Théoden, brighter himself than the flickering torch marking the new grave.  The wind playing through his pale hair and dark raiment made him seem almost the wraith of some prince of the dead paying his respects to the fallen in the way of his own kind.  Now she regretted to disturb him there, but she felt strangely drawn to him, even more so than before, as one cannot help but stare enthralled upon the sight of a ghost.  The world in which they walked was not her own, and it was rare and wonderful when such paths should cross, beyond space and time.

She drew nearer, almost afraid that he should evanesce before her eyes as spirits would, for the cold starlight had robbed him of all living color. 

His singing faded then as she stopped mere paces from him, though it was plain he had long been aware of her presence.

“Why have you sought me, my lady?” he asked, his voice soft but humorless and otherworldly, his inquiry almost a demand.  “Have you tired of your betrothed so quickly?”

“Do not stop, Legolas,” she protested.  “That was charming.”

Now a sad shade of a smile passed his lips.  “Is that not indeed the best time to stop, when others still think you charming?” he returned.  “If I dare go on, you may change your mind."

It suddenly seemed to Éowyn horribly wrong that such as he would be subjected to war and its ravages.  They were made for higher things, and wounds and bloodshed did not become them, the same the lords of her family had said of their White Lady.  “What brought you to our war, my lord?” she asked, seeking perhaps a kindred answer.  “Did you also seek death and glory?”

“No,” Legolas dismissed the idea firmly.  “Of glory I have no need or want, and only a coward willfully seeks death.  Sacrifice is admirable, but not the desire to escape life and its trials.”

She felt his words carried an edge meant for her, and indeed they stung.  Had she not unlawfully abandoned her people to seek a warrior’s death?  But her wounded pride flared in spite of her.

“But what of you?” she asked sharply.  “You left your own people in time of war!  You, an Elf of the North, had no call to wander so far from home seeking battle, except perhaps love of the Lord Aragorn.”

The look he leveled upon her then was enough to quiet her.  “Had I not?” he returned bitterly, evoking the more daunting legends of his kind, fell creatures whom it was best to leave well alone, a proud and perilous race.  But then his mood softened again, as though he found his sudden flash of anger distasteful.  “Had I not?” he asked again, seemingly of himself as much as of her.

Gradually it seemed that all semblance of youth had fallen from him, and she glimpsed for the first the long count of years behind his eyes, years that were still to her unfathomable.  

“Why did you so desire to ride to war, my lady?” he asked then, a touch of regret in his voice.  “Does the bloodlust call you so strongly as that?”

“The Eorlingas have long been harried by the Enemy and his minions.  If that was to be the final battle, I would have lent it my sword, not cower here in vain hope of your victory.”

“Vain hope?  You would then leave those less able than you to the fate you scorned?  You would leave them leaderless?  Did not Théoden King bid you rule in his stead?”

Éowyn looked away and did not answer, feeling as a recalcitrant child called to task by one older than her father’s fathers.  “I was sent by a greater doom than I knew,” she said at last, in excuse.  “It was my place to slay the Witch-king, for by the hand of no other would he have fallen.”

“The foresight of Glorfindel said merely that he would fall by the hand of no man,” Legolas insisted.  “You are no man, I grant you.  But neither is Mithrandir a Man.  Nor am I a Man.  The part was given to you, perhaps, and also the hurts you suffered, to atone for the wrongs you willfully wrought.  Devotion is admirable, my lady,” he went on, now gentle and earnest.  “But without discipline, how can you be trusted?”

Again she was silent, for what could she say?

“Soon you will take up the duties of a ruling Princess, a wife, and a mother,” he continued.  “You must lay your sword aside, put off the shield-maiden for a time and take up a prouder role.  Why insist upon destroying life when you are given the grace to create it?”

Again her pride was shamed in the face of one so august, and she dare not gainsay the wisdom of centuries.  “It will be no simple task.”

He smiled.  “Simple enough; but ‘simple’ and ‘easy’ mean not the same thing.  You have stricken your valiant blow, and you shall be ever renowned for it.  Be satisfied in that.”

“Perhaps,” she said.  “Perhaps I have done such justice as I could for my kinsmen who now lie here.”  She surveyed the silent barrows that surrounded them.  “For Théoden my King, for Théodred my kinsman, and for my father Éomund, who lie elsewhere, and for my grandfather Thengel, whose reign was at the last darkened by Saruman.”  She sighed.  “He, too, wed outside the Mark.  I would that I could have spoken with him, but never did I know my grandfather.”

There was no sound for a time but that of the wind whisking through the grass, pale grass turned blue in the starlight.  She did not look back, but she could feel his eyes upon her, a solemn presence that could not be ignored.

“Nor I mine.”

The soft-spoken profession came as a surprise, and she turned to see that he had indeed changed as his voice had.  Gone was Legolas the Elven-prince, and in his place stood Legolas the friend, all the lingering indifference cleared from his eyes as though she had at last fully won his confidence.  Besides that, in realizing his true age she had nigh forgotten that he also had forebears.

“My grandfather was slain before my birth,” he said, “by orcs, on the plains of Mordor.”  He paused a moment, his countenance darkening.  “The Dark Lord has ever been the one great bane of my life.  But for him, Lasgalen should have been among the fairest of green woodlands in this Middle-earth, many a slain Elf who lies now in a shallow grave should have lived still happily beneath its boughs.”

“Was your king touched by the Shadow as well?” Éowyn asked in a hushed voice.

“No,” Legolas assured her with a touch of pride, his eyes glinting.  “My father would carve out his own tongue before he would allow Sauron to possess it.”

“Truly I am glad to hear it,” Éowyn said.  She could imagine Legolas’ father as nothing but a proud, noble elvenlord, and would not have wished upon him the humiliations brought to Théoden.  “You return to him now, before you join us in Ithilien?”

“I do.  So long as he abides there, the greatest portion of my heart is given to Lasgalen, wherever the twisting road of life should take me. But the hour draws late,” he said, “and you will be missed.  Valar forbid Faramir should harbor doubts on the very night of your betrothal.”

“Very well,” she sighed.  “But what of you?”

“Those who would look for my company are elsewhere than here.  This night is for the glory of Gondor and Rohan; I would not trouble them with thought of me.”

“Good night, my lord,” she said as she withdrew, “if I see you not again before the morn.”

“Good night, my lady,” he returned courteously, his voice borne upon the soft night air almost as though one with it. 

And so she left him as she had found him.

Four days later, Éomer’s guests made ready to depart northwest toward their own homes.  But there were some who would stay.  Faramir and Imrahil would go no farther, and Arwen Evenstar would remain as well until Aragorn’s return.  She and Elrond her father had disappeared for a time, saying their final and bitter farewells ere they were parted forever.

Glorfindel was seeing the pavilion of Imladris disassembled in the absence of his lord.  The day was a warm one, with hardly a cloud to grace the sky.  He was indeed sorry to face at last the loss of Lady Undomiel.  A passage West began to seem more appealing every day, for in a few years there would not be much left for an Elf this side of the sea.  Unless, of course, he wanted to go abide with Thranduil.

He laughed softly at the thought.  Ah, Thranduil, that incorrigible old lionheart.  His own Elves adored him, but his rougher Sindarin edges must be forgiven.  Glorfindel turned then, seeing Legolas approaching him.

“Well met, once again,” he greeted him kindly.  “You will be riding with us, I presume?  Or have you come to say farewell?”

“I came to return this,” Legolas said.  In his hands he bore a clean and neatly folded pile of clothes.  He was garbed once again in his own woodland tunic and the grey cloak of Lórien.  “I shall not be needing them where I am going.”

“And where are you going?” Glorfindel asked, accepting the bundle.

“Home,” Legolas smiled, “even if I must take the roundabout road.  Thank you, my lord, for everything.”

“It was my pleasure, Legolas,” he insisted.  “But roundabout or not, I believe my road will soon be much longer, that I shall travel but once.”  He paused a moment and met his gaze earnestly, seeking an answer that had doubtless weighed upon both of them.  “Might I expect you?”

Legolas was silent at first, but in the end he knew his choice had truly been made months ago.  “You may,” he said at last, turning his back upon what meager future Middle-earth could offer him.  “I know not when, but I will follow.”

Glorfindel smiled.  “It is best for you,” he assured him.  “As I said, it brought you joy at first.  Remember what called to you then.  Fix your mind’s eye upon what awaits you, rather than what lies behind.”

“I fear it is not within my power to see such things,” Legolas said.  “I have no memory of the West.”

“Remember the face of your mother,” Glorfindel suggested softly.  “I am certain she at least awaits you there.”

Legolas lowered his eyes and nodded.  “Thank you,” he said again, before turning back whence he had come.

Glorfindel watched him go, likely to find his horse and his Dwarf before it came time for their departure.  “You are most welcome,” he said softly.  

Valinor was not all it had once been, but it was Valinor still, and he was certain the Twilight Elves would come in time to love it even as the Calaquendi did if only they overcame their reticence to leave behind the faded shores of Endorenna.  He knew they had some legitimate grievances against the woe wrought by the Exiles in their pride and ambition.  But what was done was done, regret it though they might.

“Namárië, Laiqalassë,” he sighed, “until we meet again.  If only Elvendom had borne more princes like you.”

~ `*` ~ `*` ~ `*` ~

Before they were all to leave, the principal lords and companions of the Fellowship were gathered before the stairways of Meduseld to receive their valediction from the Lord and Lady of the Mark. 

“My halls stand ever open to you, Elessar, when you should deign to honor them again,” Éomer said, accepting the comradely embrace Aragorn offered.

“It will be not many days hence,” the Gondorian King assured him.  “I leave my Queen in your care, and trust to the hospitality of Rohan.”

“You need never doubt it, my lord.”  Éomer turned then to the wizard.  “Fare free, Gandalf Greyhame,” he bid, using the old epithet almost in jest.  “May Shadowfax bear you to the aid of many as be your need, now that war has ended.”

“It has ended but for a time,” Gandalf said somberly.  “Other clouds shall gather than that of Sauron, but none perhaps so terrible.  There may be many years yet of strife ere the White Tree may grow in peace.”

“When Gondor calls, Rohan will answer once again,” Éomer affirmed.  “And as for yourself, your counsel will ever be welcomed in the Mark, and the White Rider a glad sight upon our plains.”

Now both he and his sister turned to the Hobbits, or rather to one in particular.  “Farewell now, Meriadoc of the Shire and Holdwine of the Mark!” Éowyn said gladly.  “Ride to good fortune, and ride back soon to our welcome!”

“Kings of old would have laden you with gifts that a wain could not bear for your deeds upon the fields of Mundburg,” Éomer said; “and yet you would take naught, you say, but the arms that were given to you.  This I suffer, for indeed I have no gift that is worthy; but my sister begs you to receive this small thing, as a memorial of Dernhelm and of the horns of the Mark at the coming of the morning.”

With that Éowyn handed to Merry a silver horn, of marvelous craftsmanship, worthy to grace the armory of kings.

“This is an heirloom of our house,” said Éowyn.  “It was made by the Dwarves, and came from the hoard of Scatha the Worm.  Eorl the Young brought it from the North.  He that blows it at need shall set fear in the hearts of his enemies and joy in the hearts of his friends, and they shall hear him and come to him.”

Merry accepted it, somewhat abashedly, and kissed Éowyn’s hand.  She gladly embraced him in return, her comrade-in-arms.

“Made by the Dwarves,” Gimli echoed, jabbing Legolas in the ribs, eyes glinting.  “Have a look at that, lad.  Have you ever seen the like!”

“No,” Legolas had to admit, absentmindedly snaking his arm around Arod’s silver head where it hung over his shoulder, stroking the stallion’s face.  “But I have much yet of my own to show you, friend Gimli.”

“Ah, Legolas,” Éomer said at last, turning from the hobbits.  “Neither have I anything worthy to bestow upon you.  Freely would my sister and I open our vaults for you to choose your reward, but I suspect neither gold nor jewels would tempt you.  Therefore I beg of you to accept something greater that yet lies within my power to grant.”

“And what would that be, my lord Éomer?” Legolas asked.

“The horse you ride,” replied the King of the Rohirrim.

Legolas knew well how these people valued their horses, and so appreciated the magnitude of the offer.  “I do accept, Lord of the Mark,” he assured him, with a gracious bow.  “And indeed there is naught I would desire more.  But tell me, what is his name in your tongue?”

“In the words of the Mark,” Éomer told him, “arod means ‘quick’, ‘swift’, or ‘ready’.”

“Very well,” Legolas replied, smiling.  “It is a fitting name.  But henceforth it shall be considered in the tongue of my own people, for in the Sindarin Elvish of my house, Arod signifies ‘royal’, perhaps more fitting still to recall the memory of he who bestowed him.”

“And to honor he who would mount him,” Éomer insisted admiringly.  “I marvel at such a chance as that.  More is decreed by Powers unseen than we know.”

“There is much truth in that, Lord Éomer,” Gandalf said.  “There is no such thing in this world as mere chance.”

The mere fact that they lived now in victory, the preservation of all Middle-earth accomplished by their own efforts and ultimately redeemed by the deeds of the diminutive heroes in their midst, abundantly made his point.

“And you, Master Gimli,” Éomer said.  “When you have repaid your promise to return to King Elessar, you will not forget your pledge to come rebuild the fortress of Helm’s Deep with the renowned skill of your kin.”

“Certainly not,” Gimli stated emphatically.  “I am eager to show the world of Men how stonework is done properly.”

“No doubt,” Éomer smiled.  “But I do not forget that you saved my life in that selfsame fortress.  And I shall be accounted no less than King Elessar in rewarding my friends.  Even as Prince Legolas now bears the double crown of the Woodland and Ithilien, so you, Gimli, shall be named Lord of the Glittering Caves of Glæmscrafu if so you desire.  You spoke so fittingly of your love for them before, I think it only just that you should receive full measure of what Men have neglected.”

Gimli’s features formed the very picture of Dwarvish delight.  “I should be only too glad to accept, my lord Horsemaster!” he said with irrepressible enthusiasm.  “Such is the make of my wildest and dearest dreams!”

“Then you shall have them,” Éomer said with a laugh.  “Some will no doubt accuse me of ulterior motivation, for granting lordship of storehouses is a small price to pay for a guard of Dwarves in our mountains!  Farewell, my friend!  May your beard grow never less, and your axe never dull!”

And so with many other kind words they took their leave of him and the Lady.  For some their parting was but for a while, for they would return in time; but others knew they would never see again the golden hall of Meduseld, nor the green plains of Rohan, for theirs too would soon be a longer road. 

Their ride down through the city was attended by many along the way who would catch a last glimpse of these wondrous lords from distant lands, for it seemed to them that never would such a company pass the streets of Edoras again.

“Come on, lad.  You won’t see much if you stand just there all day.”

Gimli stood in the cavernous entryway behind Helm’s Deep, torch in hand, waiting more or less patiently for Legolas to overcome his reticence to enter there.  He had seen and even endured the Elf’s mad free-running antics on horseback which were proof enough in itself that Legolas was no coward, and Gimli now had eyes to see that the Elvish aversion to deep places was indeed very real.  It was not merely a dislike or a preference, but a natural and innate fear.  If anything could explain the Dwarf’s new coaxing attitude, it was regret for his blind taunting in Moria, for if Legolas was so reluctant to enter the Glittering Caves of his own will -- called Aglarond in his own tongue, as he said, Place of Glory -- then with what strength of heart had he dared to pass with them the dread and moldering paths of the Black Abyss?

Legolas had balked quite unintentionally at the cave’s mouth.  He had fully intended to go on and make no issue of it, but the morning sun and the light birdsong seemed keen on dissuading him from passing into the dark on such a beautiful day.  But still, he reproached himself for entertaining such weakened thoughts now.  Had he passed through Moria and the Paths of the Dead only to disappoint Gimli here in times of peace, when this plainly meant so very much to him?  And besides, no son of Thranduil went back upon his given word, and to enter here he had promised.

It was foolish really, he told himself – his reluctance.  What could possibly befall them here?  No, perhaps it was not best to dwell upon that.

Drawing a deep breath, he turned his back upon the sunlit world and entered that which only a flickering torch revealed, furtively, like a cat slinking beneath a bed.

“That’s more like it,” Gimli said, handing him a torch of his own.  “Follow me and I’ll show you another wonder of the Northern World!”  With that he tramped on through darkened corridors ahead, and Legolas had no choice but to follow or risk losing him.

The first chambers were unimpressive enough, the only ones in use by the garrison at Helm’s Deep.  They still smelled of hay and dust, men and horses.  But still they seemed untamed, still wild and unexploited.  The Rohirrim had used them as they found them, without thought of setting chisel to the walls save to widen doorways.

“Come!” Gimli called ahead of him, his voice echoing in the emptiness.  “There is naught to see here.  All lies beyond!”

Legolas followed obligingly; Gimli’s enthusiasm could not be refused, and he trusted him to find the way back once he had taken him to the bowels of the earth and beyond.

They passed through several other chambers, closer and less inviting than those they had already seen, devoid of living echoes, for few men had bothered to venture this far.  To Legolas’ mind they seemed dead, cold, brooding, utterly unattractive, and as the passage narrowed his heart seemed to constrict along with it.  The torchlight flickered and danced along the close walls, seeming almost to sway on either side of him to suggest the illusion of drowning.

Gimli squeezed through a fissure in the wall, grumbling that as Lord of Aglarond he would be certain to have a more accommodating front door.  Despite his admonition, Legolas did close his eyes as he twisted through the same excuse for a passage.  But as he lightly set foot into the chamber beyond, already he felt relieved, knowing it was larger and more spacious than what lay behind.

“Behold!” Gimli said, his voice resounding distantly.  “The Caverns of Helm’s Deep!”

At last Legolas dared to open his eyes, and was indeed awestricken in spite of himself.  Not even Gimli’s glowing tribute had done the place complete justice.  By the feeble torchlight he saw gargantuan halls open before them, supported by enormous living pillars of unearthly colors, all glimmering with the hint of rich ore and gems.  It was perhaps a majestic caricature of Thranduil’s Halls, by far larger and grander with a raw and wild spirit.  The floor was still studded with glistening stalagmites, their brethren reaching down from the ceiling far above them.

Gimli stood silent as he observed with satisfaction Legolas’ slack-jawed reaction to the wonders that had won his heart.  “Pay gold to be excused, would you?” he jibed gently.  “What say you now, Legolas?  Do you not love them as I do?”

“I will freely admit I was wrong to scorn them at first,” Legolas said softly, unable to lower his eyes from the unimagined splendor standing in timeless array around him, or to raise his voice for fear of violating the place with echoes, “and I now understand and share your reverence for them.  But no, Gimli, I could never love them as you do.”

Gimli grunted.  “What can I say – Elves are strange folk.  But come, you have not seen the half of it all.”

They walked fa rther along the winding trail amid the stalagmites, at every turn meeting new and fantastic formations.  Legolas said nothing, respectfully leaving the silence undisturbed by any more than the tramp of the Dwarf and the dank dripping all about them.  

Gimli said nothing for a time as well, giving his friend a chance to take in the extraordinary sights in peace.  At length they passed a small pool, fed from a fissure in the wall, populated by an assorted bunch of colorless creatures who never saw the light of day. 

“Whence comes your dread of caverns?” he asked at last, as they moved on.  “Were you not born in one?”

“I most certainly was not,” Legolas replied.  “I was born in an autumn bower amid the limbs of a beech long before the Halls of Lasgalen were delved in the north.  I spent the merriest years of my life in our city amid the trees.  It was only in flight of the Shadow that we perforce took to a fortress beneath the ground.”

There seemed endless new chambers to discover and explore.  Gimli quite forgot the passage of time, and Legolas said nothing of it, for he had to admit the view was indescribable, and it had made a deep impression upon him.  After a long while of wandering through the dark, they at last sat down on a wide ledge overlooking a chasm and Gimli provided a light lunch, mostly leftovers saved from breakfast.  It did not last long between them, but it was better than nothing.  They sat there for a while afterward, for Gimli was not anxious to yet begin the journey back, savoring the view from the deepest point he had yet seen of his new realm.

“I am in your debt, Gimli,” Legolas said at last.  “I only hope it may lie within my power one day to repay you.”

“Think naught of it,” Gimli insisted.  “It was my pleasure to bring you here, you know that.  And you will be ever welcome here in afterdays.”

Legolas shook his head.  “I would that I could show you something of Elvendom that would touch you as you have here touched me.  But Lasgalen cannot vie with Lothlórien for beauty.  And I know of nothing that may complement what I have seen today of Aglarond, save perhaps the splendor that is said to endure in the Blessed Realm.”

Gimli grunted, and left Legolas to his thoughts.  That Elf could be dreadfully earnest at times.  He almost expected him to invite him to Valinor then, but that was of course ridiculous.

“My father would hold himself honored to see what I have seen,” Legolas continued, as though to himself.  “Perhaps it would remind him in some way of Menegroth, the home of his youth.”

“I have heard many things about your father,” Gimli said then, pricked with curiosity, “some darker than others.”  He glanced at Legolas guardedly, almost afraid to see the same scars behind his eyes that he had seen in Faramir.  He had noticed nothing of the kind before, but Legolas had hidden much from him.  “Tell me, is there any truth in them?”

Legolas thought a moment before he ventured to answer, drawing himself up straighter, his gaze distant.  “You live in halls of stone, Gimli,” he said.  “What becomes of an echo each time it is returned?  At first it is faithful, but afterward it soon weakens.  So also is truth weakened in the telling, becoming first rumor, then falsehood.  That is how you may regard whatever popular ghoul stories you have heard of my father.  True, he is unforgiving to those who make an enemy of him, but to his kin he is ever devoted.  To seek the truth of an Elvenking in the memory of Dwarf-lords is to seek a right reflection in crooked glass.  If enmity festers still between our fathers, then it is our place to remedy it, for old and pointless grievances profit us nothing.”

“True,” Gimli said, thoughtful himself.  “Without the friendship of Elves, never should I have seen the White Lady amid the Golden Wood.”

“And without the friendship of Dwarves,” Legolas smiled, “never should I have ventured in to behold the wonders of Aglarond.  Moria still holds none of my love, but I trust Erebor will not be so forbidding.  And I believe you will enjoy the hospitality of Lasgalen far more than your father did.”

“You do not expect your father to chain me in his dungeon for daring to fraternize with his son?”

“He will not, unless he would chain me with you in that storeroom your father names a dungeon.  But do not misjudge him, Gimli.  My father is a wise and noble king of fearsome authority, but no tyrant.”

“Sounds like my mother,” Gimli muttered. 

Legolas’ shoulders began shaking as he endeavored to smother some spontaneous laughter, perhaps imaging how Thranduil would appreciate the comparison. 

“Ah, Gimli,” he laughed, “my own mother would have been fond of you.  In truth you resemble my father in more ways than one.  You will understand one another well if you but try.”  But then he sobered and glanced about.  “Gimli,” he said, in calm monotone, “is it my eyes only, or it is the light failing us?”

Now fear did grip Gimli’s heart with an icy hand, as he realized in what desperate straits they now found themselves.  “Have we tarried so long already?”  He reached in vain for the replacement torches he did not have, then looked to the Elf somewhat sheepishly, who had gone rigid beside him.  “Care for a walk in the dark, Legolas?” he asked, just as the last light diminished and failed.

There was silence in the pitch blackness.  To judge the depth of his breathing, Gimli guessed Legolas was making a valiant effort to remain calm, when every instinct urged him to panic.

Dwarvish expletives came low and free.  “I swear I had them ere we left.  How in the name of all . . .” but then he stopped and sighed, recognizing the futility of self-reproach now.  “Well, shall we begin?”

“Do not move,” Legolas insisted, grabbing his shoulder.  “Give me a moment, I beg you.  Now is not the time to go blundering about blind.”

After a few more moments, he sighed and rose to his feet, Gimli beside him.  Legolas turned Gimli’s back to him and took hold of his shoulders.  “I know little of Dwarves,” he said, “but perhaps my eyes see more in the dark than yours, though there is indeed nothing to see.  However, I know near nothing of caves and their ways.  I shall be your eyes, and you will be my feet.”

They relied on one another that way during the long wearisome journey back.  Gimli led the way, feeling the ground instinctively while following Legolas’ vague but emphatic instructions regarding what lay ahead of them.  If anything, the experience impressed an even greater respect upon them for the surroundings, for never had they felt so insignificant, their senses sharpened by necessity, able to feel more acutely the looming grandeur all around them though it was lost to their eyes.  The black gloom was almost tangible in itself.  Gimli was amazed Legolas could sense anything at all, and therein lay the mysteries of elvish vision.

“You are not afraid, Legolas, that I shall lose us both to our deaths here?” he asked at length, almost conversationally, as they inched across a narrow natural bridge, unpleasantly reminiscent of Khazâd-dûm, the sound of water running far below.

“No,” Legolas said, his voice deliberately even, “because you will not.  I refuse to believe otherwise.”

Gimli grunted, appreciative of the Elf’s faith in him, but realizing that such optimism was the only way Legolas was able keep himself calm.  “Still,” he mused, “it would not be a bad place to die.  Think of it!  Entombed in greater glory than all our sires of old, buried forever inviolate beneath the world of the living, in halls of stone amid the timeless splendor of the netherworld!  An entire mountain against the sky for a monument!  Ah, it stirs the blood.”

“It chills mine,” Legolas returned through his teeth.  “Gimli, if you would have me come sane with you again into the sunlight, you will cease plucking upon my nerves.  And keep to the left, please.”

They continued to pick their way along through what seemed like hours.  All seemed very much the same, and Gimli regretted their lack of light if only because the glories of his realm were veiled from his eyes, making their return a dreary one.  By the grip on his shoulders, he knew Legolas was as nervous as a cat in a box, enjoying this perilous sojourn not in the least.  Still he trusted his Dwarvish friend implicitly, but after a long while of doubtful wandering Gimli regretted that he had to disappoint him.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Perhaps mid-afternoon,” Legolas answered bleakly, a longing in his voice for the green fields of Rohan beneath the sun.  “Why?”

Gimli heaved a sigh, and broke away from Legolas’ grasp, sitting heavily upon an unseen rock after stumbling upon it.  “With any luck,” he said, “Aragorn may come looking for us before nightfall.  I’m afraid I’ve lost us indeed, Legolas.”

The Elf took it calmly, his form a vague outline in the blackness, bearing the slightest hint of an unnatural glow.  Gimli heard him sit on the floor at his feet, the soft rustle of his clothes mingled with a sigh of regret and resignation.  “I feared it was so,” he said quietly.

“I am sorry, lad,” Gimli said, sincerely.  “I suppose you regret now that ever I brought you here.”

A reply seemed on the tip of Legolas’ tongue, but he paused a moment.  “No,” he said.  “Even now I would not have had it otherwise.”

“How long would it take an Elf to starve?” Gimli asked, ever full of delightful questions.

“Longer than a Dwarf,” Legolas returned, with what Gimli sensed to be a cold smile.  “If we did not succumb to simple heartbreak first.”

They said nothing for a time, until the silence between them became painful.  Then Legolas rose again and slowly began pacing, his agitation building.  Gimli watched him as he could, feeling helpless.  If only he had a light!  Then wandering would not hold so much peril, and they may yet find their own way out.  He could have kicked himself for his carelessness.

Then Legolas stopped and began to sing.  Softly at first, as though only to himself.  In the past months, Gimli’s meager education in all things Elven had taught him that Legolas’ particular kindred of Elves was especially gifted musically, and to hear him Gimli agreed the distinction was justified.  There was nothing shrill or feminine about it, as Dwarves perhaps imagined the song of Elves if never they had heard it.  His words now Gimli did not know, but the tune was not the keening lament he had expected.  Rather it was strong but subdued, determined, one of Mirkwood's songs.

Presently he lent more force to his voice, heedless of all else.  Echoes were returned from all sides, resounding from the many shapes and hollows of the halls around them.  But rather than waiting for them to subside, Legolas built his song around them, so that soon he seemed to sing with ten voices, weaving together sounds that would have otherwise been in conflict, and Aglarond answered to him as strings to the hand of a harpist.

Gimli watched enthralled by Legolas’ endeavor, the singular vocal masterpiece he wrought, knowing he would never hear the like again.  The moment was made all the more precious for its brevity, for soon it would fade and be forgotten even as would be the whole of the Elven race, remembered only by the son of Glóin who had alone been privileged enough to witness it.  Whether Legolas realized it or not, in that moment his debt was repaid.

Legolas had awakened an aura about himself by his efforts, an Elvish luminescence Gimli had seen before though never so dramatically invoked, and soon he shone preternaturally bright and pale in the darkness.  He silenced his own voice, but it was long before the echoes died fully away, and in that time Legolas took close heed of them, of the way they were returned and where they were held longest.  At last he turned and took his friend by the wrist.

“Come!” 

Following his own light, which seemed only just enough for him, Legolas led Gimli across the floor of the massive chamber, weaving through the assortment of dark formations touched briefly by the pale Elvish glow as he passed.  When they reached the far wall, he began climbing an ascending rock pile like a deer, and Gimli found it a challenge to follow, though Legolas tarried now and again for safety’s sake.

“Where do you think you’re going, anyway?” Gimli demanded, as he huffed up the rockslide.

“I go to find the Sun,” Legolas said with a smile, repeating what he had said on Caradhras.  “As fair as your realm is, Gimli, she calls to me back to mine.  When you and yours have come and ensconced those lamps you spoke of before, then I should be pleased to return.”

When Gimli had at last hauled himself up to Legolas’ side, the Elf set about pulling the jagged stones away from the wall, letting them tumble down behind them.  Gimli held his tongue, knowing it foolish to gainsay an Elf when the homing instinct was upon him, and sure enough, Legolas had soon cleared the entrance to another dark fissure, one just large enough to pass through, perhaps.

“And how did you know that was there?” Gimli asked, intrigued.  “You said you knew nothing of caves and their ways.”

“I do not,” Legolas maintained, rubbing his hands free of dust.  “But do you smell that?”

“What?”  Gimli bent down next to the opening and sniffed experimentally.  “Ah!  Hay and sawdust!”

“Indeed,” Legolas said, pulling off his Lórien cloak and throwing it down before moving to slip through his makeshift passage himself.  It was a break near the ceiling in the chamber beyond, promising a lengthy drop from their height.  Even he had trouble getting through, held in limbo until he had performed some impressive writhing to free himself, then letting himself fall to land light as a cat below.

“Off with your belt, Gimli,” he called back.  “You will have trouble enough without it.”

Gimli admitted he could be right, and grumblingly unbuckled his belt, tossing it down to Legolas below.  Then also his helmet, and his cloak.  He dreaded this next, but it must be done.

Hesitantly he put his legs through the crevice, hanging over nothingness.  Relying on the strength of his arms alone, he twisted as he might to push his stout hips through, feeling very much like a square peg in a round hole.  When at last he slipped further, he set about pushing his middle through, his arms trembling with the strain, until at last the whole of him gave way entirely.  He fell with a shout, but landed heavily in Legolas’ waiting arms.  Crouched to employ the whole of his strength and save his back at the same time, Legolas caught him admirably, but was floored nonetheless.

Groaning, Gimli sat up to find himself sore and bruised, but cradled in Legolas’ lap.  The Elf’s face was screwed into a grimace, suffering a bruised backside for his trouble.  They limped to their feet, and Gimli gathered his articles that lay nearby.  It was still dark, but they were plainly in one of the first chambers.

Together they felt their way along the walls until they saw welcome sunlight spilling through the cave’s mouth, a beautiful sight now to the both of them.  Emerging into the open air once again, Legolas took a deep breath, savoring the green scent of summer.  He seemed a bit spent by his efforts, but was recovering rapidly.

Gimli shaded his eyes for a time, unused to the brightness.  He reflected on what had passed there beneath the mountain, on the moments he and Legolas has shared.  Amazed together, lost together, embarrassed together, each revealing what lay near his heart for the other to see and appreciate.  And now he wished to preserve that only between themselves.

“Don’t tell Aragorn,” he said with a grin.

Legolas smiled back at him, reading in his eyes the full purport of his request.  

“Not a word,” he agreed.

Together Legolas and Gimli returned to the royal encampment to rejoin the others.  The afternoon was waning fast, and already could be caught the wafting scent of dinner in preparation, the pavilions erected once again for their brief stay.  Their party grew ever smaller.

Merry and Pippin in full noble array broke off a game of fencing when they noticed their two mismatched companions returning to the grounds. 

“Gimli! Legolas!” they called laughingly, sheathing their blades, rushing to meet them and running a circle around them like a couple of overgrown children.  “We knew you wouldn’t miss dinner! What kept you? We were starting to think you might have lost yourselves!”

“Hobbits are so dratted boisterous,” Gimli grumbled good-naturedly.

“I would have it no other way,” said Legolas with a smile, snatching Pippin by the shoulders and swinging him round to roughhouse with him in turn, still rejoicing in his return to daylight.  “There is too little youth among the Elves in these days!” 

Pippin squealed and jostled about wildly, but could not escape Legolas’ brief flare of boyish exuberance, laughing freely with him.  In that Gimli was granted a passing glimpse of what Legolas must have been like in his younger days, bright and carefree, before he had earned that pensive air that came with immortal years.  For a moment Gimli thought it would break his heart to see him fall again into his deep and thoughtful ways when the mood had passed, a sudden sentiment that surprised even himself.  Perhaps all this Elvish company was beginning to have more of an effect on him than he had realized.

Pippin shrieked, choking on his laughter, his knees threatening to buckle though he struggled as he might.  “Merry!”

“Ah, nothing doing, Pip,” Merry said, with a lopsided grin, as his cousin writhed in vain.  “You’ll be taken to the Elvenking yet.  Ah!” he yowled, as unseen hands took him by the throat as well.

“Look, Legolas!” Aragorn laughed heartily.  “I have caught one, too!  I never expected to see you Halfling hunting.  In point of fact, I doubted whether I would see you again for a long while!  These will tell you, I threatened even to go in after you if you returned not by sundown.  Were the caverns of Glæmscrafu as spellbinding as all that?”

“Only Gimli can find fit words to speak of them,” Legolas said, sobering somewhat and releasing Pippin at last.  “And never before has a Dwarf claimed a victory over an Elf in a contest of words.  Now therefore let us go to Fangorn and set the score right!”

“If you can make Gimli see wonder in Fangorn, Legolas, it will be accounted a marvel among both your kindreds,” Aragorn smiled.

They wandered back through the small but elaborate tent city, Gimli and the hobbits accompanying Aragorn while Legolas excused himself to see to Arod.  After a search he found him picketed behind the silvery abode of the Lord and Lady of Lórien, which surprised him until he remembered Celeborn’s fondness for horses.

“Arod,” he scolded him lightly, stroking the proud face as the other nickered and squealed softly in equine affection, bumping him with a velvet nose, “have you been making a nuisance of yourself, my beautiful?”  He had left him to wander free, but apparently the stallion had eventually merited picketing with the others of his kind.  Goodness knows what mischief he had been up to.

“He is a lovely thing,” came a smooth and low voice, and Legolas turned to see Lady Galadriel herself approach silently from the other side, radiant as always in her snow-white gown, with girdle of golden leaves.

"My Lady," Legolas addressed her courteously, lowering his gaze for a moment.

She smiled softly.  “So like your father,” she mused, “and yet so unlike.  When I met again with Aran Thranduil he was courteous but would have no part with me, as is his privilege if he so desires.  And perhaps it is best of him.  I command not his fealty, nor yours, though you give it freely.”

“Such is my nature, my Lady.”  Legolas said nothing of it, but had noticed a change in her since the Ring War.  He almost hesitated to make the comparison, but she reminded him of his father after Gollum had escaped their custody, shaken in confidence, old pride humbled as she was made to face her shortfalls.  She still wore the Ring Nenya, but it was powerless now, an empty remembrance of a past age.  “What is your command?”

She smiled again, a smile that reached her eyes, leading Legolas to believe the loss of Nenya was perhaps a mixed blessing.  “I have no command for you, Legolas,” she said, “but only a request.  Walk with me, if you will, before the evening falls.  I would see these renowned battlements ere I go, and you I would have as my escort, who fought here with valor equal your sires of old.”

Legolas bowed in free consent, for he would never refuse such a simple request as that.

They left the encampment and he led her up the causeway toward Helm’s Deep.  He felt rather insignificant beside her, but she seemed to enjoy his company in her own way.  

There was still a small garrison stationed at the fortress, together with a few families of Rohirrim displaced from destroyed villages, and it seemed strange after all that had passed there to hear the stones of the Hornburg echo with the laughter of children. 

To pass the gates Legolas needed only a word and a smile, for the men of Erkenbrand remembered him well.  They hushed in the presence of the Lady, but if such was the Sorceress of the Wood, she did not seem especially threatening now even if they still did not trust her.

Continuing past the guards, they found themselves in the path of a spirited game of tag, a happily disheveled little girl running headlong into Legolas’ arms before he righted her and sent her on her way as her brother rounded the bend.  The Elves earned second glances from both of them, but their young smiles went undimmed.

Galadriel smiled as well, but with a melancholy air.  “So you almost seem to me,” she said.  “You may no longer hold yourself to be young, but your heart is still a thing of beauty to my eyes.”

Legolas said nothing, uncertain how to reply.

They stood together on the Deeping Wall, overlooking the battle plain, beside them the rubble-strewn breach blown into the masonry by Saruman’s minions, the perilous edges shored up by the Rohirrim with planks. 

Galadriel gazed out over the open field, from the place where brave men had fallen and died, and in her mind’s eye she could see the massive armies that had trod there but months ago.  And from there she felt the weariness come upon her again, her years in Middle-earth spent, as though the whole of the world wished only to sigh and then be still.  It was time at last to let go her pride.  But even now she welcomed humble passage into the West over the dominion and ruin of all the world that had been offered her in the One Ring.

With an almost imperceptible sigh of resignation, she glanced aside at her companion.  He suffered no such quandary, his eyes clear and unclouded by duplicity, guile, or pride, the downfall of the Noldor.  Others would have shied away from her probing gaze, or closed their minds against her as best they could, but Legolas had nothing on his soul that he would hide, and what faults were his he freely admitted.  His innocence had been destroyed long ago, but his integrity remained.

At first glance there would seem to be nothing to draw them together, much less warrant her admiration, she a Princess of the Noldorin Calaquendi of Valinor, Artanis Nerwen Altáriel Finarphiriel, kinswoman to the High King, named the Greatest and Fairest among the Eldar; and he a Wood-elf, bearing a name of silvan dialect, raised in the forests of the North among the lesser kindreds of the eastern middle-lands.  But to look deeper, as she did, would be to see in Legolas a Prince of the Eldar indeed, scion of one of the noblest bloodlines of ancient Doriath, heir to the North, and indeed her kinsman through the blood of his grandsire Oropher her cousin, from opposite sides of the royal house of Elu Thingol.

She lay a slender hand to the stone of the ramparts.  Even so did she feel herself: roughened by time, cold and hardened, but now warmed by the new sun, her power crumbling in certain places but shored up by the love of her husband and the call of her kin, though both were a strain to her.

“It is over,” she said at last, her words carrying many meanings.  The war was over, the Age of the Rings had passed, but in that was the undoing of all she had wrought, the end of many things both foul and fair.  But no more would the threat and temptation of dominion haunt her steps.  “I shall diminish,” she said again, “and go into the West, and remain Galadriel.  I could have taken the Ring and did not, could have done evil and would not.  Tell me, son of Thranduil: long you journeyed in Its shadow, as guard and guide, a trial I could not have borne.  Had it no power to tempt you?”

Legolas was silent for a moment, remembering the long and wakeful nights among the Fellowship, the chilling call of that which Frodo had carried when he alone was there to hear.

“Yes,” he said at last, in complete honesty.  “I paid it little heed at first, but when all was still it would make advances toward me.”  It was an unpleasant but very vivid memory.  “It offered dominion of all the woodlands of Middle-earth, the power to heal their hurts and bend them to my own will.  But such was not my desire, and so I scorned it.”

“The whispers of the One would not be so easily thrust aside,” Galadriel said, remembering its call to her.  “Did its voice not change?”

“It did,” Legolas said, a distant look in his eyes.  “When I would take it not for myself, it reviled me for leaving my father alone to die when near at hand lay the power that could be his salvation.  It mocked me for trusting to the strength of a Halfling, for sending him to his ruin and to the ruin of us all.”

“Such accusations would be difficult to ignore.”

“Yes.  But they were lies.” 

The sun had begun sinking toward the horizon yet again, bathing the countryside in a rich golden orange glow before twilight.  From the Deeping Wall the view was spectacular, the last of the sunbeams spilling over the mountain peaks.

“The lies of the Enemy were often baited with truth,” she said, “to sweeten their appeal.”

“No semblance of truth could have induced me to return the Ring to Lasgalen,” Legolas insisted.  “No victory it could have offered would have been worth the ruinous price.  I would sooner have my father die unbowed than see him corrupted from within.”

The golden orange sunset had given over now to blue twilight, and the pale elvish lamps again lit the plain like a dream.  The pavilions were softly aglow from within, lights bobbing about in elvish hands as traffic through the encampment continued unabated as dinner was prepared amid glad laughter and Sindarin chatter.

“Lord Thranduil may not have all the refinement of the Eldar of the West,” Galadriel said at last, “but as a father of princes I may say he has been seldom surpassed.”

“Would you have me tell him so, my Lady?”

“If you wish,” she said.  “But come; the board is laden, and I would not keep Master Gimli waiting.”

(Author's Note:  The whole of this chapter contains more canon than is practical to underline in view of legibility, so if you know Tolkien you can pick him out easily.  I seriously considered skipping this entirely, but seemed the weaker without it.  Needless to say, I don’t claim any of the original.)

“Well, come now!” Treebeard boomed to Gandalf.  “You have proved mightiest, and all your labours have gone well.  Where now would you be going?  And why do you come here?”

“To see how your work goes, my friend,” Gandalf returned, “and to thank you for your aid in all that has been achieved.”

The whole of the noble company was arrayed behind him, sitting astride their horses after riding there to Isengard from Helm’s Deep and the Deeping-coomb: the Lord and Lady of Lórien with the Lord of Rivendell, King Elessar of Gondor, the Ringbearers and their friends.  Gimli was mounted as ever behind Legolas, a position he was actually learning to enjoy, while Legolas himself had eyes only for Treebeard, who for him was still an amazing figure of legend.  Even more welcome to his Elven sight was the change the Onodrim had wrought within the confines of stone-circle about the Tower, for the greenery had returned, and what had been ruined was fair once more. 

“Hoom, well, that is fair enough,” Treebeard continued, his branches swaying thoughtfully in the summer breeze; “for to be sure Ents have played their part.  And not only in dealing with that, hoom, that accursed tree-slayer that dwelt here.  For there was a great inrush of those, burárum, those evileyed-blackhanded-bowlegged-flinthearted-clawfingered-foulbellied-bloodthirsty, morimaitesincahonda, hoom, well, since you are hasty folk and their full name is as long as years of torment, those vermin of orcs; and they came over the River and down from the North and all round the wood of Laurelindórenan, which they could not get into, thanks to the Great ones who are here,” he said, bowing as well as he might to the Celeborn and Galadriel.

Legolas smiled, and behind him Gimli tingled with strange pleasure to see his Lady so honored.  Gracious, he was becoming elf-conscious!  What would they say at the Mountain?

“And these same foul creatures were more than surprised to meet us out on the Wold, for they had not heard of us before; though that might be said also of better folk.  And not many will remember us, for not many escaped us alive, and the River had most of those.  But it was well for you, for if they had not met us, then the king of the grassland would not have ridden far, and if he had there would have been no home to return to.”

“We know it well,” said Aragorn from his regal seat astride his royal stallion, fitted with all the grand trappings one would expect of a triumphant king, “and never shall it be forgotten in Minas Tirith or in Edoras.”

“Never is too long a word even for me,” Treebeard said, with what began as a laugh but became then a strange tone in his deep voice.  “Not while your kingdoms last, you mean; but they will have to last long indeed to seem long to the Ents.”

Legolas understood his sentiments, as well as he could.  He had often felt them himself, he who was scarcely younger than the Gondor of Isildur, and whose father still held living memory of the Elder Days in Beleriand that was no more.  Doubtless Celeborn and Galadriel shared similar thoughts.

“The New Age begins,” said Gandalf, “and in this age it may well prove that the kingdoms of Men shall outlast you, Fangorn my friend.  But now come tell me: what of the task that I set you?  How is Saruman?  Is he not weary of Orthanc yet?  For I do not suppose that he will think you have improved the view from his windows.”

Legolas laughed brightly, unable to help himself.  Even Aragorn was seen to crack an inconspicuous grin.

Treebeard himself gave Gandalf a long and almost cunning look before he answered.  “Ah!” he said.  “I thought you would come to that.  Weary of Orthanc?  Very weary at last; but not so weary of his tower as he was weary of my voice.  Hoom!  I gave him some long tales, or at least what might be thought long in your speech.”

“Then why did he stay to listen?” Gandalf asked, over the gleeful sputtering of Merry and Pippin, who had endured their share of Treebeard’s long tales.  “Did you go into Orthanc?”

“Hoom, no, not into Orthanc!” Treebeard said, as though the very idea repulsed him.  “But he came to his window and listened, because he could not get news in any other way, and though he hated the news, he was greedy to have it; and I saw that he heard it all.  But I added a great many things to the news that it was good for him to think of.  He grew very weary.  He always was hasty.  That was his ruin.”

“I observe, my good Fangorn,” said Gandalf shrewdly, a tone Legolas had often heard him use when speaking to Thranduil his father, “that with great care you say dwelt, was, grew.  What about is?  Is he dead?”

“No, not dead, so far as I know,” Treebeard disclaimed.  “But he is gone.  Yes, he is gone seven days.  I let him go.  There was little left of him when he crawled out, and as for that worm-creature of his, he was like a pale shadow.  Now do not tell me, Gandalf, that I promised to keep him safe; for I know it.  But things have changed since then.  And I kept him until he was safe, safe from doing any more harm.  You should know that above all I hate the caging of live things, and I will not keep even such creatures as these caged beyond great need.  A snake without fangs may crawl where he will.”

“You may be right,” said Gandalf; “but this snake had still one tooth left, I think.  He had the poison of his voice, and I guess that he persuaded you, even you Treebeard, knowing the soft spot in your heart.  Well, he is gone, and there is no more to be said.  But the Tower of Orthanc now goes back to the King, to whom it belongs.  Though maybe he will not need it.”

“That will be seen later,” said Aragorn.  “But I will give to Ents all this valley to do with as they will, so long as they keep a watch upon Orthanc and see that none enter it without my leave.”

“It is locked,” Treebeard assured him.  “I made Saruman lock it and give me the keys.  Quickbeam has them.”

Beside him, the slender Ent Quickbeam bowed dutifully, handing to Aragorn the keys to Isengard, two great black things of cunning design bound by a ring of steel.  The King took them, and thus was the citadel returned to its rightful master.

“Now I thank you once more,” Aragorn said, “and I bid you farewell.  May your forest grow again in peace.  When this valley is filled there is room and to spare west of the mountains, where once you walked long ago.”

An unmistakable sadness came over Treebeard then, that Legolas felt echoed the fading of his own kind.  “Forests may grow,” the Ent said.  “Woods may spread.  But not Ents.  There are no Entings.”  

“Yet maybe there is now more hope in your search,” said Aragorn.  “Lands will lie open to you eastward that have long been closed.”

“It is far to go,” Treebeard said, shaking his head despairingly.  “And there are too many Men there in these days.  But I am forgetting my manners!  Will you stay here and rest a while?  And maybe there are some that would be pleased to pass through Fangorn Forest and so shorten their road home?”

“We must pass now to the west, Eldest,” Galadriel said smoothly, kindly refusing the offer.  “For there lies our road if we would accompany the Ringbearers and the others of our kin.”

“I regret that the eves of Fangorn lie not in my path,” said Elrond.  “I must return to Imladris with my own.”

“I am appointed to return south,” Aragorn disclaimed in turn, “to rejoin my Queen and my people.  Perhaps the day will yet come when the Sovereigns of Gondor may be honored by your hospitality.”

“I too must pass west,” said Gandalf at last, “to finish what was begun, and see these Hobbits home.”

“I will walk the ways of your wood, Master Fangorn,” Legolas said brightly, “for the north road is mine.”

“Ah, yes!” Treebeard replied, as though just taking new notice of him.  “There you are welcome, Legolas of Mirkwood!  Too long has it been since the Elves graced our shadows.”

“Come, Gimli!” Legolas encouraged his reluctant companion.  “Now by Fangorn’s leave I will visit the deep places of the Entwood and see such trees as are nowhere else to be found in Middle-earth.  You shall come with me and keep your word; and thus we will journey on together to our own lands in Mirkwood and beyond.”

From behind, Gimli grumbled out a noncommittal reply, though he had no choice in the matter.

“Here then at last comes the ending of the Fellowship of the Ring,” said Aragorn as they all prepared to part ways.  “Yet I hope that ere long you will return to my land with the help that you promised.”

“We will come, if our own lords allow it,” said Gimli.  “Well, farewell, my hobbits!  You should come safe to your own homes now, and I shall not be kept awake for fear of your peril.  We will send word when we may, and some of us may yet meet at times; but I fear that we shall not all be gathered together ever again.”

Frodo was silent and Sam thoughtful, but Pippin said, “Of course; you must come to visit!  You’d love the Smials, Gimli; and Legolas, there are woods enough even for you around Buckland and Tuckborough.”

“And I’m sure Mum would get a thrill having an Elf in the house,” Merry put in with a grin.  “And she’s used to laying laden plates, Gimli, with pipeweed aplenty.”

“Well, if you put it that way,” said the Dwarf gladly, “I shall certainly have to stop by the Shire before too many years have gone.”

Legolas smiled fondly upon their Halfling friends from his mount in his soft, peaceful way.  “You may expect me,” he said simply, leaving no doubt in their minds that sooner or later he would appear about their borders.

Final farewells were given, some for only the present, others with small hope of meeting again.  Legolas would not go without first taking his leave of the Lord Celeborn, and Gimli received a last benediction from his Lady.

“Fare free, Legolas!” Gandalf said with a smile, dismissing his ever-faithful servant with a wave of his hand.  “May you find the Greenwood merrier than you left it, though it be broken.  No more do I ask of you, who have proven well your fidelity and righted as well as you might the hurts of your house.  Return again south if you will, to foster young and fair groves to grow tall and stand in evergreen laughter against the Ruin that claimed the blood of your grandsire.”

“I would keep you no longer from your father, Legolas,” Aragorn said for himself, a genuine smile illuminating his rugged features, “though I humbly ask that Thranduil share with me later he who has been his greatest blessing.”

“That sentiment I do not think he would argue,” Legolas returned.  “Though I expect he will let me go as I will.  Perhaps I may yet convince him to follow in these days of peace, for too seldom has he afforded himself leave to wander.”

And so Legolas and Gimli were the first to turn away, leaving the others to speak yet a while with Treebeard.  As Arod trotted northeast from the confines of Isengard, Legolas turned him once to look back, and Merry and Pippin took the chance to wave merrily after them.

Gimli waved back and then sighed heavily, letting his hand fall to slap against his leg.  “It seems we have come so far already,” he said, thinking of the road behind.

Legolas laughed again, and turned Arod back toward the distant timberline.  “But Gimli, we have only just begun!”

Arod was swift of foot, and Legolas eager to reach the wood, but evening was drawing near when at last they passed beneath the forbidding eves of Fangorn Forest, the valley of Isengard far behind.  Gimli stifled his fears as the trees closed in around them, still ominous and foreboding, with no love whatsoever for Durin’s kin.  Again he found himself relying on Legolas to gain passage for him, just as had been the case in Lórien.

Arod’s spirited footfalls were muffled here, the brush thick and the trees looming, the growing darkness doubled in shadow.  Legolas was in no hurry, but tarried to take in the sights and scents of ancient growing things that to Gimli were still utterly unattractive and unlovely.  Even their Elven cloaks had taken on the same drab green-grey of the hanging moss and lichen.  The shadows were deepening, the creatures of dusk beginning to stir.  Quite unconsciously Gimli tightened his grip about Legolas’ waist, finding his presence the only comfort he had.

Legolas laughed softly and lay a reassuring hand on his wrist.  “Now, you see, my friend; our places are exchanged.  Take heart, for if we passed unharmed through your caverns, we shall meet no evil now in this wood.”

“I fear I do not share your confidence,” Gimli grumbled, though in a hushed tone.  “Even Treebeard said the heartwood was bitter.  And the air is so stifling I can scarcely breathe.  This place is malevolent and perilous still.”

More of the low groaning and creaking could be heard as Arod carried them ever deeper into that gloomy labyrinth of dark roots and branches, boughs hanging heavy with leaves and choking vines, grey light and shadow swaying in a breeze that could not be felt.

“You fear too much, Gimli,” Legolas assured him, his voice at stark variance with the brooding atmosphere.  “Eryn Fangorn is not all rancorous, and even the darkest-hearted will suffer me to pass.” 

Something about his tone then brooked no argument.  And as naïve as such a statement would first appear, Gimli was tempted to believe there was truth in it.  He had begun to see that there was something about Legolas that set him apart, even from those inhabitants of fair Lórien.  Beneath his amiable exterior – laughing one moment, thoughtful the next – Legolas was made of sterner stuff.  Just a bit taller, just a bit stronger, just a bit fairer.  The differences were at first slight from a Dwarf’s view, but became only more evident with time as he “got his eye in,” as his own would say of appraising gems.  He smiled wryly at the thought.  To think he was now appraising Elves!

Something tugged then at the throat of Gimli’s cloak, and he flailed with a shout.  Legolas turned and rebuked the offending tree in his own tongue, and the gnarled branch drew back with a creak of protest, duly admonished.  In the ever deepening shadows it was perhaps a more unnerving incident than it would otherwise have been, and Gimli could not help shuddering in spite of himself.  Unnatural and eldritch, the whole freakish place!  Turning back to the path, they found the silent sentinels interweaving to prevent their passage, hemming them in on all sides, their thick canopies conspiring to banish what little light there was.

Arod shied and squealed.  In another moment, Gimli’s strength of heart would have failed him, and he would have leapt from Arod’s back with his ax ready to hew himself a path to safety beyond the reach of this wretched wood!  But ere he could do anything rash, Legolas drew himself up regally, the white aura growing about him again, this time in indignation.

“Galadhad o Fangorn, edro hi ammen!” he commanded sharply, his voice deepening in new and fearless authority.  And, lo and behold, after a moment of hesitation the black limbs drew back with the groaning din of stressed wood, leaving their path unhindered.

Starlight again fell through the trees in pale dapples.  Legolas clicked his tongue to the unnerved horse and they resumed their forward ride.  No others dared to touch him.

“They abide too near the Desolation of Saruman,” Legolas explained, doubtless in response to the constricting embrace of Gimli’s arms about his middle.  “They have been wronged, but they must learn again their discretion.”

Gimli said nothing lest he stammer out something unintelligible.  Frankly, he was glad there was no one else with them, or he would never have heard the end of it:  Gimli son of Glóin, clinging to an Elf as a child would his own mother.  But Legolas did not seem to mind, and his confidence was a comfort in itself.  Now that they had moved beyond the sphere of Aragorn’s influence, he noted, Legolas was free to be his own master.  Still, Gimli wished he would stop for the night!

As though sensing his companion’s nervous unrest, Legolas began to hum softly to himself, a fair lilting melody soothing both the Dwarf and the horse, whose mincing steps then renewed their easy rhythm.  Not only that, but it seemed to Gimli that even the trees began to sway subtly with the music of the Elf beneath their boughs; and he had to admit it was a fair heart indeed that was so empowered to win the friendship of a Dwarf, coax the devotion of all on four legs or wings, and charm the brooding Huorns of Fangorn.  He knew then that if Legolas could not placate Glóin and the rest of them, no one could.

At last Legolas halted Arod in a small clearing amid the forest, perhaps no more than twenty paces wide, but large enough for their needs.

“Come,” he said, dismounting and opening his arms to Gimli.  Again, it was a ticklish situation for Dwarvish pride, but this was Legolas.  Reluctantly but obligingly, Gimli allowed the Elf to help him dismount, and Legolas swept him from Arod’s back to the ground.  He then proceeded to quickly brush down his horse with a young fir cone shed before its time, after which he diligently picked all four hooves free of gathered mud, twigs and stones.  Arod reached around and affectionately sifted through his master’s hair while he was at this, inspiring a light Elvish laugh and some Sindarin endearments.  Gimli watched and wondered, for his own kind generally thought of their ponies as servants, dull-witted beasts to do their bidding.  Arod was practically the third member of their party, with no small devotion to his new and gentle master, lifting each hoof light as a feather at his touch, nickering softly as Legolas stroked his grey face as one might coddle a family hound.  All in all, it seemed they were quite taken with each other.

“If you’ve no objection, Legolas,” Gimli said at last, “I’d like to catch what sleep I may.”

“As you wish,” Legolas said.  “Do not trouble yourself, for I shall take the long watch.  Perhaps the depths of Fangorn will seem fairer by daylight.”

“Of that I have no great hope,” Gimli grumbled, settling down in a drift of leaves.

The night was a dark one, by no means silent, but with a strange stillness about it that still spoke of another presence than theirs.  Gimli’s last sight was of Legolas by filtered starlight, sitting placidly against the dark bole of a tree, gazing contentedly on what he no doubt found most comforting, the bright stars amid a living frame of foliage.  Arod had lain down in a great heap beside him, resting his noble head in the Elf’s lap, his tail swishing now and again against the leaves and sparse grass.

Gimli saw now what Elves were worth, but how would he instill that insight into the others of his race?  Legolas would be first put to the challenge of having his unorthodox friend accepted to his own household.  Those bridges would be crossed, but how was anyone’s guess.  Closing his eyes then, Gimli was haunted for a time by the shifting specter of Thranduil whom he had never before seen, alternating from the destainful despot of his father’s telling to the proud but benevolent lord Legolas described, and back again.  King Dáin had never vilified the Elvenking, but the remnant of Thorin’s Company still bore somewhat of the ill-will that had festered in their captivity, for to put bonds upon a Dwarf was no light thing.

He really must speak to Legolas about that . . .

The next morning, Gimli was at a loss for a moment to remember where in Mahal’s name he was.  There was music in the air, and he was warmed by a patch of bright sunlight.  Blinking sleep from his eyes and turning in his crunching bed of leaves, and saw then what must have been a moment out of another age.

Legolas had not bothered to wake him, for he was content enough as it was.  He was seated comfortably against a massive oak looking for all the world like a woodland prince of legend in the golden dapples of full morning, plaiting a length of young ivy into a wreath.  A silver-grey squirrel sat upon his shoulder, flicking his bushy tail as Legolas sang to the accompaniment of a light cascade of birdsong from above.  One of the squirrel’s fellows sat upon the Elf’s knee, up upon his hind legs as squirrels will do. 

“Ah, Gimli!” Legolas said then, noticing him at last, and flashing a genuine smile.  Gimli wondered if he had indeed ever seen him happier.

“Legolas,” he acknowledged in return, climbing to his feet, a bit stiff but otherwise content.  “Enjoying yourself, I see?”

Legolas laughed, a bright and fair sound that soon had Gimli laughing as well, though he knew not at what.  That Elf’s mirth was contagious!  There was no need to explain it – it was reason enough that the war was over.

Both squirrels had skittered up to Legolas’ shoulders and tangled themselves in his hair, chirring indignantly at Gimli.  Legolas coaxed them both onto his arm, twin tails waving vehemently.

“Endearing little pests,” Gimli smiled.  “But where’s the horse?”

“He will return,” Legolas assured him.  “You are ready then?”

“If you are, lad.”

“Very well.”  Legolas dismissed his squirrel friends after a fond farewell.  They both scampered up the tree, casting still more aspersions from a safe height upon the Dwarf they deemed to be the disruption of their pleasure. 

Gimli just waved a hand dismissively.  “He can’t stay to play all day, you little jabbering fools!” he called back.

Legolas had climbed to his feet and gave a shrill whistle.  A distant crashing sounded through the trees, and soon Arod came bounding back through the verdure.  Legolas left his wreath of ivy hanging from a bough, a token of Elvish blessing.

They walked far that day, for Gimli had begun to grow horse sore.  Legolas led them through the twisting ways of the forest, which did indeed seem brighter by daylight.  Musty still, but not so ominous as before.  He would stop often to run his hands over the time-scarred bark of a venerable tree, his fascination allowing the others a moment to catch up with him.  Gimli followed, left for the most part to his own thoughts, while Arod faithfully plodded along behind, free of all bonds but devotion.

“Mmm,” Legolas said thoughtfully, leaning with heart and head against one such tree, his fingers trailing lightly along the roughened skin.  “If only you could hear them, Gimli!  They have voices of their own.  They do not know me, but still they harbor memory of the Elves.”

“Talking trees,” Gimli said again, incredulous still.  “I must say, I have never in my life heard a tree talk to me.”

“Have you ever stopped to listen?” Legolas asked pointedly.  He then leapt lightly into the lower branches, climbing as though he had been born to it, which perhaps he had.

Arod came to stand behind Gimli, glancing for a moment after his master.  Then he seemed to heave an equine sigh punctuated with a terse snort.

“I know, lad,” Gimli said, rubbing a gauntleted hand over the horse’s shoulder, half-wondering that he was speaking to a horse at all.  Elves spoke to their mounts, but Dwarves gave their ponies orders, not conversation.  “He goes where we cannot follow.”  He did not say it, but already Gimli had learned to dread the rise of that mysterious malady named the sealonging, fearing it would take Legolas from him before his time.  He made his own efforts to stifle the subject whenever it arose, but he feared he could not hold it off forever.  It was terribly selfish of him, really, even while it would likely make him the pariah of Erebor.  They would both have much to suffer if their alliance was not condoned by either of their houses, and their bonds of friendship had yet to be tested in kindred fire.

Arod snuffled amiably, bumping Gimli aside with a velvet muzzle.  The Dwarf was tempted to take offense, but noted that the shapely ears were still upright in good-humor, the green ribbon trailing behind them.  Legolas had endeavored to explain to him the language of the ears, a dialect just as rich in nuance as was the Elvish language of the eyes that Aragorn had mentioned.  Dwarves prided themselves upon speaking plainly, though they were not without their own forms of subtlety, and Gimli learned to read these new methods of expression as well as he could.  Legolas was kind enough to make his emotions plain, at least those he wished to be generally known, but one could read much in his eyes if one knew how.  And even then Gimli felt as though he had scarcely probed the surface.  All Elves were deep, sometimes frighteningly so.

There came a rustling above, and soon Legolas descended lightly, limb to limb, alighting to the ground, pulling a stray leaf from his hair.  Gimli pulled his thoughtful embrace away from Arod, who looked askance at him.  Legolas merely continued on ahead.

“And just what was that all about?” Gimli demanded as they walked.  “You just don’t leave us at the foot of a tree without so much as explaining yourself!”

“Us?” Legolas asked, arching one dark brow.  “I intended to provide you some quality time with good Arod, of course.”

Gimli knew well that was not his true purpose; it likely had something again to do with the communion of Elf and Tree, of which he cared not to hear.  That Legolas spoke to these trees he found unnerving, even more so the thought that they spoke to him in return.  And there was that fey glint in his eye of one who walked the fringe of the preternatural.  Suddenly those silent leafed sentinels seemed possessed of more waking life than he had previously imagined.  Uncanny, the whole bit.

Some paces ahead, Legolas brushed through a patch of shrubbery, then breathed deeply the stirring of the fresh green scent behind him.  “Just look at it, Gimli!” he said, indicating the woods all around as they walked.  “It lives and breathes even as we do.  For many long and venerable years it has graced this corner of Middle-earth.  Imagine if you can the events they have witnessed!  They are among the last of the truly wild forests of the Elder Days, forests like those which bore my fathers.  Even such as this must have been Ossiriand of the Green Elves, the deep groves of Doriath, Neldoreth and Dorthonion.  Here dwell trees, if such you may call them, who are elder than I, elder even than Thranduil my father.  It does make me feel young again, and that is itself a blessing in these Fading Years.”

Gimli did not dwell upon the despairing note in his voice then, fearing to encourage a perilous subject.  Legolas did speak of Fangorn Forest as though he loved it.  Gimli himself now harbored no feeling for it one way or the other, though he was careful to leave his ax quiet.

But soon they were both silenced by the hoom-humming of another voice on the air.  Legolas’ eyes, sharper than most, soon descried the slender striding form passing them some distance away to the northwest, and his face lit gladly.

“Mae govannen, Bregalad o Fangorn!” he called, his very words brightening the wood about, and surprising Gimli again with their power.  “May your leaves never fall!”

“Hail, Legolas of the Woodlands!” returned Quickbeam, who had stopped his pacing to answer.  “May your eyes never dim!”

Legolas plunged swiftly through the brush to meet him, and Gimli was hard-pressed to follow, for even Arod bumped past him.  But he was no sluggard, and was not left too far behind.

“My errand was indeed fortunate if it brought me to cross your path again, Ernilgloredhel,” Quickbeam was saying, swaying forward in a graceful treeish bow.

“The pleasure is mine, Eryntirith,” Legolas assured him, returning the gesture.

Their discourse continued in the elven tongue, the young Ent’s voice surprisingly melodious for one of his kind, though it held nothing over the Elf’s, whose unerring fluency in his own dialect was music in itself.  For once Gimli regretted the harsh and clashing sounds of his own traditional language, but his stiff Dwarvish pride quickly banished the thought.  He could admire the Elvish tongue, but he would feel foolish speaking it.

In the end, Quickbeam insisted upon receiving them in his own Ent-house ere they went on, which was not far distant.  Legolas graciously accepted on behalf of them all, and their host led them to a green clearing by a stream surrounded by fair rowan-trees, where they sat comfortably in the lush grass, still thick in the fading days of summer.

“I heard Treebeard say you were of Mirkwood,” Quickbeam began, serving them both with bowls of a comfortable size filled to the brims with the fabled Ent-draught as hospitality decreed.  Even Arod was given to drink from a larger bowl of his own.  “But I had guessed that.  There are few of the Fair and Great Ones left now in the Mirkwood, and I was not surprised to learn your name.”

“For myself,” Legolas said, accepting his portion politely while Gimli looked warily into his, “I was surprised to find that you of the Onodrim yet attended to the cares of Mirkwood.”

“Oh,” Quickbeam nodded knowingly, his deep amber eyes distant for a moment, “word yet comes here from your wood, borne by the winged servants of Radagast who attends closely the doings of the Elvenking.”

“That he does,” Legolas confirmed, cautiously tasting the faintly glowing concoction.

“Mmmm,” Quickbeam mused after a long contented drink, or at least that seemed long to those of hasty race; “yes, goldenhaired-greeneyed-fellhanded-noblehearted-mightyvoiced-sonofthunder-twilightlord, Thranduilthalionoropherion Sindaranoeryngalen.  Valiant is he, and his fair scion no less so.”

Legolas inclined his head appreciatively.  Beside him Gimli wore a strange expression, experiencing the effects of Entish sustenance on mortals such as he, perhaps beginning to find his clothes a mite tight and watching his thick auburn beard curl.  Quickbeam laughed, for he laughed often, and set a new bowl down before Arod whose dark eyes glinted as he drank eagerly.  For Legolas it had served only to brighten his eyes and renew his glowing vitality, better than a full meal and a long night’s sleep. 

“A strange friendship is this,” Quickbeam said, gazing upon both of them.

“So says everyone,” Gimli observed, a bit tired of hearing it by that time.

“I fear how it may go with your kin,” continued the Ent.  “Oropherion is not one likely to harbor benevolence toward the Naugrim.”

“Not likely, no,” Legolas admitted.  “But Gimli himself had naught to do with his grievances, so I dare to hope that all will be well enough.  It is strange, as you say, but not unthinkable.”

“Not to you, perhaps, cleareyed-purehearted-greenleafofstarshadow.  But for myself, I would not at once assume the same of all others.”

A small flock of thrushes alighted in the rowans, singing brightly.  Some flitted to perch upon their friend Quickbeam while others were drawn at once to the Elf.  Quickbeam laughed again as two of the little brown birds whirled over Legolas’ head for one brief moment as a living crown before landing one on his shoulder and the other on his knee.  Gimli knew he would get fed up with so much impertinent wildlife bothering him, but Legolas seemed to enjoy it, making no move to shoo them away and letting them sit where they would.  His patience truly was proverbial, and Gimli found it difficult for a moment to reconcile that this gentle figure was the same that had mercilessly terrorized the battlefields of the south with him.  But far yet was the day when the son of Glóin would consent to be a bird-perch.

They stayed long in Quickbeam’s glad company, but as the hours flew by he was eventually obliged to return to Isengard bearing the saplings Treebeard had sent him for.

“You will give my compliments to Master Fangorn when you return to him,” Legolas said in parting.  “It may well be that I come again ere his wood grows much taller, so great has been my reward.”

“He will be pleased to hear you say it,” Quickbeam assured him, bowing graciously.  “Too seldom do the Fair Ones dare to pass his borders in these late days, much less the warriors of the North.  And farewell to you, Gimli stouthearted-strongarmed-orcbane.  I see well you have been named an Elf-friend and blessed.  May your path lead you both to well-deserved peace.”

“And farewell to you, Quickbeam of Fangorn Forest,” Gimli returned with a low Dwarvish bow and courtesy enough to please even Legolas.  “If your wood has not my love, it has earned my regard.”

“Such is tribute enough for us from one of the stone-masters,” Quickbeam smiled.  “Namárië!  Farewell, and may fortune follow you!”

Once Quickbeam had gone striding briskly away to the south, they turned again to each other.  Gimli loosened his belt a bit, and set about rebraiding his thick beard, which still seemed to have a life of its own as it might on a humid summer evening.  Arod pranced back to his master’s side, and of the three of them his stature seemed to have increased the most noticeably, adding at least a whole hand’s measure to his height, his neck arched proudly as his silver mane and tail flowed about freely, curled into bouncing ringlets at the ends, a fair echo even of Shadowfax. 

“Ah, Arod,” Legolas said with an affectionate lilt in his voice, stroking the horse who squealed quietly in delight.  “How kingly you are now, hm?  Now you will not seem small and light beside Aranaur and Maethor, Thalion and Erinmir.  No, you will not.”

Together they wandered the deep places of Fangorn for the next three days, Legolas thoroughly in rapture with the wood, Gimli learning to endure with good grace.  They had no further trouble with any of the lurking Huorns, which seemed charmed into willing docility by the sound of Elven laughter.  Soon they reached the living path of the Limlight river, leading them to the northern border at last, and there again into the full light of the sun.

Arod champed beneath them, eager to run on the open plain that stretched away before them.  Legolas glanced back one final time before fully facing the road ahead, but when he did he seemed every bit as eager as did the others to go on.  He set Arod off at a brisk pacing trot, which soon broke into a canter.

“None of your romping!” Gimli protested from behind, holding on for all he was worth.

“Oh, come now,” said Legolas.  “Allow Arod to show you his paces.  By nightfall we can be well on our way to Lórien!”

The voices were fainter now.

As Arod’s fleet steps carried them farther beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood, Legolas could not help but notice the desolation that now characterized it, though it was still beautiful.  They had passed the southern border woods and now entered the realm of the mellyrn, but still the distinctive air that had made Lórien itself was gone.  The age of the Rings was over.

Again they had missed the Spring, he lamented to himself, but several faded golden blossoms yet clung to the boughs and not all the golden carpet of spent leaves had gone.  He marked it well as Arod carried them deeper, for he doubted he would see it again before its final fading.

“Edhil o Lórien!” he called to them, not wishing to seem an intruder, though the woodland aisles were sadly emptied.  “Galadhrim!”

“Shy, are they not?” Gimli murmured when they received no answer.

“Few,” Legolas corrected.  “They are silent because they are few.  They did not escape the hand of war.  And many are stationed still in the east, while others follow their Lord and Lady still on the western roads.  There are few left to hear.”

Still Arod picked his way over the woodland paths unchallenged.  The Sun above was just beginning her westward descent in the mid-afternoon, touching the yellow leaves and blooms with richer color.  They continued on at a brisk pace, for after two days of hard riding over the plains north of Rohan with only the meager provisions that remained, even Legolas had to admit he was hungry.  Gimli had endured their brief fast with relatively good grace, but was beginning to grump.

It was only when they neared the very capital itself, Caras Galadhon, that they came upon groups of any number.  “Hail, people of Lórien!” Legolas greeted them graciously in their own tongue, right hand raised in courteous sign of goodwill as Arod pranced about in place and tossing his mane proudly.

“Hail, Legolas of Lasgalen!” they returned brightly in kind, recognizing him immediately.  “We indeed hoped to receive you again, now that our realms live in harmony!  Well met, and welcome!”

Legolas dismounted to accept their warm silvan embraces.  Gimli slid down of his own accord behind him, quite willing to stretch his legs after so long astride.  The Galadhrim gladly led them toward their city amid the trees, full of questions regarding the Lord and the Lady and the goings-on in the south.  Legolas answered all as best he could until they were met by another familiar figure.

“My Lord Legolas!”

“Haldir!  Mae govannen, mellon!”

These two pulled one another into an indecorous fraternal embrace, never mind protocol.  Even if Lórien was no longer protected, it was no longer oppressed by fear of the Shadow, enough to brighten any Elf who remained still young at heart.

“Come, come!” Haldir beckoned.  “The Galadhrim are scattered far and wide, and in Caras Galadhon there is room aplenty.  You would not do us the dishonor of quitting our company after you have only just arrived.”

“I would not think of it,” Legolas smiled.  “I only fear to impose upon you.”

“Nonsense!” Haldir insisted.  “You are more than welcome, my lord.  The privilege is ours to receive you, and you as well, Master Gimli.”

Arod was taken in hand by others of the Galadhrim as Haldir led them into the city.  It was as breathtaking as they remembered, these dwellings amid the trees, but sparsely populated now.

“I missed you in Gondor, my friend,” Legolas said at last, as he followed Haldir up the long spiral staircase winding round an enormous mallorn.  “I kept the company of your brethren, and wondered that you came not with them.”

“What of Orophin?” Haldir asked, concern written on his brow.  “He fared well to your eyes?”

“Yes,” Legolas answered simply, dimly aware of Gimli’s heavy tread on the stair behind him.  “Should he not have been?”

“It went ill with him in the battle,” Haldir explained.  “He is long recovered, but he worries me still.”

The stairway was long and a considerable climb, but Legolas deemed every step to be well worth it, walking as they did through arbors of gold and silver bathed in sunlight, such a wood as would not again be seen in mortal lands.  Birds flitted freely amid the stately boughs, the air alive with their lighthearted songs heralding the waning days of summer ere autumn came again.

“Here you are,” Haldir said at last, as they climbed up into a spacious and elegant talan built amid the great branches.  It was well lit through many windows, comfortably furnished and adorned with draperies, other chambers branching away beyond, joined by arboreal walkways.  “I know the Lord Celeborn will inquire on his return how we kept you, and I should incur his displeasure if I provided any less.  Indeed, he left definite instruction for us should your ways lead you again to Lórien.”

“You will convey my gratitude when he does return,” Legolas said, turning aimlessly about he center of the hall and taking in the surrounds at a glance.  “He needn’t have gone to such trouble on my account.”

“Nay, it is worse,” Haldir smiled.  “This is itself Lord Celeborn’s own retreat.  He bade me say that you are more at home here than himself, and that all that is here is yours.”

Legolas laughed softly to himself.  “A giver of gifts beyond the power of kings, the Lady said.  So it seems.  Now I regret even more the rift that arose between our houses.”

Haldir agreed.  “I thank the Valar it is healed at last," he said.  "The name of Thranduil is now upon many lips, and not without love.  It seems almost that he and Celeborn endeavor now to outdo one another in benevolence, strife of a more agreeable nature.”

Gimli wandered critically about their new quarters as the others spoke, experimentally feeling this, cautiously sniffing at that.  Noticing him, the Elves could not help smiling, for at that moment he resembled more an inquisitive dog than a Dwarf.

“You must find him amusing,” Haldir said in subdued Sindarin.

“You have no idea,” Legolas returned with a glint in his eye.

“In any event,” the other went on then in Common for Gimli’s benefit, “if it please you, you may spend a few restful days here and then return with me to East Lórien, as Southern Greenwood is now named.  I shall take you across the river.”

Legolas turned back and lay a fond hand on his shoulder.  “My thanks to you, friend Haldir.  It is more than I would have asked.”

Bowing appreciatively, the Nandorin lieutenant then withdrew, leaving the Sindarin prince and his Dwarvish friend to themselves, his light footfalls soon gone.  With a sigh, Legolas gladly rid himself of his burden of bow and quiver, letting them slide smoothly from his shoulder into his hands.  Leaving them at the side, he sank down into the soft depths of the couch beside the open window, leaning contentedly on the sill, watching the fresh breeze drift peacefully through the aureate leaves.

“I never thought I would live to say it,” Gimli said then, “but it is good to be back.”  He likewise began to lay his axes and helmet aside, glad to relax at last.  Pulling off his gauntlets he cracked his thick knuckles with a careless air, making Legolas cringe.  “I see there are more than a few distinct advantages to traveling with you,” he joked, taking in the royal quarters with a wave of his hand.

“I must confess I have noticed that,” Legolas said, rising and turning then to the wardrobe.  He was almost reluctant to take such liberties, though he had been invited to.  First Glorfindel, now Celeborn.  It would be a relief to at last find a change of clothes that belonged to him.

After a light meal, the first order of business on Legolas’ mind was a much needed bath.  That was what he deemed the foremost disadvantage to long travels, and he had made a point to exploit the appropriate opportunity whenever it presented itself.

Descending from their massive tree with hair unbound and a bundle of towels and clean clothes under one arm, he searched out that other secluded retreat of the Silver Lord which Celeborn had again placed at his disposal through Haldir.  It lay there in the far reaches of Galadriel’s gardens, a natural spring that gathered into a deep pool at the foot of another great mallorn before joining a stream, generously shaded by a ring of dogwood trees.  None would disturb him here.

He found the water to be cool but not cold.  Sinking deep into the dark current, he indulged in a few idle moments of pure pleasure as he felt the dust and sweat of Rohan washed away, the water’s surface around him dappled lazily with the fallen gold of the mellyrn.

There he stayed for a long time, letting the gentle current drift through his hair, his mind wandering.  Gimli had achieved acceptance by the Elves of Lórien easily enough, but that had been through his devotion to their Golden Lady, something Legolas did not expect to influence Thranduil’s mind.  It would require some other virtue to win the regard of the severe Golden Lord, not so powerful as the Lady of the West, but every bit as proud, and with reason.  In this he would be asking much of his father in addition to his request to quit the realm entirely for an outpost of his own.

A spent mallorn leaf came falling silently from the tree above, landing with gentle ripples on the water beside him, the ends curled upward remarkably like a ship.  He watched as it sailed aimlessly past his eyes, then caught it in his fingers with a strange twinge of reluctance to see it go.  But he loosed again, remembering he could not deny the choice he had made, or rather the choice that had been thrust upon him.  As the current swept it away, Legolas thought sullenly that there would never cease to be reminders now.  He had turned his heart east, but the West would not be forgotten.

Later, he sat still by the pool side in the lap of the mallorn, clothed in the soft grey and white of Celeborn’s more casual apparel, feeling wonderfully clean and refreshed but still a bit downhearted.  Dwell upon what lies ahead, Glorfindel had said; but he was not yet ready to renounce all that he must.  Remember the face of your mother; but even that was a torment, for he was then torn between his mother and his father, both of whom he loved more than life itself, a choice he had not the strength to make alone.  If Thranduil bid him stay, it could very well break his heart.

A stab of guilt took him then as he considered leaving his father.  Thranduil had been deeply wounded by the death of his queen, his noble heart cruelly rent between love and duty.  For a time Legolas believed he had truly lost the will to live, consumed by the desire to follow her.  His heroic façade had been just that, a charade he had managed for the sake of his people during those first awful years of loneliness and bleak warfare, his suffering finding eloquent expression through his sword as he drove the enemy for a while a safe distance from his borders.  Legolas alone had seen the furthest depths of his initial misery, a misery they had shared.  And from that time on, each had become the deepest center of the other’s life, about which even the fate of Lasgalen itself seemed woven.  It was for Legolas’ sake more than his crown that Thranduil had so stubbornly held his own against the wiles of the Necromancer.  Legolas knew his father well enough to know he would have tried to go on even if his son had been lost to him, but he wondered whether such a blow would not indeed have crushed even Thranduil.  

Legolas was loath to crown his father’s longsuffering victory with another loss.  He felt he was changed, that he had aged more in the last year than he had in the previous twenty.  It reminded him of what his mother had once told him of the change that had come over Thranduil when he had returned from the Last Alliance.  Seven years in Mordor had burned a black scar on his heart that only she had been able to soothe, she who had shared the other desolate wounds they had suffered together in the tumultuous fall of the First Age.  Legolas knew it was something of a different nature that had found its way into his heart now, and he was alone.  Gimli could never understand, and sought only to ignore it.  Glorfindel had tried, though he was of different race, and his mind followed other paths.  Celeborn was striving against the throes of the same call in one he loved, but therefore against what he did not comprehend. 

Would his father understand?  Or had Thranduil finally forgotten the hypnotic crash of waves on the shore?  How could he ever bear to stand before him and bereave him of the only thing he cared for now?  It was unthinkable that his father should survive the malice of the greatest Foe in Middle-earth, and it should fall now to the one he loved most to inflict the fatal wound.

Golden petals fell around him like tears from the heavens, soft and silent, glowing in the early sunset.  He was suspended in a world of half-measures, neither of the Light, nor of the Dark.  Why could he not have been born of the Moredhil indeed, and not have to reconcile the conflict of his Sindarin blood with his Nandorin upbringing?

Angrily he cast an idle stone into the water with a sharp splash, sending agitated and sparkling ripples throughout like a shattering of diamonds, destroying for a moment the reflections of the trees above and of himself.  But the moment passed then as swiftly as it had come, and the shimmering surface steadied itself before him, forgiving his ill-temper.  He could never despise his parents, and he was their legacy.  He knew those last thoughts would have grieved his father greatly if he had known them.  Not all is rational in the grip of the sealonging, Glorfindel has said as well, and that at least was indisputable. 

Soft footsteps came then around the shade trees, and Legolas glanced up to see Haldir round them presently, though he had guessed it.  The other looked at him strangely for a moment, then gave him a wan smile.

“How do you fare, Legolas?” he asked plainly.  “Hardly I dare say it, but I see behind your eyes the same shadow that afflicts the Lady.”

Legolas regarded him quietly for a few moments, then loosed a shallow sigh.  “Yes, I know,” he said, rather dejectedly.  “It is a specter that haunts my steps now, and has chosen this moment to draw near again.  But it will pass.  It always does.”

The pale Nando came to sit beside him, still at a respectful distance but near enough to be amiable.  With a gesture he inquired after Legolas’ permission, and it was duly given.

“Somehow I sense the hand of war fell heavily upon you, friend Haldir,” Legolas said then, turning the subject.  “Thankfully you now seem none the worse for wear.”

The other grunted, reclined against the great roots of the mallorn.  “Perceptive as ever, my lord,” he said, running a hand over his long-healed chest.  “Yes, I fear I walked the knife’s edge for a time, returned only by grace.”

“Care to tell?” Legolas smiled.

Haldir coughed discreetly, and for a moment seemed loath to say.  “Have I my lord's pledge to refrain from gratuitous laughter if I confess to have . . . fallen from a tree?”

Legolas would have laughed, but smothered it.  However he could not help the grin, and much of the healthy gleam returned to his eyes.  Haldir seemed a bit disconcerted, but Legolas shook his head.

“Fear not,” he assured him, “for you are in good company.  Would it ease your shame to know His Reckless Majesty Thranduil fell also from a tree?”

Haldir’s brows shot up, and indeed he brightened considerably.  “Did he!”

“I am told he did,” Legolas said, pulling his knees up to his chest where he sat.  “Fell through a tree, to be precise; though the herald who brought this to my attention could answer me little with certainty, for he had not seen it.  The tale goes that he was in a mortal struggle with a one of the winged Ulaer.”  At this he paused and sobered.  “Many times I have pled with him to give greater heed to his own peril, but he forgets himself on the field.  Nor did he deign even to make mention of it himself when he wrote to me!”

Haldir shuddered willfully, as though shaking himself free of the foul memory, tossing his hair back over his shoulder.  “Ulaer,” he hissed.  “Thank the Valar they at last have gone, and I must say I preferred to meet them mounted upon horseback than circling about our wood like carrion birds.  It was indeed one of them that was my undoing.”  He sighed, then shook his head as though to banish past regrets.  “And what of yourself, my intrepid friend of Mirkwood?  You came through battle and death, siege and Mordor, unscathed?”

Legolas laughed wryly, his tone light but humorless.  “Many will say that,” he said, gazing idly into the crystalline surface of the pond.  “But my wounds are simply of another kind than yours.  Bloodless, but unhealing.”

Haldir nodded, his gaze distant, turning a fallen leaf in his fingers.  “I know of what you speak, but still I do not understand it,” he said.  “Our own Orophin walked with death for a time; called, they said, by the peace of the West.  I fear the West.  The very name of Valinor means heartbreak and torn homes to us of Middle-earth.  What paradise is so great that so many would seek once to leave it?  I fear to pass a threshold from which there is now no return.”

Legolas listened patiently as Haldir echoed sentiments he had once shared, sentiments he could feel even now.  Again, it seemed providence had brought another voice in due time to oppose the seduction of the sea.  But his plight was made none the easier by the renewed conflict.

“I regret to see the same affliction beset the house of the Lord,” Haldir continued, with a rueful curl of his lip.  “They hide much from us, those two, but we are not blind.  The Lady Galadriel would now return to the land of her birth, and the Lord Celeborn will not follow.  She bids him come; he bids her stay.  It is bitter to see the rift between them, and all who attend them walk as though upon ice.  Their love is strong still, but it would break your heart to see how at times they wish it was not.”

Legolas stared bleakly at the rippling of the pool under the falling lamentation of Lórien’s mallorn blossoms.  Kinsman Celeborn had not been dinner table conversation in Thranduil’s household over the long years, but despite the cool relations they shared, Thranduil had never resented his cousin.  Indeed by his tale he retained more kindred affection for him than Oropher had, borne of fond memories of his childhood.  But always he had warned that such a marriage of Sinda and Noldo would in the end bring naught but grief upon them, that the chasm between was too wide and too deep to be forgotten or forgiven once for all.  And now it seemed he was right.  Any ties of kindred blood between Thranduil and Galadriel had been willfully disregarded by both long ago.  They came from very different worlds.

Haldir slid his fingers then around a pale bloom of niphredil, taking care not to pluck it.  “The Lord and I are very like to this, I suppose,” he said.  “And the Lady to these of her making.”  He took in the other hand a fallen flower of gold from above, adrift and anchored to nothing.  He tossed it into the water, where the subtle current soon carried it out to the branching stream.  “It is simple for her to go on her path appointed, but we cling still to this earth.  We are not ready to face the fading of our time.”

Legolas looked on sympathetically, for the image was a vivid one.  With a twist of a branch, he plucked one of the last remaining dogwood blossoms, still flowering longer in Lórien despite its waning.  “And I am like to this,” he said, letting Haldir observe for a moment each white petal marred with a dark but characteristic reddish scar.  “We too may be stricken, and so wounded we must go.” 

He tossed it, too, into the gleaming pool to follow that which had gone before.  “The world fades, Haldir,” he said resignedly.  “And we are powerless to help it.  As she said, we have together fought nothing but a long defeat; we have won our places only to relinquish them, spent ourselves only to buy a tomorrow we shall never see.”

Haldir looked at him incredulously.

“My father once spoke to me of the Westcall, long ago, when my mother was lost to us,” Legolas went on.  “We speak not of it now, but there was a time when he understood it as Lord Celeborn does not.  As the world wears on toward its unfathomable end, there will come a time when it will no longer be a home for us, but become rather a prison.  For some this moment is difficult to reach, while others find it thrust upon them without warning.  But it is a path we all must take when our time comes, a door as inescapable to us as Death to those of mortal race.” 

He paused with a sigh, bowing his head a moment; and when he looked up his deep eyes had assumed a fey gleam, distant, as one who foresees his own end.  “I feel my time is fast approaching me, Haldir.  Yesterday Middle-earth held promise of everything; today it holds near nothing to my eyes.  I hear the Sea in my dreams, though never have I beheld it in waking life.  I fear to learn to hate all that I once loved, to be bound by what was once a blessing.”  He closed his eyes against the hideous distortions the sealonging-unanswered would eventually make of everything.  

“Ai, Legolas,” Haldir agreed.  “It is difficult to be the ones left to see the end.  The whole world fading; what a time to meet a friend!”

At this Legolas cracked a smile, cheered beyond hope.  “Do not despair yet,” he said.  “It will not go overnight.  Whilst Elessar lives I shall stay.  And even as fair Lórien is diminished, he has set a new task before us in Ithilien.  There, it seems, will endure the last of the Elven realms, for I do not expect it to fade at once when I no longer rule it.  Wherever my name is held in any regard, there you will always be welcome.”

“Thank you,” Haldir said, with sincerity shining in his eyes.  “When one’s home begins to wane around him, it is comforting to know there is yet another hearth to which he may turn.”

“Many,” Legolas assured him.  “Just as the Lasgalenath are welcomed in the South, so the Galadhrim will be a glad sight in the North.  We may all gather at the fire with a glass of Dorwinion to spin tales and laugh while we still have the time.” 

"Perhaps we may," Haldir agreed.  “Regardless, I would be honored if you and your endearing companion would join me this evening for dinner.  Affairs will call us away all too soon, and I would enjoy your company while I may.”

“And we yours,” Legolas accepted graciously, as they began walking back toward the heart of the silvan city. 

“Gimli!” Legolas called upon climbing up into their royal flet after a brisk flight up the stairs.  Now that his heart was beating strongly again he had willfully all but forgotten the woes of the West and returned to life as he had known it.  Optimism and pessimism shall come and go like the tides, Glorfindel had said.  “Gimli?”

The full rays of sunset streamed in through the many windows and lattice work on one wall from which the curtains had been drawn away, its effect a beautiful elvish pattern of golden dapples upon the floor.  Shadows had begun to lengthen and mingle, the breeze evoking the soft music of silver bells upon the drapery tassels.  The Dwarf had left his helmet and hauberk behind with his gauntlets and axes, so he could not be far.

Receiving no answer, Legolas merely shrugged, and after a moment managed to locate a comb.  Standing briefly before the crystal mirror and idly humming to himself, he brushed the assorted tangles out his hair, clean and bright again after their field trip through Rohan.  But soon the momentary distraction faded, giving way to calm reflection, and only then did he realize what he was humming.

To the Sea, to the Sea; the white gulls are crying . . .

Slapping the comb down upon the table, he regarded himself earnestly in the mirror, face to face.  Just how complete was that change in him that all seemed to notice?  Was he himself blind to it?  He did not think he was so very different, for it was the same reflection that stared earnestly back at him.  But after a moment he conceded that there was indeed something, something yet unnamed.  With a will, he searched out the depths of his own eyes, struggling to see how and why their light had changed.

But a nervous grumbling outside reft him from his moment of introspection.  “Gimli?” he called again as he drew back and blinked, the short grey mantle swirling behind him as he turned.  Walking over to the side door leading out to a fair bridge woven of grey hithlain joining one flet to another, he at last found his errant friend.  Gimli was inching his careful and perilous way back toward their own tree as his arboreal path swayed gently in the breeze, looking extremely out of place.

“What are you doing?” Legolas asked, smothering a laugh.

A burst of mild swearing answered him.  “It was easy enough before the wind blew!”

With almost a paternal air, Legolas strode easily out onto the ropewalk to meet Gimli halfway, took his hands in his own to steady him, and led him slowly back toward more solid footing with a reassuring smile. 

“Look at me.  No, do not look down; look at me.  Come now.”

Legolas knew a thing or two about feral fear, and his unwavering gaze held Gimli’s captivated even as he would have blindfolded a shy horse, his backward tread on the rope unerring until at last they had reached the floor of the flet where they passed from the glare of the sunset again into soft shadow.

Standing again on something substantial, Gimli was released from his momentary rapture as Legolas let him go and turned away.  He shuddered, for he remembered very little of the return walk once the Elf had taken him in hand, only the gentle intensity of those eyes.

He shook his head as if to clear it.  “Legolas!  Do not do that to me!”

“I beg your pardon?” Legolas asked, turning back then, honest confusion in his voice.

“I have heard of such tricks by the Elves of old, and I wager the Lady could do such if she had a mind.  But I would not expect it of you.”

“I assure you, I did nothing,” Legolas insisted, wondering at all the fuss the Dwarf made of it.

Gimli pursed his lips and planted his hands on his hips, long-standing suspicions coming to a head at last.  “I weary of learning all things by circumstance,” he said firmly, looking askance at the enigmatic Elf.  “What are you, Legolas?  Tell me now.  Are you no more than you would seem, one of the silvan folk of the North?  Or do you indeed wield the eldritch craft of the Ancients, to whom I understand you are akin?”

Legolas hesitated a moment, a solemn change coming over him.  “I know not what you would mean by it,” he answered at last, his voice deepening somewhat, the subtle veil of youth withdrawn; “for I am ancient myself to your eyes.  But yes, I am born of the Sindarin Ar-Edhil and endowed with some power of my own, though it cannot compare to those who have seen the Light I have not.”

They regarded one another for a time, the nettled Dwarf and the regal Elvenlord, a chasm of centuries yawning between them. 

“But I assure you,” Legolas said then, sinking onto the couch and falling back into his light and innocent ways, his eyes pleading for the Dwarf’s trust like a dog that had been kicked aside, “I employed nothing of the sort.  You were not ensorceled, if that is what you fear.”

Gimli seemed to breathe a bit easier then, assured that he had not been violated, though the brief glimpses of the real Legolas he was shown from time to time were unsettling.  By rights he supposed that was what Legolas should be, as the son of a King and the kin of Lords.  But he was glad the Elf more often than not wore his more pleasant and befriending demeanor.  Like all Dwarves, to him the thought of being enthralled by elven magic, even if only for a moment, was insufferable. 

“Am I pardoned?” Legolas asked then, inquiring after his thoughts.

“Why?” Gimli snorted.  “For what?  It is I, seemingly, who must ask your pardon.”

Legolas smiled.  “Then it is duly granted and gladly forgotten,” he said at once.  “Haldir has invited us to dinner.  You will come?”

“Gladly!” Gimli echoed, his rugged face brightening immeasurably.  “I expect you think yourself in fine form now that you have indulged in the luxuries of your kind.”

Legolas gave his stout friend a superior glance.  “I do think you would enjoy a bath just as much as I,” he said, sidling round the point he endeavored to make.  “There is no shame in it now and again.”

“Bah,” Gimli dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand.  “It will suit some.  But come; I feel I am starving!”

That night the silver moon rode high over Lórien.  The quiet mellyrn were bathed in his light, their leaves rustling in the sighing wind.  The flet itself was silent, the darkness of midnight ameliorated by the soft blue glow of moon and starlight.  Even Gimli slept soundly, his breathing deep and regular in the stillness.

Legolas lay awake in his own bed for a time, looking upon the stars from his bedside window.  After several days in the untamed wood and on the barren plains, it was a comfort again to lie on a real bed with a pillow and clean white sheets, beside him the silver-white window curtains gently adrift in the breeze amid the treetops.

This was what he remembered and treasured about Lasgalen, the first Lasgalen, the Galadhremmen Lasgalen of Oropher, that idyllic city in the shadow of the mountains.  Not all the homes had been built among the trees, but on a whim the palace had been, set among several tall and stately beeches.  He remembered drifting to sleep to the sound of trees rustling, moonlight on the leaves.  But that city had perished long ago, and with it the brightest years of his life.

But he would build again.  He vowed to himself that in Ithilien he would once again sleep to the music of the trees in spite of the one who had once shattered their lives.  To stand in evergreen laughter, Gandalf had said.  The last laugh.

They had endured a living martyrdom, but the last laugh would be theirs.

In time they left again the fair borders of Lórien among a mounted party of Galadhrim led by Haldir.  Arod was in fighting form, his dark eyes gleaming.  By now he looked twice the horse he had been during the war, which was compliment enough in itself when one considered the quality maintained by the Rohirrim.  Legolas sat astride, still arrayed in the regal white and grey of Celeborn, Haldir’s party gladly becoming more an impromptu royal escort.  Gimli sat mounted behind him as always, but as Legolas became by degrees more radiantly prince-like over the course of their journey, the Dwarf secretly began to entertain the same reservations about bumping along behind him as he had of the Lady.  But even if Legolas’ appearance had changed, his easy manner had not, and it had clearly never crossed his mind that Gimli should ride anywhere but with him.  Even proud Haldir seemed small beside him now.

Lothlórien behind them, they crossed the Anduin River at the fords employed by the Galadhrim during the war.  Riding beside them, Haldir gladly recounted all that had transpired in the assault, the outpouring of Lórien beneath Celeborn’s banner, and the storming of the fastness of Mirkwood.  Legolas listened avidly, but Haldir described his lord’s march so ardently that often he fell back into his own tongue, and most was thus lost upon Gimli.

Early on the second day, they reached the borders of Southern Mirkwood, or East Lórien as it was now called.  Their pace slowed, and shadows deepened beneath their boughs.  But these shadows were clean, without the choking filth that had come of Dol Guldur.  The trees were yet bent and strained, but the evil was lifted from them and with time they would grow in peace again.  Legolas sighed as he looked upon them.  Gimli remembered the face of the Mountain marred by Smaug the Dragon, and thus tried to understand how Legolas felt for this twisted wood.

It was a distance of many leagues through the forest to the hill of Amon Lanc, where Sauron’s fortress had once stood.  Following the paths made by Celeborn’s army they arrived there in the early evening, just as the tantalizing aromas of supper were beginning to waft through the grey tent city that was pitched around the hill itself in the light from the break in the trees above, a great convergence of pavilions of all sizes milling with many Elves.

A cheer went up for Haldir’s return, and an even greater one for Legolas and Gimli both, songs raised then to herald their triumphant return.  Dismounting, Legolas was soon swamped with "old friends," acquaintances they had made in Lórien when they had passed before, a great glad crowd of jabbering Sindarin that reminded Gimli remarkably of a bunch of waterfowl. 

Legolas eventually sent them all back to do their various duties.  As they faded away, looking back now and again to smile, Legolas turned to Gimli and laughed.  “They say they are glad to welcome again ‘the Lady’s Little Favorite’,” he said.

Gimli blushed and muttered something safely unintelligible.

“Never mind that,” Legolas went on.  “These Nandor are always laughing, if life does not deny them cause.  They will laugh at themselves as soon as they at will us.  And we are quite a laughable pair, are we not?”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Bah!  What is nettling you today?” Legolas asked, sinking into an easy crouch in front of him, his lordly bearing forgotten.  “If you tire so of my kind, remember that we are now so much nearer to Erebor.”

“It is not that,” Gimli hurried to explain, but the glint in Legolas’ eyes challenged that statement, no offense taken.  “All right, it is not entirely that,” he amended.  “But I worry now how the eyes of the Mountain will see us, let alone the eyes of the Wood.  Laughable?  Or treasonable?”

“Oh, come now,” Legolas dismissed it, though his bright voice sobered somewhat, looking up to meet Gimli’s gaze from where he sat catlike on his heels.  “Surely it cannot be as bad as all that.  We will cross those bridges when we come to them.”

“Provided they have not already been burnt,” Gimli grumbled dismally.

“Then we shall build new ones,” Legolas insisted, dreadfully earnest again.  “Or do you doubt me?”

“Legolas!” Haldir called then, returning from whatever errand had drawn him away.  “Come, both of you.  Arod has been picketed and provided for; now let us provide for ourselves!  You must be famished.”

Gimli knew he was, and Haldir’s invitation was a welcome one.  He was not particularly anxious to answer that last inquiry Legolas had thrown at him.  The Elf willingly let the subject close as he rose and turned to follow Haldir, but not without a knowing look back, a look that made it plain to Gimli that he considered his honor at stake in this regard.

Haldir led them toward the bustling center of the tent city.  “A hall will be built here later,” he explained.  “And many of us shall remove here to effect the recovery of the wood.  Much has been done to cleanse it already.  I dare say you would hardly know that mere months ago this was the darkest wood in Middle-earth.  It is said that even the Lord and the Lady will come to dwell here, to make it East Lórien indeed.  At least until . . .” but his voice faltered and he coughed before he could invoke a painful subject.

Gimli gave little heed as he trooped along behind.  A new air had gradually come over Legolas now, like a lord coming into his own.  His eyes were fixed on Amon Lanc itself, the citadel of Sauron thrown down from the summit where summer grass now grew.  Only disregarded blocks of evil-looking stone recalled its former master.

Haldir stopped as his companion did, allowing him a moment of peace to look upon that place that meant so much in so many different ways.

“I came here once,” Legolas said at last, “with my father in my youth before the dark days, when the trees which bore the halls of my grandfather still stood.  Before all was changed.” 

This Gimli could understand, even as he understood Thorin’s return to the Mountain.  The Halls upon Amon Lanc had been built by Thranduil’s father, Thranduil who was Legolas’ father, Legolas who would have now been the obvious heir to this site had not all gone differently.  This place was bound to his bloodline, even though they had now relinquished it.  And to imagine the halls of their own making perverted and turned against them – such would have been insufferable to any Dwarvish dynasty, the stuff of feuds to last generations.  In that light at last he understood the Elves and their war.  At last, for a moment, he understood Thranduil. 

But then Legolas laughed to himself, lightening the solemnity of the moment.  “To think that Grandfather Oropher abandoned these halls merely to remove himself from his cousins the Lord and Lady.  And now my father has freely given it to them.”

Haldir joined him in a wry laugh, but the statement held other implications for Gimli.  Legolas was akin to the Lady? 

Together they turned to where the evening meal was provided, silvan style with them all seated upon the sawn rings of fallen trees or casually upon the ground.  Royal etiquette was notably freer among the silvan Elves than it was among Men, the higher Elves, or even the Dwarves.  They honored Legolas as the prince he was, but neither he nor they thought anything of his being seated familiarly among them on a cutting of wood.  Did Celeborn fraternize with them as well?  Gimli found this strangely endearing about them, belying many fabled rumors of impassive Elvish arrogance, for they talked and laughed together as easily as if they had been brothers, though Legolas was of another wood, another kin, another world.  In that, Gimli found himself regretting the fierce territorial feeling of his own kin, but stopped himself. 

If they did not sight Erebor soon, Legolas would make an Elf of him yet!

They sat long into the evening, until the sunset had gone and the stars appeared overhead amid the ever-darkening sky.  Then at last they parted ways, some with other duties to fulfill, Haldir among them.

“Legolas,” he said, pulling him aside.  “Come.  There is yet one thing I am to show you ere you retire.  The Lord would be wroth with me indeed if I neglected this duty.”

Legolas followed him.  Gimli followed as well, for though he had not been expressly invited, he had not been forbidden either.  And his curiosity won the best of him.  Looking back he saw the place they had just left, and it struck him suddenly in the gloom as one of those eerie elf-rings one occasionally found in deep places of the forest.  For a moment he thought it incredible that he had taken part in one.  But then he had to hurry forward lest the grey tent-flap be closed against him.

Ducking inside, he came from a world of dark evening into a scene of soft lamplight, grass yet underfoot.  Legolas stood with Haldir at a table set in the center, and strewn about on it was a wonder to strike any Dwarf speechless.  It was as though stars had fallen from the sky and been gathered into the breathtaking assortment that lay before them now, glimmering with pricks of red, green, and blue, vivid accents amid the pale and radiant gleam scattered from many facets in the lamplight.

The sight of mithril always excited him.

“Not even the Abominable One could find it in his black heart to destroy these,” Haldir said.  “This has been set aside from the hoard found in his rat’s nest by the Lord Celeborn for you and Thranduil your father.”

Legolas had taken up one such trinket, a pendant of exquisite workmanship.  It shone vividly in the changing light as he turned it in his fingers as a cat looks curiously at a new plaything, its sapphire sparkle accentuating the glint of starlight in his eyes.  But then he set it down again amid the rest as though it held no influence over him whatever.  “You will tell the Lord Celeborn for me that he has our thanks, and that he really is too generous for his own good,” he smiled.  “I have no doubt my father will esteem his gifts highly.”

Gimli was aghast but indeed somewhat impressed by Legolas’ flippancy with the priceless treasures.  He knows nothing of greed, he thought, and found that strangely refreshing.  His father, however, is another matter.

But aside of all the assorted baubles and frippery, there was once piece in particular that caught even Legolas’ eye.  A large chain of mithril cunningly worked to resemble a length of vine to lie over a pair of noble shoulders.  Each dovetailed bunch of silver leaves was an artfully invisible link, their sharp edges gleaming in the light, a heraldic chain of office fit only for the greatest of lords.  The intricate leaves grew larger at the front, and in their unfurled center was set one magnificent teardrop ruby of uncommon size.

“That is the Sereguren,” Haldir explained in a subdued voice.  “Lord Celeborn remembered it, for it was crafted by the Mírdain of Eregion before the fall of that realm.  Now that it is recovered beyond hope, he deems its place to be with the Lords of Mirkwood, who, as he said, have earned it.”

Legolas ran his fingers lightly over the great red stone, and it seemed to Gimli’s wondering eyes that it glowed faintly beneath his touch.  “The Bleeding Heart,” he said, his face expressionless.  “It is apt, if nothing else.”

That night was a dark one, lit only by the glimmering stars.  Gimli lay abed in their own pavilion for what seemed like hours, but sleep did not come to him.  Legolas had not yet come, playing truant again somewhere among his own kind.  Surely he must sleep sometime, he thought to himself.  He knew the Elves could attend their world with only half a mind at times, finding rest of a sort without ever truly losing consciousness, but surely they would seek more restful sleep when circumstances would allow it.  

Reflecting back on their year together, he could remember only once that he had seen Legolas to truly sleep, careworn and at last exhausted.  It had taken a great deal to bring him to such a pass.  In the days after the Battle of Morannon when at last the thrill itself had dissipated, Legolas had slept off the wear and strain of the entire war, eyes closed, gratefully insensible to what moved around him for a few days.  Knowing the Elves – especially those of Mirkwood – to be a vigilant race, Gimli could understand how they seldom allowed themselves the luxury of real sleep, and then only briefly.  But still, it was hard to imagine how they bore the weight of their years without repose.  It was no wonder then that they grew world-weary!

He tossed and turned for a while longer, but soon gave it up.  The night was growing cooler with the approach of autumn, but it was not yet cold.  He stomped into his boots and pulled his belt about the waist of his tunic, heading out into the dark.

Somehow, he knew where to go.  Other lights glowed in the Elvish tents, but he turned to make his way up the starlit hill of Amon Lanc.  It was no casual climb, but a path had been worn in the side by foul feet unguessed, cleansed now by the light tread of Elves.  Soft music came to his ears as he climbed, confirming his intuition.

He found Legolas there at the summit, sitting on the young lawn of green grass and pale niphredil blooms, everything turned a shade of silver in the starlight.  The white of his raiment cast an ethereal glow against the darker blue beside it, his cloak pooled about him like frozen cream.  He sat idly strumming a lute, the sound strangely comforting, like a musical cat’s purr.

He looked up slightly and smiled as though his friend was not wholly unexpected, though he seemed to give only half attention.  “Gîl síla erin lû e-govaded vín, Gimli,” he greeted him in a pleasant but deliberate voice, so that Gimli wondered a moment if he were not indeed ‘asleep’.  “Even so must it have been in starlit Doriath before the Moon, years even my father does not remember.”

Gimli sat heavily across from him, attending the subtle music, for a moment unsure how to express his thoughts.  “You did not tell me you were of the Lady’s kin,” he said at last.

Legolas laughed then, the catnapping look leaving his eyes.  “So that is what troubles you!” as though Gimli had just answered an inquiry of his own.  “In the strictest sense, I am not,” he explained leisurely, his hand continuing to play almost of its own accord.  “You asked me already what I am.  Now I suppose you should like to know who.” 

Gimli did, but now was somehow reluctant to pry.

Legolas turned his eyes skyward for a moment, toward the same stars his people had long regarded.  “You will find many of us are akin somehow,” he said at last, his gaze falling back to his companion.  “You remember the tales of Elvenking Elu Thingol, father of Lúthien.  Elrond is of his line, as is Aragorn.  The Lady Galadriel is of Elu’s brother Olu, or Olwë, if you will.  I am of Elu’s brother Elmo.”  He paused before continuing, his music faltering momentarily as he gathered his thoughts.  “Elmo fathered Galadhon, who fathered Celeborn.  But Elmo had also a daughter, Elenien, who bore Oropher, who fathered Thranduil, who fathered me.  So my father is Celeborn’s first cousin, once removed, even as they are both cousins somewhat removed of Galadriel of Valinor.”

So simple an explanation for so many years.

Legolas heaved a sigh, his face passive, long-buried thoughts stirred again.  “Would I understand aught of your lineage if you told me?” he smiled, changing the subject.

“Well,” Gimli began, recalling the long-memorized names of his ancestors, pleased that Legolas had asked.  “I am Gimli, son of Glóin, second son of Gróin, second son of Farin, son of Borin, second son of Náin II, son of Óin, son of Glóin, son of Thorin I, son of Thrain I, son of Náin I, son of Durin VI, who was of Durin the Deathless in the First Age of this world.”

Legolas had attended dutifully to the litany, but the wry laughter that could be seen on his face said he had long ago been hopelessly lost, his confusion expressed eloquently by a sharp twang of a lute string.

“Forgive me if I do not follow,” he said lightly.  “I recognize that you are of royal blood even if but distantly, which is good, little though it matters to either of us.  It may prove a valuable asset in the eyes of certain others.”

The night passed quietly as they sat together beneath the stars, Legolas’ slow playing eventually assuming a distinct and gentle melody when they had ceased to speak.  The darkened trees rustled in the wind, their leaves poised to change their color again.  As Gimli dozed where he sat, Legolas wondered if all of Mirkwood would explode this year in the brilliant color that had once been the hallmark of Greenwood.  Red, gold, and saffron; bronze, cinnamon, and amber; red oak and blazing maple.  But perhaps that was too much to ask in one season.  Still, anything lighter than the gloom that had choked it for centuries would be an improvement.  They had preserved the autumn colors in their own realm, but gone were the days when he could climb the Greenwood Mountains and see an endless carpet of living flame stretch away to the horizons.  Someday, he would do that again, ere he left these shores behind him.

But for now he sat, unchallenged and sovereign, making music upon what had been the seat of Dol Guldur, the very root of all Mirkwood’s evil.  The implications were not lost upon him; indeed it was deliberate, and he allowed himself a smile.  Mordor had fallen in roaring ruin at his feet, but now this was his supreme and crowning moment of triumph.

That moment was a quiet one.

The next morning, they were ready to depart with the dawn.  Legolas was elvenlord no longer, but merely the affable woodland scout.  It was the persona Gimli found he preferred but feared he would see less and less often.

“Farewell, Legolas,” Haldir bade him before he mounted.  “Let it be no surprise if you see me someday beneath Ithilien’s boughs.”

“A welcome one, if surprise it be,” Legolas assured him.

“And farewell, Durin’s son, favored of Lórien!” Haldir turned to Gimli.  “If you go now to meet Thranduil, I wish you well.”

Legolas sneered in obvious disapproval of his tone, but all was in fun.

A fair silvan maiden was there among those who had gathered to see them off, and she dipped gracefully to the Prince of Greenwood, for so he had become in a matter of moments.  Still Gimli found it amazing just how completely Legolas could alter his bearing at will.  She gave into his hands a satchel of pale grey velvet, tied with a long white silken ribbon, this in addition to those provisions which Gimli was to carry and that obviously contained the mithril offering from Celeborn.

“Accept these, my prince, in memory of the Lord, and this in token of the Lady,” she said, indicating the ribbon.  “They send also their goodwill, and wish you both a safe and swift journey to your homelands.”

“And they have my thanks,” Legolas replied politely.

And so they left East Lórien behind them.  Their road took them now to the westernmost border of the wood, and from there due north.  Toward home.

“Gimli, I believe it is high time I told you a thing or two about my father ere you meet him.”

Gimli grunted in careless assent, seated on a log near their campfire as he turned on a hastily carven spit what had once been a hare.  It was a savory bit, but hardly enough red meat to be worth splitting between them to his mind.  Still, Legolas had been unwilling to fell the beautiful stag they had sighted before, wanting to give the wood an ample chance to recover after the blow it had suffered during the war.  But after three days of unmitigated northward riding, Gimli had been craving something more than the rations of waybread provided by the Galadhrim, and Legolas had been gracious enough to kill and clean this much for him.  Chances were he would let him have it all unless Gimli insisted upon sharing.  The scent was tantalizing, and in that light so was the plump grey squirrel skittering idly around Legolas where sat against a nearby oak.  It had been a nervous little thing an hour ago, but seemed to be settling down considerably now that Legolas had forgotten the knife he had been whetting and begun tossing it crumbs.  Crickets sang unperturbed in the dark underbrush all around, the only sound besides the crackling of the fire.

“First, you know well that he has no love for your kind,” Legolas explained, throwing what was left of the crust to his bushy-tailed admirer.  “I will not apologize for it, because it is common knowledge.  Beware the sack of Doriath, let alone the murder of Thingol.  Thranduil saw his grandfather Thoron fall beneath Dwarvish axes.  These things are long behind him, and he is fair enough not to see any blame in you, but it would be best overall to tread lightly around the subject.  The faces of Dwarves have been branded in his mind as the faces of foes, so it will be gracious of him to receive you at all.”

Gimli grunted again, this time somewhat indignantly.  The meat meanwhile had begun to give off tantalizing steam.  “Sounds difficult to get along with,” he scoffed.

“You will forgive my father if he is severe,” Legolas said sharply, leaving Gimli to wonder if it was given as advice or as a command.  “The years have made him so.”

The fire burned between them, the licking of its flames unchallenged for a time by speech.  But again Legolas was the first to heal the breach.

“Do try to make a good impression,” he pleaded.  “I may open the door, but only you can charm your way over the threshold.”

“Lovely.  Have I any charms that would sway Thranduil?”  Gimli took the meat from the fire and held it before him, enjoying the smell until it cooled enough to handle. 

“You would do well to avoid the subject of Thorin and of Glóin’s imprisonment,” Legolas suggested for starters, Arod snuffing and rustling in the brush behind him.

“So it comes to that at last,” Gimli complained sullenly, the ruffled pride of both houses standing between them as an almost impossible obstacle.  “Why did you have to do that in the first place?”

“Would you have done any different?” Legolas returned, his manner become subtly defensive.  “You knew Thorin in your youth, did you not?  I thought so.  How would Master Oakenshield have welcomed a trespassing party of uncouth Elves who refused to tell him their purpose or make any reasonable explanation of themselves?”

There was silence a moment.

“Clap them in irons,” Gimli begrudgingly admitted, “until their lord gave account of them.”

“As would be his right,” Legolas said, carefully running his blade over a whetstone.  “But even forgiving that, Thranduil would have been more agreeable had your father’s companions been likewise, and had Balin not brazenly insulted him.  I would have endeavored to mollify the situation, but I knew the cause was lost at that turn.”

Ruffled tempers settled after a moment, and Gimli pulled agitatedly at a bit of meat.  “You know that,” he said, “and I know that.  But we are not the ones we must convince.”

 “Indeed,” Legolas agreed; “Elbereth preserve me.  Glóin seemed less than forgiving from what little I saw of him.  I am not ashamed to say I went out of my way to avoid him in Rivendell.”

“And he you.  Forgiveness comes hard to the Khazâd.  And he thought it only natural that if he yet bore a grudge, then so did you and your father.”

Legolas smiled regretfully.  “At times, forgiveness comes hard to the Eldar as well.  I declined to attend Elrond’s reception that night on his account, despite Arwen’s elegant protests.”

“We had heard rumor that you were there.  Father was glad not to have seen you,” Gimli admitted, rather shamefacedly, as though remembering some less than flattering epithet.  He offered a portion of the hare.  “Do you want . . .?” but Legolas waved a hand dismissively, his grey rodent friend climbing its inquisitive way up to his shoulder.  “You know, the thought of Thranduil unnerves me.  But somehow I fear more to face my own father!”

Legolas smiled in fraternal sympathy, but then looked at him thoughtfully.  “What is it about Thranduil that unnerves you?” he asked, as though he sought perhaps to reassure him.

“That I know not what to expect.  Never have I lain eyes upon him.”  He paused to blow soothingly on his hot fingers.  “And to hear you against what I have heard from my own father, I could have sworn we spoke of two quite different individuals!”

A twisted grin.  “Glóin has eyes to see only through anger,” Legolas explained simply; “and I only through love.  To take the essentials from both visions will serve you well enough.”

“And what might those be?”

Legolas paused a moment in the firelight, choosing his words carefully.  “He is the wolf that guards the North,” he said at last; “a fearsome beast which children may frolic upon by the fireside without fear.  He is severe, but he is also gentle.  He is the drum that calls his people both to war and to merriment.  He has been a lion to those who provoke him and has torn many in his time; but his claws are oft withdrawn, and his great paws velveted.  If once you earn his friendship, you have naught to fear from him.”

“It is that which troubles me,” Gimli confessed, impressed by Legolas’ glowing tribute, and considering it against Glóin’s account of the arrogant barbarian-king who reigned in the sticks with his kin the foxes.  “Do you imagine I shall succeed in that?”

“You worry too much,” Legolas said easily, echoing his evaluation in Fangorn.  “That which sets us apart matters little in the face of what we share.”

Gimli employed the excuse of a full mouth while he attempted to digest that.  “What do you mean?” he asked at last.

"You are valiant, loyal, steadfast, dare I say honest, and these virtues he esteems above all else" Legolas explained.  "For what does it profit one to be fair of face if he be evil at heart?  Even the fairest lords of Arda should find his realm barred against them if they be not upright and fair also of mind.  If you can last the first hour without offending him, all will be well.  You must, you must understand the importance of first impressions on my father.  He will never love Glóin.”

“The sentiment is mutual, I’m sure,” Gimli said wryly, setting aside the inedible remnants of dinner and wiping his thick fingers on his lap.  But in truth, he was deeply thoughtful.  “How am I to speak to him during this fateful hour?”

Legolas smirked ill-contentedly at his companion’s flippancy, but told him the truth.  “He despises empty flatteries,” he said.  “But neither can he endure criticism from one he scarcely knows.  It remains for you to find a middle-ground.”

“First a tagalong, and now a diplomatic acrobat,” Gimli grumbled, though he chuckled at the same time.  “I have played more parts for your company than I now dare to count.  But tell me, if you will, what I am to expect otherwise.  It would not do to stare.”

“No,” Legolas agreed, musing.  “You have known only a few Elven lords that I may use in comparison.  There is absolutely nothing of Lord Elrond in him.  Celeborn he resembles more.  His are Celeborn’s eyes,” he decided firmly.  “Dark and green like pine, but with a wary light.”

“I remember them,” Gimli said.  “Gripping, but outshone by the Lady.”

“He is very like Celeborn,” Legolas continued absently, as though he had not heard Gimli speak at all.  “Or rather, like Celeborn as you have not known him.  He is wholly of the Sindar, and his loyalties lie but lightly elsewhere.  But . . . there is in him much that would evoke the Lady as well.”

Gimli’s head came up sharply at that, with new interest.  Legolas did not meet his gaze, but seemed still deep in thought, as though he were seeing new likenesses himself, placing them side by side in his mind.

“How can that be?” Gimli demanded.  “Did not the Lady come of the Immortal West?”

“She did.  And my father came of Doriath, where beneath the rule of a Maia they became the greatest of the Elves of this Middle-earth, near to match even the Great Ones of Valinor.  There is rumored even to be some Vanyarin blood in us, from the days before Time was reckoned, when all three Kindreds of the Eldar dwelt together before any had seen the West.” 

He paused, thoughtful again.  “But there is more,” he said, “more still that sets him apart.  Celeborn . . . he is not . . .”  He seemed at a loss for a moment to pin down the enigmatic attribute he wished to describe, groping for words.  “Celeborn has never slain his own kind,” he decided at last, a profession that sent a subtle chill up Gimli’s spine, though he knew not entirely why.  “All the Sindar who came to Greenwood from Beleriand endured the Kinslayings, and indeed both my mother and my father have borne blade against the Exiles.  They are blameless but still it lies like a shadow upon them, the same you might have seen in the Lady.  It has not cursed us, but it has certainly been no blessing.”  Filial regret showed plainly on his face.  “In that, you may better understand the bond of brotherhood that unites the present Lords of Lasgalen.  Young then, thrust into the unforgiving world beyond Doriath and reft of most all their kin, there were few left to whom they could turn, save my grandfather – one of the last surviving lords of the old realm.  He gathered what remained of them beneath his wing; they found in him another father, and Thranduil accepted them for brothers.  And sisters; my mother was among their number.  It may be said that they are all the heirs of Oropher.” 

A few long moments of empty silence passed before Legolas sighed and seemed unwilling to continue in that vein.  “So, what may you tell me of your father?”

“Well,” Gimli began, leaving the shades of Thranduil aside and looking back upon what was more familiar, “my kin came from the Blue Mountains when Thorin’s Company retook Erebor.”  Now it was his turn to pause, searching for words, but he abandoned then all attempt at delicacy.  “I will be frank with you, Legolas.  My father is not pleased with you.  The King bears no special ill will toward the Wood, rather indifferent personally and politically.  Still, those who remain of Thorin’s Company have brooded through the years on the indignities they suffered at the hands of your father and his servants.  Glóin was more courteous in Rivendell than he is wont to be.”  At this Legolas grimaced noticeably.  “And I dare say he speaks for them all when he curses ‘Thranduil and his spawn.’  At least, when he deigns even to speak his true name.”

Legolas’ grimace had twisted into a sneer, and Gimli did not blame him.  “Indignities!” he protested.  “If I were half so crass as they, I should still have shunned Haldir for daring to blind me in Lórien.  I am glad you are not so bullheaded, Gimli.  At times I feel I come near even to understanding you, but now I have small hope for the others.”

For a moment Gimli was unsure how to take that seeming compliment that at the same time disparaged his kin.  He reflected back upon what tales circulated within his home about the Elves, and vividly remembered what Legolas had said of looking for reflections in crooked glass.  Much would be refuted easily if they would only condescend to know the Elves.  He shuddered now to think what they would say of the Lady.

“If you endeavor to open your father’s eyes to me,” he said at last, “then I will do what I may to turn Glóin’s sight upon you.  Even if I must brand your image on the backside of his eyelids.”

The journey continued, day after day, following the western timberline into the far North.  The weather held agreeably for them, and summer seemed reluctant to submit to the first frost.  Gimli suspected Legolas would have sooner taken the long road through the vast reaches of the forest itself, but chose this course for the sake of speed and out of thought for Arod, who was foaled in the open plains and likely would not enjoy longer woodland travel than was necessary.

But when they had passed the midlands and could see the mountains looming misty-grey amid the trees, Legolas did at last turn Arod aside and plunge into the shadows of the wood.  He had become pensive again, with some immediate purpose beyond their common goal.

“What are you up to now, lad?” Gimli asked, a trifle uneasy in being simply carried along for the ride.

“I have set my mind to it, Gimli,” Legolas said firmly.  “For many days I was undecided, but I must find it.”

Lost in his own thoughts, the Elf had apparently forgotten that his companion had no right idea what he was talking about.  Gimli sighed in a huff, resigned to wait and see.

The shadows deepened as they rode further from the sun, the trees thick and oppressive even if the evil had been lifted from them.  The humus disturbed by Arod’s hooves smelled damp and musty, and there was no end of thorns.  It seemed most everything that had grown in Mirkwood had grown thorns somehow.  After an hour, wisps of old cobwebs could be seen clinging to branches above, and though Legolas glanced at them warily, he seemed to sense no lingering danger about them.

It was a ride as trying to Gimli as it was to Arod.  The road was no more, neglected and overgrown, crisscrossed with fallen trees, a strenuous test of both horse and rider.  Occasionally they came across a few strides’ worth of free ground before cavorting over the next obstacle, and after another such tedious hour Arod was beginning to sweat and stamp irritably.  Legolas urged him forward, driven by a purpose neither of the others yet understood.

The air became heavy, and Gimli felt he was beginning to swelter.  “This is still worse than Fangorn!” he muttered to himself, not daring to loose his hold on Legolas lest he be lost at the next leap and twist of the horse beneath them.

And just when he might have believed they would never see the end – for now evening was drawing on – the way widened into a path deep in twilight, hemmed on all sides but clear enough.  Arod heaved a sigh of relief as he tread even ground again, but Gimli felt a lurking uneasiness come upon him now in this realm of shadow, for such a path as this was far from natural, especially considering what a tangle they had just come through.  There was a strange intensity about Legolas, too, that was disquieting. 

It felt very like approaching a graveyard.

Gimli never quite noticed when the path came to an end, but gradually the trees thinned, though most was lost in heavy grey shadow.  Legolas halted Arod and sat unmoving for a moment, and only then did the deathly stillness of the place become apparent, lost in a strange hush.  There was nothing of waking life here, and even the trees seemed languid, as though this wooded valley lay still under some vestige of soporific enchantment which slowed its decay – and suddenly Gimli recognized that Legolas looked now upon his old home.

The Elf dismounted without a word.  Indeed he had seemed to have momentarily forgotten his companion as his eyes searched out landmarks in the dimness.  He seemed sadly disoriented for a time, but then he set off into the shadows.  Still astride, Gimli nudged Arod to follow, hoping his command alone was enough to guide the good beast, for he had no way of enforcing his will save by tugging at his mane.  But Arod did plod after his master, more out of a desire to go there himself than to oblige Gimli.

In the gloom they found him crouched beside what remained of a massive tree, only an ancient and ragged stump that even now fell to dust in his hands.  

“I was born in this tree,” he said, his voice absent as though he remembered how it had been in the days of its flowering, and was grieved to see it brought to this.  “For centuries we lived in its boughs.”

The Mountain had not been Gimli’s first home, but it had stood for several generations before him, and would doubtless stand for many after him.  There was something pitiful then in seeing Legolas, still in the bloom of immortal youth, left to lament a home of his own that had succumbed to ravages he would never know.  Gimli remembered Rivendell, and he endeavored to imagine what Greenwood would have been before its corruption, another haven of bright smiles and fair laughter.  Now it was reduced to a worm-eaten, cobweb-infested haunt for he knew not what.

Glancing around, Legolas rose and followed the traces that marked where the tree had lain as it moldered away into nothing.  At one point he sank again to his knees and ran a hand lightly over the dark leaf mould, searching for something.  At length he dug about until he pulled away all that remained of a plank of varnished wood, in it still embedded a slender elven nail.  Perhaps all that remained of the King’s House.

Leaving it, Legolas stood again and began pacing agitatedly about the premises.  “Here,” he said, throwing the heavy soil away with his foot.  “Here was the walkway.”  And indeed, after a time he had cleared away a portion of what had once been a path of white stone, forgotten now beneath centuries of dirt and decay.  “And here,” he went on, leaving that for a rampant growth of weeds that had spread well beyond their once-appointed confines; “here was the Queen’s garden where she bred her roses.”

Gimli slid heavily from Arod’s back, thankful to have solid ground underfoot again.  Watching Legolas here was deeply unsettling, as though he watched a specter returned to some otherworldly tryst, one who had walked that forgotten path of crumbling flagstones in his youth and remembered when all this ruin had been green.

Legolas turned, wandering for a moment as though he looked for something he did not see.  But the definitive contours could not escape him in the end, and at once he turned his attentions to it, pulling the black dirt away with his own hands.  The object of his efforts Gimli soon recognized as an obelisk of stone as tall as he.  It had fallen long ago, and was now almost buried, but Legolas seemed intent upon unearthing it.

At last he had cleared away the edges and thrust his fingers beneath the point of it.  Silent tears were streaming heedlessly from his clear eyes, and indeed Gimli wondered if Legolas himself was at all aware of them.  With a desperate heave that no mortal could equal, he tore the fallen monument up from its damp resting place, ripping away the roots and other growths that had twined round it, bracing against his shoulder that great deadweight of granite that would have tried the combined strength of at least two young dwarves.  From there he thrust it upright, and though its base was broken and unsteady, the moss and mold below settled to accommodate it.

Lost to the world around him, Legolas ran his fingers over the once-bold engravings which were now dulled with time and lichen, Sindarin runes even Gimli could recognize after a fashion.

O-R-O-PH-E-R

“He is buried here?” he inquired softly, out of respect for what he deemed to be hallowed ground.

“No,” Legolas said, his voice dark with regret.  “Seven years in the Black Land denied him even that simple grace.  His forgotten grave is in the South beside the others who fell beneath his banner.”

Letting his hand drift blindly over the rest of it, that which faintly spelled Aran o Eryn Galen, Legolas felt his regret become something bitter.  “So it is not enough that Sauron should destroy him in the wastes of Mordor,” he spat, “but he would deface even his memory!”

He remembered the heartfelt grief of his father, still a shadow upon him in the early years of Legolas’ childhood, how he had at last accepted that there was no graveside to which to return, and had contented himself with this dedication to his father’s memory.  It was not only rain and wind that had worn upon the inscription, and Legolas lay his own hand now where Thranduil’s had once so often rested.  Thrown down and defiled by Orc claws, the base itself had been shattered, but the rest deliberately left face down in the mould to rot in final insult. 

The mockery was entirely too plain to be missed.

Gimli recognized the dark wrath in Legolas’ eyes, terrifying in its silence.  He remembered what was said of the woodland Elves, more dangerous and less wise.  The long years in the unforgiving environs of Mirkwood had made the ungentle arts of bloodshed a skill to be perfected, though for that they could hardly be blamed.  Gimli did not doubt that Legolas knew and had practiced more grim ways to inflict a fatal blow than he ever would himself.

“Sauron did not destroy the memory of Oropher,” he said gruffly, the best his voice could make of the conflict of condolence and sympathetic indignation.  “Has not the dark tower fallen?  And don’t you still live?  Which is the better monument to his bloodline?”

Gradually Legolas’ anger sobered into something passive, as though in remembering the fall of Mordor he recognized a cold satisfaction for the wrongs accrued by his house.  “You are right, Gimli,” he said at last, leaving the stone to stand alone, unanchored but stable for now.  “And if it should lie within my power, there will be another of these to recall him ere I go perhaps to meet him at last, one that will stand nearer the land that felled him, and that shall not be thrown down so long as Gondor should endure.”

The mountains were south of them now, and they had joined the woodland path, entering at last the new-founded borders of Thranduil's Realm.

The site of old Galadhremmen Lasgalen was by now far behind them, a full day's ride, but even then Legolas wondered if deliberately seeking it out had been the wisest way to prepare himself for what he expected to meet now.  Depression had settled heavily upon him, threatening to stir again that unnamed anxiety.  Gimli sat silently behind him, seeming to understand his need for solitude.  Few words had passed between them over the last day, and the last hour had been unbroken by speech, the only sound the tramp of Arod through the brush.

At every turn, Legolas was braced to see the ruin that had been wrought by the war.  He still had no right idea what to expect, for the heralds had been unwilling to speak of it.  That in itself worried him.  It was not often that Thranduil's Elves shrank from reality.  Every new scar on a tree, every unjustly felled limb and branch was a cruel tease, playing upon his fears while still denying him the whole truth.

They followed the northeast path now.  The signs of the passing of an enemy host gradually became all the more apparent, trees needlessly pitted and scored, great messes of trampled brush not even the new growth of another summer had been able to hide. 

Gradually the sun began to filter more strongly through the branches above, letting down more light into the shadows as the foliage overhead thinned.

“Finally,” Gimli murmured to himself, grateful to see the oppressive atmosphere lighten.

But this new light conjured no such welcome thoughts to Legolas' mind.  It should not have been so.  Why were the soft shadows dispersed?  What had become of the trees that had sheltered this place?

Arod pushed his way through the last barrier of new summer growth, a merciful shield of green that had veiled from their eyes the horror that lay beyond.

Legolas had imagined the worst, but still he was not prepared to behold it.  His breath hitched in his throat, and he felt his stomach twist.  He must have tightened his grasp on Arod's mane, for the horse halted abruptly there in the open.  The sun shone down unhindered, awful in its incongruity.  It was no longer a glow but a glare, hard on their eyes and illuminating in pitiless clarity the utter ruin of Mirkwood.

There were no trees now, not for a long bleak way.  Arod hesitantly resumed his pace as he was bidden, grey puffs of sun-baked dust stirring underfoot.  Trees that had once been alive, albeit dark and brooding, were now naught but blackened skeletons of charcoal.  Hideous in their stark contrast to the blue of the sky and the dead grey of the ash, they seemed caught in the last moment of despairing agony, those that yet stood left to lean at drunken angles.  Summer had put forth new and tentative shoots, but it could not disguise the rape of the wood as the orcs had wrought it.  Mirkwood had been cleansed, but brutally. 

From that point on it was a weary, miserable march.  They seemed lost in a waste of dust and dead trees, every now and then the monotony broken by the scorched bones of some unfortunate beast overtaken by the running flames.  It was a scene out of Mordor itself, the flame-blasted hell that rejoiced in ruin and reveled in death, that had in one breath of malice withered all that had been green and good in a blazing inferno.  It made it all the worse to remember that this was not Mordor.

This was his home.

The Ring had threatened this.  Again he remembered the guttural voice, turned to him when even Mithrandir slept, mocking his refusal with bitter laughter, no less vivid though it was unmade.  What do you expect to find when you return? War, death, and destruction!  And Fire, more terrible than has ever been seen by living man!  You will allow it?

You will allow it?

Arod carried them faithfully along what hints of the path remained, independently it seemed, for Legolas was blind.  He had forgotten Arod, forgotten Gimli, forgotten all but the miserable arid wasteland that surrounded them.  Their Lórien cloaks were turned a pale grey in the stirred dust, thin clouds of lifeless dust that lent an unpleasantly dry and chalky taste to the air.  A nameless guilt gnawed at him, one he was helpless to refuse or deny, though he knew it to be groundless.

At last they drew near a belt of standing trees, scorched but clinging still to some vestige of life until they healed their wounds as best they could.  Legolas was roused from his stupor by a sudden prod in the back.  Gimli cleared his throat insistently, and looking forward through Arod's pricked ears Legolas saw a figure clad in dark robes of brown walking amid the crippled trees, the sun throwing her last rays upon him as the clouds grew ever nearer.  In one dim moment he recognized the hooded wanderer who had turned to greet them, eyes of deep woodland brown glinting keenly.

“Hail, Prince Thranduilion!” said Radagast, bowing low beside his oaken staff, a courtesy that Legolas in his dazed grief of heart neglected to return as he dismounted.  “The wood has been the bleaker without you.”

Gimli slid to the ground behind them, landing with a great cloud of ashen dust.

“And who is this?” the wizard inquired with new interest on his weathered but pleasant face, half hidden behind his long beard.

“He is my companion, Gimli son of Glóin of Erebor,” Legolas said at last, returning to himself.  “We journeyed far together from Rivendell in Mithrandir's company.”

“Ah, yes,” Radagast mused thoughtfully.  “Mithrandir's Fellowship.  I had heard of such.  For the sake of King Oropherion I rejoice that you return whole and hale, for it is no small thing to challenge the Enemy in his own land.  But what sort of friendship is this?”

“I care not for feuds, Master Radagast,” Legolas said firmly.  “To reopen old wounds will profit nothing.”

“I agree,” said the wizard, a vigor about him that belied his apparent age, “but Aran Thranduil may yet have words of his own to be heard.  He remembers.”

“Yes, he does,” Legolas affirmed.  “But those who violated Menegroth were punished long ago.  He should have no quarrel with Gimli.” 

“Should have?”  Radagast arched his brows.  “Bold words, my prince.  But as for Thranduil himself, I must say that he remains an enigma to me.  It seems I never know what he will do or why, but as his offspring I trust you know him well enough.”  Muted thunder rolled from the ominous clouds above, casting their shadow over the ravaged landscape.  “But come, it would honor me to receive you tonight.  I have now for myself a modest dwelling here in this stretch of the woods, far from Rhosgobel, but pleasant enough.  Come, come; any longer and soon we and all we carry will be very wet.”

He turned and whistled keenly, and at the call his own mount emerged from the trees.  Legolas leapt astride Arod again, swinging Gimli up behind him in a artful maneuver they had almost mastered by this time.  They rode with Radagast into the surviving portions of the forest, deep in shadow now at the approach of the storm.  The evening wind had picked up, rustling through the leaves in voiceless warning, sending all woodland life scurrying for cover.  The scent of impending rain was on the air, a refreshing scent that Legolas welcomed, for the ride through the fire valley had worn heavily upon him.  He would need some sleep tonight.

Even with Radagast's haste, they did not escape the first few sheets of rain.  But still they gained the cave before they were soaked.  Following the wizard's lead, Legolas spurred Arod in behind him, where they all dismounted in the echoing dark.  Radagast gave his own horse a slap on the flank, sending him farther back as he endeavored to kindle a fire.  Working quickly with a supply of dry tinder, he had soon encouraged a modest blaze from which he lit also the few torches he had ensconced along the walls.  Meanwhile, Legolas had lifted Gimli down from his perch without so much as asking his pardon, but the Dwarf did not object.

“There,” Radagast said contentedly as the lights banished much of the shadow, making the unrefined cave seem a bit more welcoming.  Modest was indeed the word for it, with very little in the way of furnishings, but enough to be reasonably comfortable.  He pulled off his cloak and shook it out, sparkling droplets flying far and wide.  “You may send your good horse back to join Barandir,” he instructed.  “He will want for nothing there.”

With the horses settled, they set about providing for themselves.  The meal was one of the rough bread and dried fruit sort.  It was plainly less than Gimli desired, though he made no comment, and Legolas was not proud enough to turn up his nose.  What remained of the Galadhrim's waybread was saved for the remainder of their ride.

Gimli excused himself early to bed, leaving Legolas alone with the Radagast.  The rain poured down in dark torrents outside while the Elf and the Wizard regarded one another across the fire.

Radagast smiled, an endearing expression that brought out the laugh-lines about his eyes.  “Rain to make the new forest grow,” he said simply, perhaps trying to inspire a glint of hope in those jaded eyes opposite him.  Still, to Legolas the dreary downpour only reflected his own mood.  

"What brings you so far from Rhosgobel, Master Ithron?" he asked instead.  "I assume you have told the King that your haunts have changed."

"I have," Radagast assured him.  "Indeed, your father was quite willing to receive me after the war.  I am here to see the wood return."

"I dare say it could benefit much from your attentions," Legolas said, almost smiling again.  They of Mirkwood had not been told the origins of the Istari, more properly the Ithryn in Sindarin circles, but Thranduil had long guessed it.  He who had lived under the reign of a Maia would not easily mistake one, though these came in different guises.  Radagast had confirmed his suspicions with time, for he was habitually more affable than Mithrandir, and answered inquiries with less cunning.  Thranduil nonetheless appreciated Mithrandir's underlying severity and had never dared press him beyond the limits of prudence.  As for Curunir, or rather Saruman, Thranduil had met him seldom and loved him even less.  At least Radagast did not smoke, and for that he was more welcome in their halls.

"It has already,” Radagast affirmed.  “If my designs go not amiss, the green shall have returned to the fire valley before the next decade has gone."  He paused, glancing back to the elf-prince, probing his heart as well as he might.  "I know your pain, Legolas," he said at last.  "It was mine when this year began, when the ash had scarcely cooled.  There was no green then.  The leaves were all fallen from the autumn, great enclaves of the forest reduced to naught but a woodland fit for ghosts.  But I have seen the green return.  These wounds will heal."

Still, Legolas felt that somehow he had not yet fully accepted the ruin wrought, that he clung still to what he had no power to hold, and had naught but a handful of cinders for his efforts.  ‘The hurts of Sauron run deep,’ Glorfindel had said, ‘and only a greater hurt can begin to heal them.’  It did hurt.  The waste of it all was maddening.

Radagast seemed to understand this, and his bearing became more profound.  "The Power who rules this vast realm of Eä shall never demand the impossible of you, Legolas," he said.  "He does, however, require the difficult.  Not a leaf falls without His knowledge, and do not think He does not know what has befallen the greenwood.  How much more of value in His eyes then are you, one of His Firstborn?  This is appointed your sacrifice, your burden to bear.  After all you have endured already, do not prove yourself unequal His confidence."

The next day they were well on their way again with Radagast's blessing.  Legolas found it something of a comfort to know someone was attending Greenwood's wounds.  The reason the Elves themselves had not was soon apparent.  There was simply too much to attend.

The rain had been welcomed by the forest, but it also made riding a chore, for the road had become a trail of mud.  It was not so bad as it would have been with more traffic upon it, but as it was Arod was stained up to the hocks before midday.  No horse enjoys tramping through a mire and Arod was no exception, jittery all that day as the ground continued to slide beneath him.  

It did not help that the wood eventually thinned again before them, heralding more of what they had seen yesterday.  Burnt and blackened trees lay strewn about like twigs upon the ground, awash in a sea of wet ash.  It smelled not old and dry today, but rather musty and sordid, like a mildew-ridden cellar.  Like a morgue.

If they had spoken, they would have agreed that it was the most wretched time they had spent since Moria.  But neither dared to say anything, for fear of trying the tenuous patience between them.  Besides that, they were both deep in their own wells of self-pity, with no wish yet to hear about the woes of the other.

It was unquestionably the longest day yet of their ride together.  One burnt out valley led to another, now and again ameliorated by belts of living forest that had miraculously survived, but these forlorn groves were not enough to lighten the mood, and seemed to end all too soon into still more barren destruction.  Ash, charcoal, and bones became the monotonous cadence.  And all was mud.

As they drew ever nearer their destination Legolas began to notice an unsettling regularity to the gentle mounds by the roadside.  He knew graves when he saw them.  Simple and unmarked, Greenwood’s warriors were now returned to her.  He made no mention of it, but he felt somehow that Gimli knew.

The sun by that time had become unseasonably warm, the mud thickening as it dried, making matters worse even while it was a turn for the better.

It was when the afternoon sun had begun to dip into evening that Legolas saw the marker.  Now, when his heart was screaming for answers, it would have been impossible for him to pass by without first knowing what it would tell him.  He dropped from Arod’s back and tramped his way through the mire toward the trees of the thickening wood that stood at the side, where there was posted a rueful litany of names painted upon wide planks of new wood.  There he saw that it bore Thranduil’s device at the head, above the epitaph “Valiant Warriors, Faithful Servants.”

It was as he had feared.  Among the hundreds represented, there were many names that conjured familiar faces to his mind, some he had known from childhood, others he had seen reared from their earliest years.  The world blurred for a moment before his eyes as the list went on, and soon he was crouched upon his heels, glancing over the foot of it where it was concluded with a brief prayer to the Valar to guard and guide each faer on his journey to the Halls of Waiting, and that in his father’s own hand.  There was a poignant air of surrender about it that struck him heavily, a dull pain of loss obscuring all else, of one slowly twisting a knife through his heart, intent upon carving his consent out of him if it would not be given freely.  At that moment he finally let go the unconscious denial he had clung to over the past days, accepting the woes of war for what they were, but now it seemed he had no tears left for them.  They would come later.

A heavy hand squeezed his shoulder.

“A rather impermanent memorial, don’t you think?” Gimli observed, breaking the silence between them.

“Does it matter?” Legolas asked.  His voice was still a trifle bitter, but he did not shrug away.  “In time it shall return to dust and be forgotten, even as they.  When we have gone, these names will mean nothing to anyone.”

That night was a quiet one in camp.  The stars shone brightly, but neither looked to them.  The trees grew dark and thick around them now, and Gimli found that somehow comforting after the forsaken wastes they had endured.  It was not of stonework, but at least it was not exposed.

He lay on his cloak, trying to sleep.  But the ground was still a bit wet, and there was no end to rocks and roots.  There was no fire.

Legolas sat up by himself, silent and impassive, his face unreadable.  Gimli knew he had much to cope with, and so did not bother him.  But still, with his companion lost in thought like that, he felt awfully alone.  He did not presume to understand the depths of the elvish mind, else he would have endeavored to offer him some condolence.  But he feared to only make things worse by trying.

He shifted discontentedly where he lay.  It seemed not all was right, but this he dismissed as naught but the tension that had plagued them both for the past days.  He glanced aside at Legolas.  The Elf sat so still he might as well have been dead, resting his chin on his knee, his eyes dull and unseeing.  It was enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

There came a rustle in the woods that was really no more than a whisper, but one that unsettlingly suggested the passing of fur over leaves.  Gimli tensed in the ensuing silence, but still Legolas did not seem to sense anything amiss.  Had he imagined it?

He heard the muffled snap of a twig, unnaturally loud in the stillness.  He caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows, and he sat bolt upright only to see the monstrous wolf surge toward him in silent roar, fangs bared.

Time seemed to slow, though it all passed within a single moment.  Legolas moved.  But he did not take up his bow, nor draw blade.  Instead he lunged forward and cuffed the beast across the snout, upsetting its attack so it trampled over Gimli but left him unharmed.

“Arhuan!” he snapped in high indignation.  “Forbear!”

Still somewhat dazed, Gimli saw the wolf shrink beneath Legolas’ reprimand, the great bushy tail tucked for shame as it begged his pardon.  “He is yours?” he managed to ask, as he regained his breath.

“He is my father’s,” Legolas corrected, passively fondling the elegant head bowed before him, his hands almost lost in a sea of white and silver fur.  “I ask you to forgive his audacity.  They are sent to guard against the trespassing of foes in our domain, but were once trained with better manners than that.”

The rest of the night was thankfully uneventful.  Gimli feared he would find it even more difficult to sleep with that great beast so near, but Legolas sat up with the wolfhound, stroking the velvet ears, seeming to find ineffable comfort simply in that one piece of home.

That was all well and good, but Gimli was glad he had a hold on him.

The next morning, Legolas stirred them all before the dawn.  It seemed he was anxious to leave this part of their journey behind them, to meet again familiar faces that yet lived.  The wolfhound slunk about the campsite, glancing furtively at the Dwarf, thinking him still an enemy, and rightly perplexed by his master’s objections.

Mahal, that was a big dog.  A single paw would have fit the breadth of his palm.

Before they mounted, Legolas took time enough to give the hound a firm Sindarin admonition, of which Gimli distinguished only a few words, and which he guessed amounted to “you shall not harass the Nogoth.”  And it seemed even that Arhuan listened.

Very well, so Legolas could reprove his dogs well enough.  But still Gimli wondered if he would not be put to more trouble to win the same forbearance from his own kin.

The armory was silent.  It was his unspoken command that it be silent.  The lamps burned low, the solemn atmosphere one of rapt meditation.  

A blur of steel cut sharply through the twilight.  In the same motion he raised the weapon again and held it ready.  Another quick turn, the sword unerringly following its appointed path, his loose golden ponytail swirling over his shoulder, several unruly strands pulled free of their bonds.

Yes, all trace of his injuries had gone at last.  Even his stiff shoulder served him now.  It was no small thing to be crushed and thrown about by the winged Nazgûl like a sack of grain, but he had not died.

He had refused to die.

The sword was become an extension of himself, all else forgotten.  Again a precise turn and whirl brought his blade around in one stroke ere he turned sharply on his heel and brought it slashing back, striking three imagined foes in one fell moment.

“Perhaps you should try swimming instead, Thranduil.”

Ruined.  That smiling voice did not quite upset his poise, but his intense focus was destroyed.  He turned upon that beloved nuisance that was Lord Galadhmir, twice his brother by adoption and marriage.  Soon Thranduil laughed as well, for nothing so trivial as this could come between them.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked in a deliberate voice.

“Ever you seek to alleviate the strain of warfare with swordplay,” Galadhmir smiled.  “Perhaps you should try something less redundant?"

Now Thranduil laughed outright, like a roll of spring thunder in the mountains.  “You would like that, would you not?” he said, pulling the stay from his hair to let it fall thick and free about his shoulders.  “Very well.  Shall we make a day of it?  A long ride through the wood, then back here for a hot bath, a glass of wine, and a good book by the fireside.  All for therapeutic purposes, of course.”

Galadhmir returned his incredulous grin.  The day Thranduil was found absent without leave would shake Greenwood to its roots.  But still, the idea was enticing, and that glint in his eye did not at once dismiss the possibility.  The restoration of the forest had seemed to rejuvenate its lord as well, at least somewhat.  “I believe we could all use that kind of therapy right now,” he said.  “Surely this year of all years we may celebrate more often.”

“You would like to think so,” the King returned, reluctantly sobering a bit, sheathing his sword with one last gleam in the lamplight.  “But I fear I simply will not have the time.”

Galadhmir looked on him with something akin to pity.  “Do you want a respite, Thranduil?” he asked with genuine concern.  “Leave it to us for a while; if Linhir does not handle it, surely Anárion will.  Take a day for yourself.  I dare say you have earned it.  Honestly, when was the last time?”

Thranduil was quietly thoughtful for a few moments, sitting nonchalantly against the corner of the heavily built table that stood at the center of the room.  “I cannot recall,” he mused at last.  He did seem strongly tempted by the offer.

“Then I say you are relieved for the day,” Galadhmir decreed as he appeared at his side, his voice brooking no argument as his strong hands began to firmly knead the chronic tension out of Thranduil’s shoulders.  It was normally Noruvion the healer who would do it, but they all knew the routine well enough by now.

“Stop that,” Thranduil murmured, though he did not mean it, feeling himself slipping farther toward administrative oblivion.  Any more of this and he would be glad to make Galadhmir regent for the day.  “I said, stop, you snake in the grass!” 

“Silence,” Galadhmir insisted, continuing his fraternal attentions.  He had already had a good deal of practice during Thranduil’s past convalescence, and he could feel the great muscular crimps working themselves smooth again under his hands.  He had always insisted that Thranduil took upon himself entirely too much responsibility for his own good.  “You would insist upon working yourself to death if we were not here to stop you.  Promise me you will take your own precious time to breathe today. You know you want to.”

“I know no such thing,” Thranduil insisted, in vain it seemed, for by now Galadhmir had him in transports.  “A little lower, please?”

Galadhmir obliged, enjoying victory at last.  It seemed there was nothing in all the world, no violence nor force of will that could drag Thranduil from his throne under duress.  But really all he needed was a gentle push.  Not even Linhir, the master of the meticulous, had acquired that subtlety, a kindred talent and privilege Galadhmir shared now with only the prince.  Together over the years they had done what little they could to fill the void left by their queen.  Sometimes that could mean no more than smoothing an audience with a crass ambassador.  Other times it could mean lifting if but for a moment a nigh-crushing burden from their beloved king and kinsman, who gave his all and asked very little.  Thranduil suffered few to touch him so liberally, that in itself a sign of his highest favor. 

Thinking for one fleeting moment back to the days of their youth, when Beleg Cúthalion’s gangly young sister-son was befriended by Lord Oropher’s heir, Galadhmir wondered again at the twists of time that brought them here of all places.  Much had transpired in the last two ages of the world, for which poor Thranduil had often borne much of the brunt.  Now Galadhmir was determined that he would indulge in a well-earned reward, at least for one day.  It was not much, but every little bit was worthwhile.  His impossible war was won beyond all hope; what more could they ask of him?

But then the King sat bolt upright, keen eyes turned blindly toward the south.  All else was forgotten as he recognized that familiar point of light stirring at the edge of his awareness, seeming all the brighter now for the darkness of its absence.  In a moment Galadhmir was aware of it as well, and Thranduil rounded on him with a brilliant smile.

“He has returned!” he shouted joyfully, pulling his brother into a crushing embrace before dropping from the table and bounding away to the corridor.  “Come!  There is much to be done!”

Galadhmir sighed and followed resignedly.  Legolas, Legolas, he thought wryly, but not without a smile, your timing is atrocious.

There would be no rest for any of them now.

It was like a breath of fresh air.  Stability where before there had been only bleak exposure.  Vigilance in place of emptiness.  Light in place of darkness.  And all of it intimated his father, his touch, his presence.  This was home at last.

Legolas drew a deep and satisfied breath as they crossed a border Gimli could not see but felt all the same.  It was not like Lothlórien, where the passage across the guarded wards was an abrupt one – as Legolas had described it, an echo of Valinor on their earth.  Here Greenwood was still just that, a wood hardly different from any other in the last waning days of summer, but there was indeed a subtle change in the air, a greater vitality in the surrounds, and a strange feeling he knew not how to describe.  It was not as though they had passed into a different world, but merely into a song, silent and yet not quite unheard.  This wood answered indeed to a Lord; his reign was subtle, but unchallenged.

He knew they had passed into another realm, the one that had weathered the tempest and yet stood strong when all others faded.  He could feel it down to his toes.

All seemed to look brighter from here.  This stretch of the wood had not escaped the torch of the orcs, but it was quicker to heal, the living grace of growing things eager to fill the voids and soothe the wounds that were left.  The suffering was past.  Now was the time to renew and rebuild.

They continued north at an easy pacing trot, the wolf Arhuan lolling behind, all in considerably better spirits.  The muddy road had become firm again, and that in itself was enough to gladden anyone, though they were still a mess themselves.

Evening was drawing on when Arod's easy pace faltered suddenly, and Gimli heard a muffled clunk behind them as he clung to Legolas for balance.  The Elf, though momentarily startled, seemed to know what was afoot.  He slid at once to the ground, and retrieved something from the road a few paces back.

"What is it?" Gimli asked.

Legolas turned back to him, holding the answer of wrought steel plainly in his hand.  "He cast a shoe," he explained.  Doubtless the mud had contributed to that particular mishap.  "I know where it may be attended.  If indeed they are there still."  That last was spoken under his breath, the first twinge of apprehensive regret that seemed to have troubled him all that day.  In any case, Gimli was glad to hear a loose horseshoe would not slow them much.

Legolas insisted upon walking.  Gimli was of no mind to argue, for he was again willing to stretch his legs for a while.  He noticed frequent sidelong glances from Arhuan as they walked with Arod between them, the hound still not entirely comfortable with the Dwarf's presence among them, ducking his massive head to peer through the stallion’s legs.  He seemed to have taken Legolas' lecture to heart and made no menacing advances, but still he was a watchful silver shadow of suspicion. 

As darkness was falling Legolas turned from the road, leading the rest of his motley following behind him into the brush.  But that turned out to be a trail in its own right, and at last Gimli descried a silvan homestead nestled there among the dark trees.  It was small but not uncomfortably so, the quaint woodland dwelling he would have imagined of Wood-elves if ever he had given it a thought.

Legolas was glad to see something so familiar for a change.  Knowing the closer confines of their dominion like the palm of his hand, he had hoped to find this home spared the ravages of the war.  Legandir had hosted the prince and his fellows many times before when they were out on duty; his post was here in the south and Thranduil often inquired after him.

A dark Elf was busily gathering an armful of firewood when they emerged from the verdure, though he seemed to have already been listening for them.  Their kind were not easily taken at unawares, not after so many years of living life on the edge.

"Araglas!" Legolas hailed him from the trees.

Araglas beamed like a firefly, his apprehensions vanished.  "Ernil Legolas!" he cried, throwing his wood heedlessly back onto the pile to offer the comradely embrace Legolas was ready to receive.  "All summer we awaited you!  Why did you tarry so long?"

"We have many friends now in the South who must be attended," Legolas said in excuse, smiling down on his younger companion in arms.  "But come; is your father here?"

Legandir appeared in the doorway with his wife Nenuiel, drawn by the commotion, their faces mirroring their son's exuberance.

"My Lord Legolas!" Legandir welcomed him, holding himself to a graceful Sindarin bow before Legolas swept him into a warm silvan embrace, after the manner of their own kind.  "It is good to have you back among us!"

"There I must agree," Legolas said.  "There are many things to be seen in this world, but none so welcoming as the greenwood."  He turned his attentions then to the lady of the house, for she was not without her own warm welcome for him.

"You were sorely missed, my lord," Nenuiel assured him when he released her.

"Was I?"

"The father will always miss his son," she said simply, meeting his eyes with hers.  "And in that, our king was not alone.  It gladdens my heart to know his own shadow will soon be lifted."

Legolas did not mistake the gleam of bereavement in her eyes.  Alas that such were the ways of war, and the price of victory.  "And what has become of Arahael?" he asked softly, though he knew the answer. 

"No one is certain," Legandir confided grimly, Araglas gone silent beside him at the mention of his brother.  "We suspect he fell to the flames." 

War was an ugly thing.  It was at times like this that Legolas was glad his father did all in his power to prepare his forces to meet their deaths before throwing them into the fray, turning their hearts firmly toward the summons of Mandos and hope of a second dawn in lands undying, a reassurance brought to them by their Sindarin brethren of the West.  For the Nandor were Eldar as well, even if long sundered.

But then Legandir's face clouded again as he looked beyond Legolas and obviously caught sight of Gimli.  "A nogoth?" he asked in low-voiced elvish.  "What have you to do with him?"

"No more than I had to do with your sons," Legolas said then, perhaps more firmly than he had intended.  "Gimli son of Glóin has been my brother in arms through many dangers.  He is one of Mithrandir’s Fellowship, a Lord of Rohan, Elf-friend and a companion of King Elessar.  I deem he has earned his right to our hospitality, at least."

Legandir sighed tersely, unconvinced but unwilling to gainsay his lord.  "I would not receive him otherwise," he said sullenly.  "But I shall suffer it if such be your command.  Unless my memory fails me, is there not a law?"

"There is," Legolas affirmed regally, "but Gimli is no danger to you or your house."  There was indeed a law on the books bearing Thranduil's formidable signature, one that forbade the harboring of suspicious strangers.  Even so, it did not explicitly forbid Dwarves, and that mandate would have to be stretched considerably to apply in the given situation. 

There was no more to be said.  Legandir agreed to replace Arod's shoe that night and led Legolas around to the stable.  Gimli was to stay inside while Araglas attended the firewood, and it was not without an ill-contented glance that Legandir left them unsupervised. 

"Trust me," Legolas said, his tone suspended between reassurance and command.  "Your lady has no more to fear from Gimli than she would from me.  While in Greenwood, his honor is mine."

Such a pledge was still very little help for deep suspicions fostered over centuries.  But Prince Legolas’ honor was yet untarnished, and he would not put it at such risk without the utmost confidence in his chosen companion.  It was enough for the moment.

Inside, Gimli sat near the hearth while the elf-woman Nenuiel stirred a pot of something over the fire.  Not wishing to try the limits of their reluctant hospitality, he refrained from smoking.  In any case, the aromas of what would soon be dinner were enough for him, a kind of venison stew as he guessed.

Nenuiel herself never turned to stare at him, nor did she seem to take any particular notice of her unorthodox guest.  If her husband admitted him to their home, she would tolerate him.  But Gimli could feel her scrutinizing him with that keen sixth sense common to all mothers and matrons.  She was a dark and slender beauty, pale as white cream, though in her simple woodland garb she could not hold a candle to Lady Arwen.  Nor was it mere appearance that made this silvan wife different.  The Queen of Gondor was elegant and stately, fair and delicate even while embodying the enduring strength of her people, graceful as a doe.  Nenuiel, in spite of her slighter build, gave Gimli more the vivid impression of a she-bear, wary and unbound by courtly convention, ready to defend her den if given the provocation.  Gimli had always admired that in a woman, and for a moment reflected that it was strange he should recognize in an Elf the same dauntless fervor his own people admired in their daughters.  It was almost . . . oh, he hardly dared to think it, but she was almost Dwarvish in his eyes, strange enough though it was somehow comforting.  He was left to ponder that quandary until at last she spoke to him.

“How long have you followed the Lord Legolas?” she asked almost pleasantly, keeping a watchful eye on her cooking though all her attention was bent toward the stranger beside her.

“Since the war,” Gimli answered matter-of-factly, generously choosing not to make an issue of her choice of phrase. 

She smiled tolerantly.  “And what has occupied you since?  You tarried in Gondor with the Dúnadan King?”

“For a time.”  He rested his hands on the head of the ax he propped up before him for lack of a pipe to hold.  “We quit the city in the summer.  On our way we have seen Rohan, Fangorn, Lórien . . .”

“You have seen Lothlórien?”  The name of that sequestered land seemed to catch her interest.  “The realm of the Lord Celeborn and his Lady?”

“I have seen the Lady,” Gimli confirmed, gratified.  He indicated his cloak and brooch.  “These she gave to us.”

“Ah,” Nenuiel exclaimed, much of the shadow lifted from her.  “I wondered at first, but now I see that you are Elf-friend indeed.  Such a thing I have never heard tell of.”  She smiled, genuinely now.  “See that you become as Lord Legolas’ shadow as you go deeper amongst us, Gimli Elvellon!  By his command you are inviolate, but the waters shall be rough ere you win the regard of our lord the King.”

“So I have been told, my lady,” he said wryly, laughing behind his beard.  A foe in arms he understood, but war of wills was not something he looked forward to.  He would not admit it aloud, but by this time the very name of Thranduil was enough to spike his nerves.

“Araglas,” Nenuiel called as her son reappeared in their midst.  “You will set five places at table.  Never has an Elf-friend left my home hungry.”

Legolas returned shortly with Legandir.  He sent a smile Gimli’s way, but the latter wore no expression at all, pacified but still wary.

The meal Nenuiel set before them was more than welcome after the meager provision that had sustained them on the road.  The stew, bread and cheese was as good as a feast to Gimli, and he was quite content to leave the talking to others.  The wine was regrettably not the ale he craved, but he could only expect so much of the Elves.  The conversation, such as it was, revolved around the war as Mirkwood had known it, the woodland Nandor eager to give their prince the account of the battle in all detail.  And Legolas seemed willing to listen, asking questions for himself when he could get a word in edgewise.  It was of little interest to Gimli, even though Legolas maintained the exchange in the common tongue for his benefit.  His Elvish hosts seemed quite content to let him be, forgiving or paying no heed to his manners, though Legolas once glared daggers at him when he dared eat straight from his knife.

Afterward, the family excused themselves to tend their last duties before the evening waned further.  The horses needed brushing, the dogs feeding, and the like.  Legolas and Gimli found themselves alone again.

“So,” Legolas began from across the table laden with dirty dishes, “what think you of Greenwood, my friend?”

Gimli considered a moment, content with a full stomach for the first time in too long.  “Pleasant enough for now,” he said.  “But ask me again in a few days.”

Legolas nodded, his face lit with a hint of a smile.  Then he glanced critically over the mess on the table.  After a moment of consideration he turned to the shadows at the side of the room. 

“Come, my stout-hearted Dwarf,” he said as he stood and unfastened his vambraces.  “Go fetch some water.  We can have this clean in no time.”

Gimli was first poised to protest vehemently, for menial housework the last thing on his priorities.  At another time he might have objected to the impropriety of such tasks for a royal-born lord.  But Legolas had already thrust up his sleeves and begun stacking plates and bowls as though he had done it all his life, and Gimli could not in good conscience object to helping.

He went for the water.  It required five rounds from the well outside to fill the basin Legolas dragged out from the corner, boiling some over the fire to warm the rest.  Seated easily on the floor beside it, Legolas fell to it at once, scouring each plate and bowl and fork without showing the slightest reservation.  Each clean article he tossed to Gimli to dry, who then set them back in place on the table.  After a while Gimli could not help smiling as Legolas’ attitude rubbed off on him.  That Elf could make a game out of anything!

“Since when are you such a proficient drudge?” he asked with a laugh.

Legolas grinned back at him.  “It is tradition,” he said.  “Thranduil began it, lest his lords forget what work was, for he despises snobbery.  He was not always a King, you know.  Every year for six days we shed our rank and fall to housekeeping.  We can scrub a floor as well as anyone.  Indeed, my lord once received Gandalf in audience whilst on his knees in a corridor amid a sea of soap.”

Gimli snorted.  “And was Gandalf pleased with his dedication?”

“No; his inattention annoyed him to no end.  But I dare say my father enjoyed it.”

Nenuiel was aghast when she returned, though Legolas smiled as though she should not have been.  Gimli chuckled to himself as he ran his towel over a plate, convinced once again that Thranduil’s Elves must exist in a class all their own.

The next day, Legolas was noticeably restless as they rode farther north, holding Arod to an easy trot when he obviously wanted to throw restraint to the wind and make a glad run for it.  But Arod seemed to have caught his enthusiasm, and soon the two of them together could no longer resist the call of the open road.

Gimli clung like a burr lest he lose his seat as the horse lowered his head and launched into a gallop.  He had become almost proficient at this kind of tag-along riding, though he would not have relished any of his kin seeing him at it.

The wood flew by upon either side, left to sway in the wind of their passage.  Arhuan was bounding through the brush beside them, seeming to challenge the horse to a race.  The thought that they were hurtling ever nearer to the inmost lair of the Elvenking was no comfort, but at the same time Gimli looked forward to the end of their journey, at least for a time.  He would never be truly comfortable until he returned to Erebor.  Unless, of course, he would be forced to defend Legolas at every turn.  He wondered now if the Elf would leave home again to accompany him to the mountain at once, or if he would follow later when passions had cooled somewhat.

But then Arod ground jarringly to a restless halt and the wood resounded with bright Sindarin laughter and greeting.  Left astride, Gimli in the momentary confusion saw Legolas dismount and immediately fall prey to four ecstatic Elves who seemed intent upon smothering him, all trace of pensive dignity gone with rollicking hugs all around.  It was a scene of glad indecorous chaos, a kaleidoscope of elven color.  Gimli assumed them to be other sons of the nobility.  He slid down to the ground, not wanting to be caught in an awkward place should the situation sour.

This went on for some time before one, a formidable character with fiery brown eyes, noticed him.  Immediately the clouds settled.  Jubilation faded in the face of ill-content.  It seemed that Legolas gave them the usual speech, though he confined it to their own Sindarin.  Some terse questions followed, and he rose to them with equal force.  Between sidelong glances at the Dwarf and at each other, it seemed none of them wished to quarrel and regretted that such should mar their reunion.  Legolas offered a few conciliatory words, and they all nodded reluctantly, perhaps agreeing to reserve their judgment, at least for the time being.

“Gimli,” Legolas called, turning back to him.  “Come, you had best become acquainted with these, for you will see them quite often.  This,” he said, indicating the tall blue-eyed one who seemed the most cocksure of the bunch, “is Luinar, son of Lord Linhir, the eldest among us.  Anorrín, son of Lord Anárion,” he continued, meaning Sharp Brown-eyes.  “My kinsman Calenmir, son of Lord Galadhmir.”  His manner clearly marked Calenmir a favorite, and indeed they looked so alike that Gimli could have taken them for brothers. 

“And this,” Legolas concluded with particular emphasis, turning to the slightest among them, the dark one with eyes of stormy blue-grey, “this is Duinen, son of Brilthor, a prince of the silvan Nandor.  Moreover, he is also the captain who arrested your father all those years ago.  Here is a feud we may end here and now.”

Gimli and Duinen regarded one another passively, frigidly, before the hint of a sportive grin tugged at one corner of the Elf's mouth as he recognized a worthy opponent.

“I bear no ill will of the incident if Gimli does not,” he said.  

“I perhaps more than you,” Gimli gruffed.  “But for now I shall forget it if you will.” 

Duinen nodded graciously, and the mood seemed to gratefully lighten.  Not much, but some.

“Duinen, what became of your hair?” Legolas asked then with some concern, as though he had not a chance to inquire earlier.  Indeed Duinen's hair of midnight black was shorter than that of the others.

“It caught fire,” Calenmir said, his eyes laughing.  Duinen turned and drove a fist into his arm.  “It was disturbing at the time, but by now it has grown out considerably.”

“Master Brilthor himself has almost made a full recovery,” Luinar offered.  “He tires easily still, but will not admit it.  Only the King's command can sit him down for any length of time anymore.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Legolas said.  “They told me somewhat of his plight while I was in Gondor.  It was not encouraging.”

“It would not have seemed so bleak if the King had sent anyone but Daerin,” Anorrín insisted.  “But no, he determined to appoint the gloomiest Elf in the realm.”

“He is not!  At least he is no gloomier than you.”

“I would have gone,” said Calenmir, as they all gathered their horses.  “But my mother would not hear of it.”

“A shame!” Legolas leapt astride Arod, swinging Gimli up behind him.  “I would have enjoyed your company there.”

“Now we may finally enjoy yours here,” said Luinar as they continued up the road together, an elusive tone creeping into his voice akin to resentful apprehension as he perhaps considered the dampening effect their ‘guest’ would have on the festivities.  “Your father has spared no expense to welcome you back.  He has worked us all like dogs since you crossed the border yesterday.”

Gimli rode a bit easier now.  Legolas' companions had not fully accepted him – not by a long road – but they tolerated him for the moment.  If they disregarded him it was because they did not want the likes of him to ruin their celebration.  

With such thoughts roiling through his mind, it seemed uncannily soon that they rode down the woodland promenade of great oak trees, glimpses of festive activity and color to be seen beyond the end.  The wood was scarred even here at Thranduil's doorstep, and he felt Legolas stiffen slightly at the sight of unfamiliar gaps in the verdure. 

Word had passed before them as though the very trees heralded their coming.  As they emerged from the trees and beheld the river with the great hill standing beyond, a glad cheer erupted from the enormous throng of woodland elves busily preparing the fields and forest for a royal celebration beneath the stars.  Taking the lead, as was his right, Legolas rode across the newly rebuilt bridge and spurred Arod up the incline toward the palace gates themselves.  Several voices faltered at the sight of the Dwarf, but even that was not entirely unexpected, for word had come to them of the favored nogoth in Gondor.  Still, none knew what to think of him, let alone how the King would receive him.  Despite their joy, an unmistakable tension settled over the field.

All six dismounted several paces from the gate, which stood open.  “Stay back a moment,” Legolas instructed Gimli in a low voice, and the Dwarf nodded.  Now was no time to question Legolas' misgivings.  He stayed back with Arod, only partially hidden.  He would sooner risk the company of Luinar and his crowd than face the Elvenking at once.  And indeed he had not long to wait.  Legolas quickly unfastened his quiver to be less encumbered, handing that with his bow to his cousin.  “Take good care of this.”

Ready as he would ever be, Legolas turned to face the palace gates where now there stood an Elf of epic proportions, his presence dominating the entire field like a change of light.  Gimli had felt the influence on the wood around, and knew in his heart of hearts that he looked upon its source, flanked by several others of his kind.  He wore no ostentatious crown laden with gems, no trailing robes of ermine or sable.  Indeed his dark tunic of soft evergreen was enough, embroidered with silver chains of leaves at the fitted cuffs and hem, a cloak of the same falling regally from his shoulders.  He was as tall as any Elvenlord, his cascade of thick golden hair bound in loose warrior's plaits, lending him a distinctly leonine appearance.  His was the sleek build of a predator, slender as were all his kind but extremely well built.  Gimli’s first thought was of the ageless dignity of the forest itself, the majesty of mountains, beautiful and formidable. 

So this was Legolas' father.

As had been said, Elvenking Thranduil was at once a strange combination of Celeborn and Galadriel.  He seemed more untamed than his kinsman the silver lord without the restraint of a lady beside him.  And though this Lord of Lasgalen seemed in many ways no less than the High Lords of Lórien and Rivendell, there was an air of tangible practicality about him that Gimli could indeed appreciate.  It was as though this Elvenlord straddled the threshold of the preternatural with one foot set firmly in the real world, one who was well acquainted with its roughshod ways, and who had bested many at their own games.  And simply for that, Gimli felt the first stirrings of grudging respect.  This Elf would not fell you with mythical powers or magic rings; rather he would strap you outright with his own two hands.

Legolas drew nearer, approaching with all the deference due a king from his prince, a formality Thranduil accepted without so much as batting an eye, cold and impassive.  The crowds looked on in anticipatory silence, and Gimli sought in vain for any sign of paternal affection.

Standing before him, Legolas offered a wan smile.  “I have returned, my lord.”

Only then did Gimli see the sparkle of a single tear as it fell at last from those unfathomable eyes, for the Elvenking was enthralled not by pride but by emotion, his composure held by one tenuous thread that held no longer.  

“Ai, Legolas!”  

Thranduil swept his son into a crushing embrace amid a joyous roar of Elven applause.  It was likely they both squeezed more than a few glad tears from one another, never mind the stains of war and travel.  Greenwood was restored, the reign of the Shadow was ended, their dark centuries of fortitude rewarded.  They needed no words, for none could ever have done justice to what passed between their hearts.  Together they had seen the sun set upon their lives twenty centuries ago, and now after their long and weary sojourn through Mirkwood’s endless night, the dawn they had dreamt of had come at last.

For what it was worth, the realm was whole again.

When at last they held each other apart and composed themselves, Thranduil looked searchingly into his son’s eyes, seeming to recognize and regret what he saw.  But still it was left unspoken by the tacit consent of both.  That time would come, but they could not bear to speak of it now.

But as if to confirm the truth that all good things must end, those eyes glanced over Legolas' shoulder and cooled considerably.  It seemed Thranduil had not been entirely unaware of Gimli's presence, but had willfully disregarded him until this point when he could avoid it no longer.  The aura about him suggested unspoken antipathy, suppressed disdain, and no small bit of instinctive disgust.  Those sentiments alone would not have induced him to open and undue hostility, but Gimli knew it was the glint of instinctive paternal jealousy that was tinder beside the fire.

“Father,” Legolas began, pulling away and notably abstaining from their own tongue, “this is my companion who has accompanied me from Gondor, Gimli son of Glóin of Erebor.”

Thranduil started at the name of Glóin; he had not forgotten him, nor was he unaware of the bad blood that festered still in the Mountain beneath the peaceful façade.  Gimli offered a profound Dwarvish bow in his own effort to placate the volatile Elvenking, who seemed poised to bristle defensively at the slightest provocation.  He had never imagined himself fearing the wrath of an Elf, but the last year had taught him much, and already he knew Thranduil was no one to be trifled with.  The battlelines were still drawn, and he had only to trespass upon them to earn swift and devastating retaliation.  He could feel Legolas’ anxiety even as his eyes were cast upon the ground, so pronounced was it.

When he again looked up, Gimli made the mistake of looking Thranduil squarely in the eye.  His breath hitched in his chest, for in that flash of a moment he felt he had been pierced to the heart.  It was a chill and hollow feeling, though it lasted but an instant.  If Galadriel read hearts with soft feline seduction, Thranduil struck with coiled serpentine precision, the effect leaving his victim somewhat stunned.

But the Elvenking seemed surprised.  He looked Gimli up and down in silence, at odds with himself, as a hunter foiled unexpectedly by his prey. 

If the truth had been known, Thranduil was at a jarring impasse with two of his strongest impulses.  Nogothrim were not to be trusted; the harsh lessons he had learned from his youth would not be effaced in one chance meeting.  They were skilled and were to be grudgingly respected as artisans and warriors.  But all were deserving of suspicion, for treachery and greed were their nature, and the thought of Legolas becoming so fond of one was disturbing.  But what in the holy name of the Valar was he to make of a Dwarf who stood unabashedly before him clad in elvish garb with the light of the Faithful in his eyes?  Never before had he seen such a figure of a Dwarf.  He could say nothing, for his sense of moral justice was so twined in knots he knew hardly what to think.

He heaved a terse sigh, and turned back to Legolas.  “We shall take this up later,” he said sullenly, at the moment too undecided in his own heart to make any kind of judgment at all, his courtesy suffering for it.  “This is hardly the time or the place.”  Legolas nodded resignedly and turned to lead his muddied horse away to the stables, Gimli following.  Thranduil watched them go, his hands curling unwittingly into fists at the unsettling vision of an armed dwarf following his son.  True, this Gimli seemed innocent enough, but the predatory precedents were difficult, nay, impossible to forget.

“Come, Linhir,” he summoned his seneschal as he turned back inside.  “And you, Galadhmir.  We have much to discuss.”

These two followed him through the corridors to the depths of his domain.  He was not without a keen twinge of regret that this should come between him and Legolas at a time like this.  After riding the terrifying waves of the war, there was nothing he wanted more than to receive his son back into the household, but of all things there now arose a Dwarf between them, threatening to drive them apart.

Legolas glanced back as his father turned and disappeared inside the gates with a dark swirl of green and a flash of silver.  Then he heaved a sigh of meager relief and continued on.  “Well,” he said, “that went as well as could be expected.”

Gimli did not comment.

The stables themselves were back a bit from the palace, nestled into the woods behind the hill of the Arthrand, a considerable distance when taken on foot.  They followed a well-trodden path beneath the green arbors to the fair but sturdily-built structure, longer than it was wide, one that looked enough to be another royal woodland hall in its own right to Gimli's eyes.

Legolas led a weary Arod over the threshold into the gently shadowed interior, the entire place an atmosphere of hay, horse, and sawdust.  Individual stalls were placed on either side of the center aisle, several of them occupied as the steeds were groomed or otherwise attended.  Arod perked up in the presence of other strange horses, and they returned his interest. 

“Ah!” Legolas smiled and stopped beside one of them, the tall grey inside offering his head to be stroked.  “Mae govannen, Erinmir.  So you are returned from Imladris, my friend?”

The light from the far door danced then as two other figures were silhouetted against the sunlight outside, a magnificent stallion led by another of the stable-hands.  It was a fine dark bay with fiery black eyes, a beast to inspire wary respect in even the bravest.  His proud neck was arched as he carried himself haughtily through what he deemed his own domain, little heed given the Elf who led him.  He tossed his great head with a squeal to challenge the newcomer.  Arod snorted in return, but looked conciliatory. 

“Mae govannen, Galion,” Legolas greeted the stable-hand with what seemed a tolerant tone, and he was acknowledged with a casual bow.

 “Mae govannen, Hir Legolas,” the dark Elf returned, leading the formidable horse into the stall.  The stallion strode in with an independent air, as though he did so of his own accord and thought Galion irremediably insignificant, the twilight gleaming on his glossy coat.  “The King wished Maethor re-shod,” he explained.

Legolas nodded.  "I have a new charge for you," he said.  "Once Maethor is attended, you will see that Arod is fully groomed.  No half measures.  Gloss his hooves and see he is given a clean stall with new bedding, pine shavings preferably.  Feed him; one portion of the new hay and a ration of the best grain with molasses.  Yes?"

"Yes, my lord."  Galion looked sullen, to say the least, seeing that his prince took some degree of retributory pleasure in making extra work for him.  And the look of bitter disdain he leveled upon Gimli left no doubt as to his own acrid opinion of Dwarves.  Gimli got a sneaking suspicion that there was more to Galion’s story than met the eye.  He would make a point to ask later.

"Good of you," Legolas smiled, though with a hard light in his eyes.  "And you might trouble yourself to sing while you attend him.  He is a spirited one, and enjoys a fair voice."

Closing the stall on Maethor, Galion grudgingly slipped the rope about Arod's head in a quick makeshift halter and led him into a vacant partition nearby.  Meanwhile Legolas glanced around, taking note of Maethor's airs.

"What became of Aranaur?" he asked, as though he could guess the answer.

"Now that is a tale worth telling," Galion said, securing Arod and turning to retrieve his arsenal of brushes and combs.  "But it will suffice to say the foul winged beast of the Nazgûl was the death of him.  I dare say Maethor regrets but little the demise of his own sire."

Legolas nodded, then idly rubbed a critical finger over the inside of a trough.  “Galion,” he said in tone of gentle reprimand, flicking the water from his hand, “you have not been scouring the water troughs regularly.”

“I am sorry, my lord,” the other muttered, sparing only an idle glance as he prepared to wage a war of his own on the mud-balls in Arod’s thick tail.

Legolas smiled.  “You are always sorry, Galion.  You will never change.”

Leaving Arod in what was by command the best of care, they returned to the palace, or rather the ‘fortress’ as it seemed to Gimli.  Early afternoon was drawing on, and the preparations for that night’s revel were taking definite shape on the clearing all around.  

Finally they did gain the gate and passed into the cavernous corridor out of the sun.  But the way was bright with torchlight and alive with living echoes, offering some explanation of Legolas’ tolerance of these caves over Aglarond.  But when at last they turned out into the main corridor, all was answered.  Legolas’ steps faltered not a moment, for this was his home.  But as he followed, Gimli took in all the sights and sounds.  Woodland murals of great skill and depth adorned the walls on all sides, some depicting night, others day, still others sunset and twilight.  Lamps hung from the vaulted ceilings and were ensconced upon the walls, lending to everything a warm golden glow.  Carving and statuary were not absent, though they too made this the most Elvish cavern he had ever seen.  They had indeed managed to make it a palace.  There was nothing that could not be improved upon over a few thousand years.

They were not alone in the corridors.  They became the object of many strange glances, for word had gone around like wildfire, and what should have been a joyous welcome had digressed into hushed avoidance.  There were many sidelong whispers behind them which Legolas seemed to deliberately ignore, but Gimli knew he heard them.  Worse, he knew he understood.  It was plain Legolas had been enormously popular before.  Was he prepared to sacrifice the respect of all his nation for a friendship?

They encountered another of Thranduil’s massive wolfhounds on their way.  A more overgrown monster Gimli had never seen, as tall at the shoulder as some of the yearling draft ponies they occasionally used in the mines.  Far from indifferent, this tawny one was openly hostile, bristling at the Dwarf with a growl and snap of white fangs.  But a sharp rebuke from Legolas sent the handsome beast slinking meekly aside, though not without a last resentful rumble in his throat for the foe in their midst.  All Gimli’s nerves were poised on edge as though he had entered an enemy sanctum.  The atmosphere itself was enough to suggest it.

One thing he could not help noticing with some uneasy satisfaction was that all the Elves of Mirkwood went about openly armed, unlike in Rivendell.  Here even the lords carried daggers on their belts, not in aggression but merely out of habit.  It was a twisted relief to his mind, for now he could carry one of his small axes without giving offense.

Gradually the traffic in the halls lessened as they wound their way toward the royal chambers, but Gimli had noticed a wide diversity to those they had already met.  Some were obviously from the nobility.  Others were plainly from the woods thereabouts, harbored within the capital until their homes should be rebuilt.

After one last twist and turn, Legolas led him into a far corridor that for now was almost silent and in which only Gimli’s sturdy footsteps echoed, something he found vaguely disquieting.  Perhaps Legolas would not seem quite so spectral at times if he would only make some noise.  The corridor itself seemed to branch into several other chambers, each of these indicated by doorways of royal proportions.  Legolas slowed to a stop outside one of these, the door-frame carven and adorned on either side to resemble two beech trees.  In their branches above, elegant elvish script was carved across the top.  It could only be his name.

The heavy oaken door was closed, but gently swung wide as Legolas lay his palm against it, though he did not seem to push much.  He strode inside unconcerned though it had opened to black darkness, Gimli following warily until the chamber illuminated in a sudden blaze of light.  Gimli glanced up to see several lamps ensconced above in an intricate fixture fashioned from the antlers of several deer, their placid flames lit by no hand.  A slight chill crawled up his spine at the causal air with which Legolas was gradually assuming his full powers here in his father’s domain.  The room itself was richly furnished, the wood darkened with age.  The walls were covered floor to ceiling with woodland impressions, the ceiling itself painted as the night sky with glimmering points that Gimli’s eyes insisted were silver, or even white gold, set in faithful reproduction of the constellations. 

Legolas strode through his room with a contented sigh, home at last.  “Sit down, Gimli,” he invited, indicating the divan beside the bookshelf.  “We may both relax now for a moment.”

“And I thought we would never get here,” Gimli commented to himself as much as to anyone else, seated as instructed, setting Celeborn’s grey satchel down beside him with the distinct sound of metal inside.

Legolas agreed, standing before the mirror mounted on his dresser as he unfastened his grey Lórien cloak, seeming acutely dissatisfied with his appearance.  “Neither did I.”  

In the meantime, Gimli pulled off his gauntlets and loosed the Lady’s white ribbon on the bag beside him, looking again upon the mithril from Dol Guldur.  It seemed to have lost none of its luster from the journey, and he could not help feeling a prick of jealousy that it would soon be delivered up to Thranduil, but he smothered it.  Deserving or not, Celeborn had named it for him. 

“Do you have any right idea what this is worth?” he asked, still wondering at Legolas’ indifference.  “Even this one alone?”  He meant the Sereguren, of peerless workmanship and set with the grandest single ruby even he had ever seen.

“I believe I do,” Legolas answered calmly, pensively thoughtful.  He produced a ring from a drawer and slipped it onto his left hand, a solemn gravity about him.  But then he paused and looked back to Gimli.

“Here,” he said, pulling it off again.  “Here is something I value far more than all of Sauron’s hoard, though that be worth all of Lasgalen.”

Gimli took it, though in truth it seemed the one thing Legolas was privately reluctant to let him handle.  It was a bright ring of silver, etched with many intricate leaves.

“We perhaps have not the skill of the Dwarves or the Elves of Eregion, but we are not without our own craftsmen,” Legolas explained, perhaps to set a myth to rights.  “For many years this and the ring my father wears were together the only mithril in this realm.  And still I esteem it far above all that lies there,” he said, indicating the laden satchel.  “It was made for Prince Thranduil beneath the reign of King Oropher.  It is bound to our bloodline alone, and it has been mine since the day I came of age.”

Gimli turned it in the light.  It was not the most impressive workmanship he had ever seen, but it was admirable, more than he would have expected of the silvan Elves.  That was Legolas; simple, but yet so profound. 

He returned it, and Legolas slipped it again onto his hand, seeming to accept with it his burden of responsibility.  It was a subtle but fundamental transformation.  Legolas of the Fellowship had fewer cares than did Legolas of Lasgalen.

A few aimless paces took him to the center of the room as he gathered his thoughts, perhaps considering the new challenges set before him at this turning point in their reign.  But then he turned and smiled.  “All that aside,” he said, “we have more immediate matters to discuss.  When in Elvendom, Gimli, it would be best to do as the Elves do.  Are you going to lather that monstrous beard of yours, or shall I?”

The Dwarf started at that tone, come to a brazen confrontation at last.

“You wouldn’t dare!” he challenged, not sure whether to be apprehensive, incredulous, or to simply laugh.

Legolas took one menacing step toward him in attitude of grim determination.

Gimli immediately shuffled back, raising his hands in gesture of momentary surrender if only to ward off the worst of the scenarios.  He did not truly believe Legolas would ever do such a thing, but it seemed unwise at that moment to tempt fate.  “I suppose I could indeed use a bath,” he admitted reluctantly.

“I would appreciate it,” Legolas said, his tone speaking volumes for his patient endurance in his and also in Aragorn’s company.  He was not pleading, but was very near.

He took Gimli then to his own quarters.  He chose the room opposite his own, chambers fit for a lord.  Two of the silvan servants had materialized at his call, and Legolas gave them their instructions as Gimli perused the furnishings.  The exchange was Elvish, but as he watched it was evident these two were reluctant to obey, perhaps uncertain how well Thranduil would endure their guest quartered so near him.  But Legolas was adamant.  Even sharp.  Legolas was rarely sharp with anyone.

They obeyed in the end, but obviously with their own misgivings.

Legolas shook his head discontentedly once they had gone, but turned back to matters at hand.  “Here,” he directed, opening another door to the side, one that led to a private bath chamber.  “They will have this prepared for you shortly.  Take your time; none shall disturb you here.  If you will excuse me, I have a few pressing concerns of my own to attend.  If you want for anything, you have but to ask.”

After he had seen Gimli satisfactorily provided for, and after making some other assorted arrangements, Legolas had a hot bath of his own.  Besides rendering him infinitely more presentable and soothing his nerves, it further delayed his second confrontation with his father, which he was now silently dreading.  Here he was returned to his element, but he regretted that a quarrel should be their first order of business after a year of separation. 

He walked the echoing corridors now, dressed as a prince of the Wood-elves was expected to be on celebratory occasions.  It was a relief to wear a change of his own clothes again, an ensemble he had chosen in a deliberate effort to please his father, woodland robes of dark evergreen and golden yellow with sparse embroidery in thread of both gold and silver.  Even then, the regalia of Lasgalen was strictly utilitarian, cut in such a way that he still retained complete freedom of movement.  Thranduil's rule of fashion was simple and ruthless: if you could not wield sword in it, it was not worth wearing.

After taking the last hour to breathe and think, Legolas now felt more up to facing this challenge, though his initial courage began to turn languid on him.  The air about the others amid the hallways was no longer hostile now that the Dwarf in question was not to be seen, but they knew where he was headed, and he earned several apprehensive glances along the way.  It was not often that the Aran and the Ernil locked horns this way; often the prince would be expected to be the first to make concessions and mollify the conflict, but all knew he had a will of his own when he thought himself to be in the right.  It could be a frightening prospect.

Legolas neared the door of his father's study on cat feet, and immediately knew it was as he feared.  The whole atmosphere was charged with rampant energy, and there were raised voices within.  The door was ajar, but the heavy crimson curtain was still drawn, muffling but little the heated exchange inside.

Steeling himself for the encounter, Legolas rapped intrusively on the door.

Inside, the swelling argument abruptly died.  “Come in,” came the terse reply, more like a bark than an invitation.  Legolas slipped warily around the curtain.

Thranduil rose from his desk, looming like a summer thundercloud.  “You may go,” he dismissed Linhir snappishly.  “And you,” waving Galadhmir out as well, dissolving their militant triad formation.  The two lords obeyed without a word, looking askance at their prince as they passed, though not without obvious sympathy.  Galadhmir paused a moment to lay a kindred hand on Legolas' shoulder before he left his nephew to his fate.  They closed the door behind them as they slipped beyond the drape.

“First of all, Legolas,” Thranduil demanded when they had gone, standing ominously at the center of the room before the desk, “how did this happen?”

Legolas flinched imperceptibly as though stricken, but nonetheless he felt the blow was deliberately softened for his sake.  As he had told Gimli, he was cuffed now but with a velveted paw.  “Father,” he returned, somewhat testily, “how does any friendship happen?”

“You have set me in a most awkward position,” his father continued, disregarding the question.  “I saw he was an Elf-friend and so I dared not refuse him, something rare enough among his kind.”  He turned on his heel, his fearsome eyes cast upon the floor as he rode the waves of his own agitation, making an obvious effort to calm himself.  As he paced there came a rushing beat of wings, one of his falcons alighting regally on his shoulder.  “I do believe there is such a thing as beating a dead horse, Legolas,” Thranduil continued, seeming to take no notice of the grip of grim talons on him, “but you know I do not trust them.  I cannot.”

“You will not,” Legolas boldly corrected him.  “Have you ever opened your heart to one of them?”

Thranduil curled his lip as though the very idea was repulsive.

“I have,” Legolas asserted, seeing that although his father was severe he was also willing to understand, determined to exploit that single chink in his armor.  “I know him, and he knows me.  The faith of many realms from Eriador to Ithilien will be shattered the day Gimli son of Glóin is given to treachery or falsehood.  Already he has won the regard of all Lothlórien, and especially of the Lady Galadriel, who granted him three strands of her hair in token of her favor.”

Now his father turned, the falcon spreading his great wings for balance.  Thranduil was no stranger to Galadriel's legendary untouchable tresses, and it did not fail to impress him that she should grant to a Dwarf what she had often refused the highest Princes of the Eldar.  But nor did he greatly esteem Galadriel and her whims.

“I ask that Gimli be granted the full rights of an allied lord,” Legolas demanded then, respectfully but firmly, though Thranduil recoiled in abject horror.  “Aran Éomer Éomundion granted him claim to the Halls of Aglarond in Rohan to rule in his own right, so in this he may be independent of Erebor.  I deem he has earned our goodwill at the very least.”  They stared steadily at one another.  “I was not alone when I stood upon the land that claimed the blood of your father.”

Thranduil was sullen, his indignant fire still burning but with smaller and smaller excuse, though Legolas had deliberately inflicted a glancing wound by that last remark.  By this point the King seemed indeed to have begun to consider condoning the Dwarf's presence within his halls, but never had he imagined the reaches of Legolas' extraordinary proposal.  The full rights of an allied lord implied a near-sacred kinship with the ruling king which amounted to a kind of voluntary brotherhood, which would in turn make any breach of faith all the blacker.  It carried also the benefit of unquestioning trust – at least officially – and thereby the freedom to go whither he would throughout the entirety of their domain as one of their own.  Never before had such an honor been extended to a Dwarf in any of Greenwood's principalities.  

“You know you ask much of me,” Thranduil said darkly, his eyes turning a more vivid green.  “Have I no say now in choosing my own allies?  Or do the misgivings of your father mean nothing to you?”

Legolas said nothing for a moment, mindful of his subordinate position.  "I would not ask if I did not already have every faith in him," he said at last.

Thranduil looked at him earnestly, and his manner seemed to soften into reluctant resignation.  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the desk, the brooding falcon on his shoulder only adding to his predatory demeanor.  “Gimli aside, what of his father?" he asked.  "I know Glóin does not love me.  Is it wise to bare our weaknesses to the kin of a festering foe?”

“Leave Glóin and his like to me.”  Legolas' attitude was grim, determined to cross that bridge himself when he should come to it.  Despite his mother's kind and gentle nature, there was indeed a strain of Thranduil’s steel running through him.  But then he melted in the face of his implacable father, having exhausted all his reason and appealing now to the heart.  “Please, father?  Will you not trust me?”

Thranduil sighed discontentedly, his shoulders slackening a bit as though his resistance had been stricken its death blow.  It had been many, many years since Legolas had last given him fawn eyes.  He was still so very like his mother when he did that.  

Legolas recognized that it would be a downhill battle from here.

Thranduil dismissed the falcon as though he just noticed him, the bird taking a graceful though somewhat affronted flight back to his perch.  “I suppose he smokes?” he asked bluntly.

“Yes, I am afraid he does,” Legolas admitted.

Thranduil grunted.  “I thought so.”  He considered a moment, his gaze distant and downcast.  At last he heaved a final sigh of reluctant but admitted defeat.  “Very well,” he said, as though the concession had been wrung from him.  “I shall grant him my safe-conduct.”

Legolas beamed.  “Thank you, father!”  He would have embraced him, but Thranduil stopped him firmly at arm's length, one final reservation asserting itself.  The King looked over his son critically, suspiciously, seeming relieved that he had bathed so promptly.

“You are certain he is not . . . ah . . . pest-ridden?”

Legolas drew back at the very idea.  “I sincerely hope not!”

“I, too.”  Thranduil gave a wry hint of a smile.  “Those Dúnedain are bad enough.  Belain, you never know what they have got.”

“No,” Legolas agreed absently.  For a moment they simply looked at each other; the war had changed them both, though the changes Legolas knew his father saw in him were less than subtle.  Thranduil would have changed more had he not merely exchanged one burden for another, worry for worry.  

“Safe-conduct does not mean full rights,” the King insisted.  “Let him prove himself ere he goes without guard.  And I trust you to know which places will be too sensitive yet for foreign eyes.”  He paused a moment, as if just realizing the obvious.  “You left him alone?”

Legolas smirked, a wicked glint in his eye strangely reminiscent of Oropher.  “I assure you, father, he will go nowhere before I return.”

Overall, Gimli was satisfied with the amenities Lasgalen offered.  The soap was not scented, nor were the towels richly embroidered, both unlike Rivendell.  Everything he had seen so far seemed to affirm what he had recognized of Thranduil's natural practicality.

As he sat in his steaming bath, Gimli considered his first impressions of the Elvenking.  Hostile, but seemingly with admirable self-discipline, thank the Powers.  He had not seen the parsimonious despot his father had suggested to his mind, the petty tyrant, but instead had recognized an admirable and formidable Lord.

Ha -- formidable.  That was to state it delicately.  Fair as all the ruling High Elves were fair, which was to say frighteningly so.  He must be a mean one if he had outlasted the wiles of Mirkwood.

There was a volatile air about him that was a trifle unnerving, to be sure, as he was restrained by nothing but his own will, and his uninvited guest went free only at his forbearance.  He considered the name, the way the Elves rolled their r's over their tongues: Ar-r-ran Thr-r-randuil.  It was itself almost a majestic growl.

The journey had been too long and the water was too warm.  Take your time, Legolas had said, and he was actually learning to enjoy this, much though he was loath to admit it.  The Elves had served him without a word and then gladly left him, as though they cared not to see him for a long while yet.  He slipped into a doze, abandoning his original plan to finish quickly and be done with it.

He might have managed to drown himself had he been sleeping very deeply.  But he woke some time later, sputtering in a tub of tepid water.  Blah.  Wrapped in a towel, he wrung out his thick beard and hair.  But upon leaving the bath chamber, he stopped short.

His clothes were gone.

After a mere moment of initial confusion there came again a veritable litany of flaming Dwarvish curses within walls that had never heard their like before, casting aspersions upon the ancestry of both their masters!  So here at last was the treachery of the Elves!  Treachery, treachery, treachery!  

As he paused to take a breath, he caught a rap at the door.  “Gimli?”

“Legolas!” he roared back, upon which his companion opened the door a cautious crack and peered inside with a wary smile, as though he had expected such a reaction and watched for flying projectiles.  “Where are my clothes, you . . . you . . . Elf!”

“Oh,” he said, with a maddeningly nonchalant air, fair and regal in his own robes.  Irreproachable.  “They were somewhat worn and soiled from the journey, so whilst you were occupied I took the liberty of . . . disposing of them.”

“What?”

“Oh, you shall have them back,” Legolas assured him, laughter in his eyes, “once they have been washed.  But for now I should like you to come with me.”

“Like THIS?”

“No,” Legolas laughed.  “In these.”  He dropped a bundle of clothes onto the divan near the door, folded still, but in tell-tale shades of forest green and grey.  Very Elvish.  “I hope I have not kept you waiting, but we had little enough time to throw these together.”

Gimli was momentarily aghast, his bedraggled beard still dripping.  “If you think you will dress me up like some pointy-eared dryad, you are mistaken!”

Legolas seemed not to hear.  “Oh, and my father has more or less accepted you,” he said, by the way.  “Yes, I had to beg, but apparently in my weakness is my strength.”  He smiled cryptically, then moved to leave.  “You are expected tonight at the feast,” he mentioned as he closed the door after him.  “It would be a shame if you should miss it.”

“Legolas!” Gimli shouted after him, but to no avail.  “No!  I won't wear 'em!  Do you hear me?  LEGOLAS!”

“You cannot be seen with him, Legolas.  He is a nogoth.”

“I fear I have some very bad news for you, Luinar,” Legolas returned with thinly veiled sarcasm.  “All the mortal world has seen me with him.  From Rohan to Gondor, ‘Legolas and Gimli’ are part and parcel.”

“But that is disgusting!” Luinar protested, slouched rakishly over the divan beside the bookshelf.

“Enough!” Legolas rounded on him with a vicious curl of his lip.  “He is as much my friend as any of you, and I will not allow you to insult him in my presence."

Luinar fell silent at the snappish rebuke though he was far from satisfied.  Anorrín said nothing as was his way, standing placidly in the corner lest he become a target for any stray frustrations.  They all felt drawn to Legolas now that he had returned, but their presence only seemed to exacerbate the present problem. 

“We worry for you,” Calenmir said for himself.  “Now that the Dwarf has come with you to Lasgalen, will you be obliged to accompany him to Erebor?  That mountain is unkind to solitary Elves.”

“Calenmir,” Legolas assured him, kindred affection smoothing the irritation in his voice, “after the forsaken places I have seen in the past year, Erebor will be child's play.”

“You say that now,” said Anorrín.  “Once alone behind their doors it may not seem so simple.”

“Always simple,” Legolas maintained.  “Not necessarily easy.  Smile for introductions, say ‘yes, my lord’, and remember to compliment the ladies.  How complicated could it be?”

Calenmir coughed discreetly.  “And have you ever seen a Dwarvish lady?” he asked pointedly.  “I wish you the best of fortune in telling the difference.”

“You have known him so briefly,” Luinar challenged him, rising to his feet.  The two lifelong companions faced one another belligerently.  “They are an uncouth, fickle-minded race.  You naturally assume everyone is worthy of some measure of dignity, but how can you fathom the unspeakable things that go on in the heart?” 

Legolas seethed at this jaundiced slight to Gimli's honor, his eyes ablaze with Thranduil's fire.  “The time may have been brief,” he snarled, “but already he and I owe one another the debt of our lives ten times over.  We fought together, rode together, ate together, slept beneath each other’s watch.  You will forgive me if I choose to honor that.  Or would you have us be guilty of the same treachery and ingratitude you would pin upon him?” 

Luinar looked bitter.  “But you . . .”

“No!” Legolas silenced him, pulling rank.  “I have heard enough.  I have only just returned and now you would henpeck me to death!  Let it alone, for pity's sake!”

He looked like a Dwarvish Elvenlord.

Gimli observed himself in the mirror, not entirely unsatisfied with his stout tunic of deep green lined with forest brown.  It had probably been hastily thrown together from several cannibalized garments, but even then it was a respectable piece of work.  Perhaps the Elves’ skill lay with needles rather than hammers.  He supposed would not mind wearing it for Legolas and Thranduil.  Still, he imagined he would die the laughingstock of the Mountain if any of his kin caught him so attired.

His beard was forked and braided in the old style.  He need not make any concessions there, he thought rather smugly, for the Elves knew not the first thing about it.  His hair was still a bit wild, but he thought nothing of it.  And speaking of hair . . .

His rough hand slipped down to the slender pouch of dark leather on his belt, in which he had discovered, carefully attended and reposed, the three strands of gold granted him by the Lady.  Studded with diamonds that glinted like stars, he deemed it a worthy receptacle until he could arrange to enshrine it later in crystal.  Legolas thought of everything. 

Cautiously he opened the door into the corridor, but stopped when he heard a heated argument underway.  He plainly heard Legolas' voice rise above what he knew were bitter objections, though he understood not a word of it.  The Elf was in a mood, shouting down all dissent even as he left them, waving them off in disgusted frustration.

He soon appeared at Gimli's door to fetch him, a formidable figure of green and summer yellow, the accents of gold and silver lending him a subtle but agitated shimmer in the light.  “Come,” he said, in an evident huff as he endeavored to forget the brouhaha in the hall.  “I would show you something.”

“Something fair of Elvendom?”

“No, I am afraid not.”

Gimli followed, piqued with curiosity.  Legolas led him purposefully from the more populated wings up an inclined passage, one not so well lighted as those they left.  There was no one to be seen here in the upper levels of Thranduil's caverns.  There was something unsettling in that, as he had no right idea where they were going, but the calm assurance about the way Legolas carried himself in the midst of his own world was a comfort.  

At length they stopped outside one dark and forbidding door closed heavily against them, branded deeply with a single black initial.  It was the same sign that adorned their banners, and Gimli construed it must stand for “Thranduil”, a chill prickling up his spine.  If any Dwarves had set foot here before, it was likely not of their own will.  The door was without latch or handle, but Legolas lay his palm against it and pushed it aside easily.

It opened into a room of darkness, but this darkness was chill and smelled of dust, gripping Gimli's heart with the same hushed reluctance that comes upon entering a tomb.  Legolas spoke a quiet command as he swept silently inside, and at his voice the lamps glowed to life.

“This, Gimli,” he said, “is where my father lingers in his . . . darker moments.”

Gimli said nothing, for he felt as though he had entered a room where time itself was suspended.  He could feel the brooding presence of the Elvenking looming about the entire place, revealed not as a tomb, but a trophy hall.

The walls were hung top to bottom with ghostly banners wreathed in shadow, not all of them Elven.  The display upon the first wall included all the captured standards that had fallen prey to Thranduil's army; many were no more than orcish rags, but each rent and bloodstained scrap had been bought at a price.  Others flaunted strange badges, signs of wicked Men of the past age who never returned from the depths of Mirkwood, earning for the forest a haunted name.  Some were ancient, those near the ceiling threadbare and threatening to fall to dust with the passage of the centuries.  Others were newer, the dark stains upon them fresher, all that remained now of Dol Guldur's last howling horde.  He could find no Dwarvish heraldry among the spoils.

There upon low shelves were kept also a silent row of arrow points, spearheads, and other grisly relics.  “Each one has its own tale,” Legolas said.  He took up a long and wicked barb, dark with age.  “Each one has left its mark upon him, and he remembers them all.”  He set it back then, its vague outline plainly seen in the grey dust that had long gathered there.

“And this,” he continued, taking up another, eyes hardening and shoulders stiffening, “was the bane of our Queen.”  He held the barb of black obsidian between his thumb and forefinger, as though loath to handle it further.  

After lingering there for a time, his words falling into dust and silence, Legolas turned away toward the back wall, which stood in even deeper shadow.  There on one side hung many of the banners of Lasgalen in victory.  Most were in a pitiful state, torn and bloodied, but still kept in honor.  The evergreen and silver were in many shades of age, retired standards that had commanded the woodland battlegrounds.  But to the other side there hung another display beneath pennons of the same kind, but marked with a different letter.  From his sleeve Legolas produced a ragged handful of black and sedately hung his acquisitions beneath his own device.  There was a smear of the White Hand upon a tatter from Helm's Deep, a wisp of ashen grey from the Pelennor, and a strip of the Red Eye from Mordor itself.

Gimli had no idea he had carried those all they way home.

He stood back after adding these to his morbid collection, a considerable tally of fallen ranks, if no rival to his father's.  Gimli squirmed to see a small assortment of culpable arrowheads there as well.

“Now, Valar willing, this place is complete,” Legolas said, an unmistakable note of relief in his voice.  “I have seen enough of war. But in truth I have no great hope of it.”

“Why so gloomy?” Gimli asked, his voice falling rather flat within the darkly caparisoned walls.  “It is not even a year yet since Cormallen.”

“Because there is no such thing as a lasting peace,” Legolas stated sadly, as though at last renouncing forever the vain hope that had never been realized.  “We have been betrayed before.  When Angband fell, the Elves thought the dark wars ended forever.  But then we had only to suffer beneath Sauron until we had spent ourselves in his defeat.  Now he is fallen, but other evils will come to supplant his foul memory.  One year or ten, they will pass all too quickly.  Peace after war is like crystal,” he decided.  “Long and costly in the making, so very easily broken.”

Alone in the Hall of Archives, Thranduil paced the floor softened by the dark carpets, ceremonial robes of dark green and yellow swirling pensively around him.  The entire household was busily at work pulling together the last details of the celebration to be ready at sunset.  Now he was given a precious moment of solitude to mull over the questions in his own mind, pressing issues that had haunted him all that day.  

Why was it that every time he beheld a Dwarf he saw the sack of Menegroth all over again?  That had been two full Ages ago.  Why had he not shaken free of those memories yet?  Because he did not wholly want to be free of them.  His grandfather, his mother’s brother, and countless others brutally slain in their own homes, the doom of Doriath begun and assured.  Seldom had he known any of the noegyth since that he did not suspect, for their ways were strange and alien to him, riding roughshod at will over the immutable laws of justice and honor that had stringently governed his own life, fostered in him from childhood. 

Now by those same stark principles he was called to accept that which he feared.  After all, Noldor had been equally culpable of those ancient atrocities, and he had learned to tolerate them.  To arbitrarily turn Gimli away would be to favor blind prejudice over what was undeniably right, in turn making himself no better than those he despised.  

And not all Dwarves were blameworthy, he reasoned.  The Belegostrim had repudiated the Nogrodrim for their blood feud with the Elves of Doriath.  Dáin of Erebor had been truly a prince among the Gonnhirrim, with whom he had had no quarrel.  Perhaps Gimli was like to him.  It would do no harm to wait and see.

“The air roils with your unrest.” 

Thranduil glanced aside to see Galadhmir lurking in the doorway.  “The disquiet is enough to make one think a storm was upon us.”

“Is it indeed?”  Thranduil returned his half-hearted smile, finding it easier now that he had temporarily decided his course.  “Come, Galadhmir.  I know when you would give me an unsolicited piece of your mind.  Let me have it.”

“Very well.”  His tone fell, becoming dreadfully earnest.  “Be cautious, Thranduil, in how you deal with this protégé of Mithrandir.  Do not let the past cloud your judgment.”

“What leads you to believe I intend to be severe toward the Dwarf?”

“The Old Realm aside,” Galadhmir explained, pacing aimlessly into the room, “you still retain a less than favorable impression of his father.  Moreover, you dislike the influence he wields over Legolas – do not try to deny it.”  His smile broadened, and Thranduil saw misgiving melt into old confidence.  “But I believe I know you better than that.”

“I should hope so.”  Thranduil said, appreciating his candor.  “You did not follow me all these years for nothing.”

Leaving the grim trophy hall, Gimli followed as Legolas led him back down into the mainstream branches.  After more twists and turns they stopped once again in the corridor.  Lifting a tapestry, Legolas slipped behind it, and after a moment had pushed inward a hidden door.  Gimli was reluctant for a moment to follow, but Legolas held the passage open for him.

“Come.  Do not tell my father I brought you here.”

There was a twinge of a smile in his voice, so with a quick glance around Gimli ducked inside after him.  Again, the room was dim, but he soon surmised why Thranduil would have preferred that this place be left unexplored.  He knew a treasury when he saw one.  Chests and crates were stacked and ordered along every wall, arranged beneath symbols that indicated their contents.  It was a small room compared to many, but none the lesser for it.

“So this is the Elvenking’s renowned hoard?” he asked, running a rough hand over a chest near him, wiping away dust.  It was great, but hardly legendary.

“No,” Legolas said with a smile.  “This is mine.”

He retrieved the satchel of Celeborn's mithril, which he had stashed there before.  Then he pulled a key from his belt and crouched beside one of the larger strongboxes, working the lock with an authoritative air.  Everything here was his to dispense as he pleased.  Gimli drew nearer, drawn irresistibly by the promise of what lay hidden within.

He was not disappointed.  It was not especially a marvel, for he had seen treasures before, but it was still a beautiful sight, the familiar gleam and sparkle in the lamplight. 

“What have I in here?” Legolas mused aloud, rummaging carefully through the tediously arranged articles, separated one kind from another by deliberate partitions.  “My lord the King has fostered something of the instincts of a pack rat, I am afraid.  His has become quite a collection.  My portion seems to do little more than gather dust, though it will serve me well now in Ithilien.  Aha.”  He pulled out a chain of wrought gold cunningly set with diamonds and rubies, unabashedly of Dwarvish make and style.  “When I remembered this,” he said, offering it freely, “I knew it must have been meant for you.”

Now Gimli was indeed impressed, for such an ornament was fit for the King Under the Mountain himself.  It was heavy in his hands, for clearly no expense had been spared in its making.  How in Mahal's name had Thranduil ever gotten hold of it?  “To wear tonight?” he asked.

“To keep, and to do with what you will.” Legolas said.  “Consider it a gesture of goodwill between the Wood and the Mountain.”  He smiled, putting off his official attitude.  “After all I have put you through already, Gimli, I would like to give you something you can appreciate.”

“That you have, lad.”  It was a princely gift, and moreover one that was not merely an act of whimsy.  This was something he could wear among his own people and be proud of.  And he knew not quite what to say.  “That you have.”

“You have been very obliging thus far,” Legolas commended him, helping to arrange it impressively on his stout shoulders.  “And in that you have made this infinitely easier for me.  I know it has been a sacrifice.  Stay the course and we may even yet see our houses allied, for I swear I shall do no less for you.”

The next order of business was to present Celeborn's gifts to Thranduil.  More importantly, it seemed a second presentation of Gimli himself, a thought that twisted his stomach a bit as they set off down the corridors once more, notably depopulated as most everyone was occupied bringing the festival to timely fruition.  Legolas had mentioned that he had been accepted, “more or less.”  But that was small comfort.

Legolas seemed to know instinctively where to look for the King, if indeed he was not always fully aware of his father's whereabouts here at the epicenter of their power.  They found him in what seemed a library, more pleasant than the musty haunt above had been, but still more forbidding.  Gimli would sooner explore the den when the lynx himself was not at home.  Sedate voices were heard echoing softly in the corridors in rhythmic cadence, the evensong of the Elves, at once comforting and disquieting.

They entered to find the Elvenking seated behind an elaborately carven desk of dark hardwood, scribbling intently with a striped owl feather quill.  He looked up and rose to receive them.  His sheer presence was still as intimidating as before, though it was more benign now. 

A rumbling snarl came from the hearth where lay two more of the Elvish wolves, two great heaps of silver with gleaming eyes of brown and blue.

“Glirhuin!” Thranduil growled back, “Argeleb.”  He did not mistake the chain Gimli wore, obscured though it was by beard – indeed it seemed for a moment that he had all the possessive perception of a dragon – but as it had been Legolas' gift, he could say nothing.  Nor would he. 

“Hir Adar,” Legolas greeted him formally with a slight bow.

“At your ease, Legolas,” Thranduil acknowledged him in return.  “Lord Gimli of Aglarond.”  His reception this time was more courteous, but made it clear upon what terms the overture was made.  Gimli was almost afraid to look him in the eye, but when he did there were none of the unsettling probings of before.  Thranduil was keeping his distance now, taking careful measure of his opponent. 

The Elvenking resumed his seat, thereby giving them leave to do the same.  Strangely, he seemed to Gimli's eyes even larger when seated, his royal robes of dark green and yellow with shimmering traces of silver only augmenting the illusion, if an illusion it was.  His great mane of golden hair was still only loosely bound, lending him a fair and feral appearance, though not without a slender ribbon of green and silver snaking over his shoulder from where it was braided and tied unseen somewhere behind his ear.  At first glance Gimli would have scorned such frippery, but upon Thranduil he had to admit there was somehow nothing ridiculous about it.  Indeed, save for the ruling counterpart to Legolas’ silver ring upon his left hand and a slender band of gold upon his right, there was little ostentation upon him at all compared to the glittering lords of Rivendell.  His majesty was his own; competent, unpretentious, and uncompromisingly virile.

“Father,” Legolas began, standing again.  “Celeborn sends this in gift from the conquest of the South.”

“Does he now,” Thranduil mused with an elegant half-smile, apparently pleased by the gesture.

Gimli waited with baited breath to witness the confirmation or refutation of another commonly known weakness of the Elvenking.  If silver and white gems held such sway over him as was rumored, his reaction to mithril was sure to be a singular one.  If his memory served him, Celeborn had meant it for both Legolas and his father, but Legolas freely set the whole of it down upon the desk before his lord once Thranduil had swept aside the paper he had been composing.

The intricate masterpieces of mithril that gradually gathered upon the desktop commanded the full attention of all.  It was true that Thranduil's eyes gleamed with a more avid interest than Legolas had seemed to harbor for them.  He clearly knew what they were worth, and his imperious attitude had lightened subtly to resemble more a youth during the holidays, but if Gimli had expected a manifestation of jealous greed he waited in vain.  Granted, these priceless treasures would not be easily parted from him, but he had no fear yet of that.

The Sereguren was displayed last of all, its detail and magnificence enough to sober even the Elvenking.  The sharp points of the leaves which formed the chain gleamed in the lamp and candlelight, the ruby at the center scattering a soft red glow.

“Legolas,” Thranduil said at last in a tone akin to reverence.  “This one I must leave to you, for you have more than earned it.  Without Mithrandir's Fellowship, we would all have perished regardless of our own victories.”

That alone would have made Gimli's jaw fall to his chest if he had not already been surprised so many times that day.  If only Glóin was here to see!  That single marvelous work of mithril was itself worth as much as all the rest combined, perhaps even equal the greater part of the wealth these Elves had amassed over the centuries, worthy to be counted foremost among the crown jewels of Lasgalen.  And Thranduil dared not touch it. 

It was not the first stirring of respect he had felt for that froward Elvenlord.  Nor would it be the last.  By Durin’s beard, that Elf did remind him of his mother!

“Lord Gimli,” Thranduil turned to him, once the mithril had been replaced and its spellbinding gleam removed from the table.  There were other more immediate issues to discuss now.  “Your status within our realm has been in some question of late.  I have thought of little else since we met this morning, and thus is my decision.”  He held up the page of Elvish script that was essentially as unfathomable as the dark side of the moon to Gimli's mind.  “You are granted my safeguard as of tonight, to go whither you will while accompanied by one of my own, until I should choose to revoke it.  Legolas remains answerable for your conduct.  Whilst extended our protection none may harm, hinder, or harass you in any way contrary to the standing law of Lasgalen or the express will of myself or of Legolas my son and Prince Regent.  Any who trespass against you will be brought to bear the suitable penalty, and likewise any breach of faith on your part will be justly chastised.  I alone retain full right to restrict, admonish, censor, and castigate at need and at will your words, deeds, comings and goings, as I deem necessary for the good of us all.”

Gimli smoldered in a tide of thwarted pride, but restrained it, though his approval was neither asked nor needed.  After all, he reminded himself, Thranduil was making many concessions of his own.  He could well have ordered him into what amounted to little less than loose incarceration while he stayed beneath his power.  It was clear that neither the Elvenlord nor his guest yet knew rightly what to think of each other, but they were meeting now on the common ground of chastened pride. 

With a strong flourish, Thranduil swept his signature over the page in ink of green so dark it was almost black, thereby committing himself to the guardianship of a Dwarf-lord.

Times were changing.

The stars shone like brilliant points of silver in the indigo sky, but theirs was not the only light that night.  All around the Arthrand the wood was brightly illuminated by the golden glow of lamp, fire and torch, some tinted to throw rays of red, green, and silver blue.  Long tables were laden with fare fit for the King himself.  The place was thick with Elves, all dressed in their best with autumn blooms in their hair, dancing and singing and laughing to the music of flutes, drums, and harps, the reconquest of Greenwood at last fully achieved.

Gimli joined the festivities in the company of Legolas and Thranduil, who now looked more their part than ever.  Both the Elvenking and Prince were crowned with butter-yellow snapdragons bound by slender ribbons of green.  Thranduil wore a silver carcanet of his own over his shoulders, glinting with emeralds and diamonds, which he apparently only brought out for special occasions.  Legolas wore the gleaming Sereguren, which proved to suit him incredibly well, magnificent while not garish.  Gimli had perhaps been expected to exhibit some sign of servile obeisance in Thranduil’s presence, but Legolas had flatly refused to allow it.  And so the Dwarf kept their company as another prince, a singular sight that went unnoticed by no one. 

For love of Elbereth, now they had seen everything.

Gimli sat with them upon Thranduil’s left, an unspoken honor he soon appreciated by observing all the wondering glances cast his way.  Legolas assumed his place on the right, the rest of the table occupied by other lords and such, and flanked by Elvish soldiers in jaunty uniforms of green and yellow to match their king.  These attendants were still armed, the newfound peace notwithstanding.  Gimli did not like the inimical looks many of them leveled upon him, but they had read the King’s decree regarding the Dwarf.  They would not touch him, even though his presence caused them considerable unrest. 

There was an initial round of ceremonial pageantry amid the revelry.  A company of mounted lancers rode out in full victorious array, heraldic streamers borne on their spears boasting the initials of the royal family.  They were led by a fair captain that Gimli recognized as Luinar, son of Linhir the seneschal.  There was plainly still no love between them, but Luinar managed to keep quiet as he performed his charge of ceremony before Thranduil, though it obviously rankled him to see the Dwarf accorded such honors.  There followed another mounted company led by Calenmir, bedecked as another woodland prince leading the elite of Lasgalen’s knights upon the fleet warhorses, the son of Thranduil’s adjutant the Lord Galadhmir.  Prince Duinen was to be seen elsewhere, marked by the same yellow and green as a commander of the palace guard.

With its completion, the organized bravado melted into the general festivity, the horses led aside to be ridden in sport.  Even many of the lords at the King’s table could not maintain their seats, joining the social whirl with their ladies.  Dinner, such as it was, went on as a leisurely affair.  One took what one wanted when one wanted it, and the servers kept the courses circulating.  Gimli was actually pleasantly surprised by the provender offered at Thranduil’s table, for if it was not so elaborate as the fare found in Rivendell, it was more satisfying.  Here he need not worry over the impropriety of disturbing an intricately garnished masterpiece each time he wanted a bun.  The meat was roasted and seasoned but still red, near enough his ideal.  There was the usual assortment of bread, honey, and fruit, sweetened baked apples.  

Again, there was no ale, but that was not to dismiss the wine glass set before him, an intriguing vintage of a dark ruby red.  He tried it, but as a Dwarf he was not accustomed to sipping anything.  Eyes widening in mute appreciation, he quickly decided it was not something for the young and untried, a bit too rich for his tastes.  Gimli glanced about, and saw that indeed most everyone was drinking the stuff without reservation.  He noticed that Thranduil did not sip either.  The Elvenking apparently expected no tipsiness at his table, or else was badly prepared, for their chairs amounted to no more than sawn tree rings, and consequently had no backs.

It could become a most interesting evening.

Gimli had a tendency to eat when he was nervous, so that was how he first occupied himself, and there was more than enough to keep him busy.  The others held their peace for a while as well, perhaps gradually acclimating themselves to the situation.

“I trust you will allow me to accompany Lord Gimli back to Erebor,” Legolas said at last, letting that drop like string to a cat.

Beside him, Gimli saw Thranduil squirm noticeably, then drain his wine glass.  “I can scarcely refuse.” 

Legolas smiled.  “Formally or informally?” he asked.

“Formally,” Thranduil decided.  “Will you go by road or river?”

“The latter.  Poor Arod has come far enough.”

“Very well.  Such a journey will not be wasted as a joy trip.  Already I sent my heralds to Esgaroth and to Dale, but you shall bear our greetings to them again.  I trust Master Gimli will not object to a few errands of diplomacy along the way.”

The conversation went on as such for a while, the festivities playing before them incessantly.  A great group of Elves was engaged then in an impressive dance that opened and closed in formation like a flower, all of lively music and laughter.  Gimli spotted a few he knew, though he could hardly help it.  Again he considered the obvious differences between these Nandor, as Legolas had called them, and their Sindarin lords.  One could not honestly say they were of the same people.  They were like slender saplings, while Thranduil . . . well, Thranduil was Thranduil, he decided at last.  There really was no more apt explanation.

“Legolas!”  Gimli's musings were interrupted suddenly by the breathless voice of a fair Sindarin maiden as she burst upon them, ribbons of red and yellow streaming amid her hair.  “Come, Legolas; you must not sit idly by on a night like this!” she insisted, making as if to drag him away of her own will.  “You have to come and dance with us!”

“Moredhel!” her father snapped at her in obvious disapproval.

“My lady honors me,” Legolas assured him as he was pulled from his seat.  “Forgive me, father; I have been kidnapped!”

“Go on,” Thranduil waved him away with a smile.  “Enjoy yourself.  It is certainly high time you did.”

Legolas was then drawn away into the general confusion, and it seemed it was not only Lady Moredhel who sought his hand.  But even for his obliging approachability, Legolas maintained his essential indifference; he would dance with anyone, but encouraged no one.  There was no lady among them to whom he was specifically given, nor did he seem to entertain any preference. 

For the first time Gimli found himself alone with the Elvenking, and he not an arm’s length distant either.  It was a vulnerable feeling, but for a while Thranduil seemed to take no notice of him, gazing somewhat dejectedly after Legolas, his eyes deep with memory. 

“I have not seen him so chipper since Gondor,” Gimli observed, finding the silence awkward.

“Was he happy there?” Thranduil asked absently, swirling the wine in his glass.  “He is glad enough to be among us again, but it is in his heart to go back.  And I do not doubt that the waters of the Anduin carry him even farther than that in the end.”  It seemed he had almost forgotten who he was talking to.  Nor did he seem to care.  He turned aside to thoughtfully regard that enigma of a Dwarf, a long but nigh-invisible scar beside his brow showing itself in the changing light.  Rather than mar him, it seemed to compliment his peculiar character.  “I will admit that I was incredulous at first, Gimli, but you do care for him.”

“As much as any of us would,” Gimli said, twiddling his beard, knowing it a great admission from Thranduil to openly condone his company in so many words.  “You understand brotherhood in arms.”

“That I do.”

He felt Thranduil probing his defenses, regarding him still as a potential adversary but in an inquisitive way.  It was a step in the right direction, anyway.  Disarm him one sentence at a time.

“It was not until Gandalf fell and we left Moria for the Lady's Wood that we found we could get by without trading harsh remarks at every turn,” he said.

“Moria,” Thranduil murmured darkly.  “Yes.  Celeborn might have told me as much, but he was . . . regrettably preoccupied.”  He indulged in a drink as if to banish unsettling imaginings. 

“It was enough to try the hearts of all of us,” Gimli said emphatically.  “I honestly thought we were done for, what with orcs and trolls, and that Balrog.”

Beside him the placid Elvenking choked and burst into a violent fit of coughing as the wine missed a turn in his throat.  Legolas glanced anxiously their way from the ordered chaos, though he could hardly spare a moment lest he throw the whole dance out of step.  Thranduil looked back at him with some measure of paternal indignation as he caught his breath; they would clearly take up that matter between them later.  “Your pardon,” he begged of Gimli, his voice still a bit rough.  “It seems I am the last to hear of many things.”

One never knew where one would touch upon something explosive.  Gimli was only grateful he had earned no enmity toward himself by it.  Someday he would learn to tread carefully.  After all, mention of the Balrog had set Celeborn against him quickly enough.  “My apologies, my lord,” he grunted awkwardly, not wishing to spoil with an idle remark all that Legolas had gained for him thus far.

There was something notably less intimidating about Thranduil when he turned back to him, for he looked as one who was nettled by his own conscience.  “It is I who must apologize, Master Gimli,” he said plainly.  “I ask you to forgive the manner in which I received you this afternoon.  Such effrontery was uncalled for.  Understand that if I seem to deal overbearingly with you now, it is for both our sakes.” 

Gimli looked, but try as he might he could see naught but sincerity in those formidable green eyes.  And if it was as genuine and as unaffected as it seemed to be, he respected the Elvenking all the more for it.  Such a deliberate sacrifice of pride in the face of a rival came only with hard-bitten courage to anyone, and only out of an uncompromising sense of justice.  “I must say, I never expected to hear that out of you, my lord,” he marveled, wondering if he dared to smile.

“If Legolas has taken you so into his confidence, so must I,” Thranduil said solemnly, somewhat stiffened by his self-inflicted chastening, no trace of a smile about him.  But with one sidelong glance at Gimli it was not long in coming, try though he did to smother it.  Either that Elvenlord was learning to like him, Gimli decided, or he was merely made more accommodating by the wine, which he had admittedly been consuming very liberally.  Of course, he knew the real trial would come the next morning. 

“I shall be frank with you, Gimli,” Thranduil then admitted quite candidly.  “I am a bit hot-tempered.”

“Is that so?” Gimli replied, as though he would have never guessed it, finding the almost amiable atmosphere a pleasant change. 

“I confess to find it a meager relief that in so many hours I have not yet found grievance with you.  Which is not to say I have not tried.”

“And you expect to?”

“Forgive an anxious father,” Thranduil smiled slyly.  “I shall not have formed my final opinion of you for several days yet.  If there is aught to be leery of, I shall find it out, I assure you.  But keep on as you are, and I shall own myself overmastered, which I have seldom admitted of anyone, I would have you know.”

Gimli felt a sleek form squeeze past his legs, and momentarily a great silver snout appeared sniffing from beneath the tablecloth.  Thranduil lifted the linen to descry the identity of their companion.  “Glirhuin!” he smiled, stroking a notched ear.  “Tolo hí. Come here, my beautiful.”  The wolf came gladly and lay a white paw in his master’s lap as Thranduil fondled his majestic war-scarred head with diminutive Sindarin endearments, the great bushy tail brushing unwittingly across Gimli’s chest. 

“You keep impressive beasts, my lord,” Gimli said, quite honestly.  He still did not feel comfortable around them, though.

“I forgive you your reticence to admire them.”  Thranduil pushed Glirhuin back down, for the hound had almost begun standing in his lap and it was becoming more difficult to evade his tongue.  “They were not bred for docility.  I fear good Glirhuin is not so young as he once was, but he has torn many a Warg in his time,” he said, tracing the long-healed abrasions on that noble face.  “Yes, Glirhuin,” he went on, his voice assuming again the affectionate lilt, though his words were not half so comforting, “you take those curs apart piece by bloody piece!”

The hybrid beast had begun to eye Gimli warily, so the Dwarf exploited a time-honored attempt to win a dog’s favor.  He tossed him a buttered roll, and Glirhuin eagerly snatched it out of the air and wolfed it down.  It seemed to have the desired effect, but Thranduil looked on in mild disapproval.  “We try not to encourage begging at the master’s table,” he said, “but if you must feed him, do so this way.  Glirhuin,” he commanded, “havo.”

Glirhuin sat.

“Mae carnen,” his master commended him as he took another roll in hand and set it carefully upon the wolf’s nose.  “Sedho.” 

Glirhuin held it dutifully, though he panted through his teeth and all his attention was bent upon it.  Gimli knew that bit of bread would die a violent death in a just a moment.  Thranduil released him at last, and Glirhuin gnashed down on his reward with a swift dexterity that would have shamed a viper, white fangs flashing in the starlight.

Legolas rejoined them then, somewhat out of breath but otherwise none the worse for wear.  “Are we getting along?” he inquired.

“Admirably,” Thranduil assured him.  “You have other duties tonight I do not envy.  I shall entertain your guest while everyone else clamors for a piece of you.”

There came a rise of noise from behind them, for the horseback games had moved.  Turning where they sat, Gimli observed one of the mounted lancers gallop down an open track, skillfully catching a small wooden stake on his spear to the applause of his fellows.  The game seemed enormously popular, and every knight and aspiring guardsman was anxious to try his hand at it for the amusement of the ladies.  This, Gimli supposed, was what amounted to Elven jousting.  Less rash danger, but an equal test of skill. 

“An innovation borrowed from the Northmen who once abode near us,” Thranduil explained.  “It has a formal name, but is affectionately known as tent-pegging.”  He turned to Gimli with what could almost have been called a knavish grin.  “It plays lovely havoc in an enemy camp.”

“From the Northmen who became the Éothéod, who became the Rohirrim,” Legolas clarified.  “You see, father, I have learned much while I was away.  Aran Éomer would be pleased to see the games of his people practiced still in the Elvenwood.” 

“The more you speak of him, the more I feel it worth my while to meet him,” Thranduil said, watching as one of his guard took a lance in hand and flew down the track to the cheers of his comrades.  “In fact, I might well consider calling upon Elessar now that he has come into his own.  It will not be forgotten that I taught that boy what real swordsmanship was.”  But Aragorn was quickly forgotten in the face of the gallantry afield.  “Will you try your hand at it, Legolas?  Or has it been so long that you have forgotten?”

Legolas was reluctant to make a spectacle of himself, but his father cajoled him into it in the end.  And nor was Thranduil the only one who was glad to watch their prince prove again his well-earned prowess.  He was given a horse, and the rest was poetry in motion.  Soon even Thranduil insisted upon taking a turn himself, swinging astride a mount of his own and snatching a lance as he passed, still as capable as any of his guard.  The course then became a race, two competitors vying to complete two full passes in the shorter time, the turf churning beneath the thundering hooves that providing a counterpoint of living drums to the festive music. 

Gimli sat his place at table, chuckling to himself as he watched the antics by fire and starlight, content with the food and wine ready to hand.  Glirhuin sat at attention beside him, dutifully attending his master’s guest.  Gimli toyed with the idea of giving him another treat to balance, but he was not sure he had the commands right, and nor did it seem wise to tease the monster alone.

Once roused, Thranduil did not relinquish the field easily, though there was no scarcity of eager contenders willing to try a tilt against their King, and he welcomed them.  Legolas proved the most demanding challenger, and though his father did eventually win the best two out of three, it was not without considerable effort.  Several pairs of ambitious warriors rode against one another for the honor of contending with the reigning champion.  Trained in Thranduil’s school of warfare, they gave admirable accounts of themselves, but few had any hope of displacing him here.  Still, to be trounced by the King was an honor in its own right, and to judge by the smiles all round they would rather have him rollicking among them than sitting majestically aside.  But, wonder of wonders, one canny silvan archer did best him by a handsbreadth.  The crowds of spectators cheered wildly at the unexpected victory, which Thranduil was man enough to admit.

“Na vedui!” he called with a smile, tossing the victor his crown of flowers, which by then had gone loose and a bit lopsided.  “Mae carnen, Tathren!  You will be a captain before the year is out!”

The rest of the evening passed without incident, blurred somewhat to Gimli’s mind, but that he attributed to the wine.  When Thranduil had done with his play, he formally presented Lord Gimli of Aglarond to the populous of his realm, which seemed more eager to welcome back their prince than to take a foreigner into their confidence.  But their King voiced no explicit reservations on his part, which gave many of the Dwarf’s staunchest opponents cause for second thoughts.  There followed a thunderous performance of one of their favored anthems, enough to shake the very trees. 

As the lamps and fires burned low they were not refueled, but instead were allowed to exhaust themselves.  However, that by no means meant the end of the amusements.  These elves could be just as merry in the darkness, by the light of the stars alone. 

More subdued dancing continued amid fair songs to Elbereth, but the greater part of them gathered round the last embers of a large bonfire.  There the lords amused themselves stirring smoke figures of the curling wisps of grey.  The greater ones among them began to glow gently with a light all their own as they brought their influence to bear, conjuring brief and passing images with the power of hand and voice.  Thranduil, out of a steady rhythmic melody formed the unmistakable silhouette of an eagle in flight before it drifted away.  Lady Gwaelin felt ambitious that evening and twisted three tongues out of the rising smoke, braiding them from bottom to top with a rich trill of her voice.

But when it fell to Legolas, he paused a moment in thought.  At last he began in a tune Gimli thought he recognized, though it was more somber now.  Out of the shapeless tendrils of smoke a slender grey ship took distinct form, fading points about it that might have passed for gulls, a subtle gust of night wind carrying it slowly toward Thranduil.

Everyone had fallen silent, for the purport of the gesture was not mistaken.  This was not idle fancy, but a silent request for judgment.  They had feared the cold hand of the Sea had touched their prince in the South, and at that moment it yet remained to the King to either stop that passing ship or let it go.

Thranduil knew well what it meant.  At first he seemed poised to ward it away, to let the spectral image break upon his hand and fade out of thought and mind.  But in the end, he resignedly allowed it to ride unhindered across his palm.

Gimli had never truly heard a crowd sigh, a mixture of sympathy and dashed hopes.  True to the fate of their kind, they had no sooner won their victory than those they cherished most began to slip through their fingers.

By that time, Gimli could hardly keep his eyes open, for midnight was long since gone.  He dimly remembered Legolas gently leading him away, and then little more than nothing.

The sun already rode high when he crawled out of bed the next morning.  Of course he could not see it here in his royal chamber hewn beneath the ground, but he could well feel it.  

As the lamps flared to life at his bidding, Thranduil sank into the heavily cushioned chair, too pensive for the moment to bother making himself presentable.  All the household slept late this morning.  Indeed, the hardest working servants among them had only been dismissed in the early hours of dawn, not so very long ago.  Hardest working, but by no means least appreciated.  Their service would be amply rewarded, as always.

Thranduil picked absently at an imagined snag in the arm of the chair, unable to find the fragile peace of mind he craved.  The evening had been crippled by the reminder of something none of them wanted to acknowledge yet, and when he had at last found sleep he had been plagued by dreams of surf and seagulls.  Legolas was playing with fire, and unless he contained his own he could easily burn several others, particularly those nearest him.  The last thing Thranduil wanted now was another epidemic, but he felt he was losing the strength and the will to go on fighting it.  He had long evaded the call of the West, but now to what purpose?  The harder he grasped this life, the less he had left to hold. 

He ran a hand over his brows, both in exasperation and in an attempt to smooth away that twinge of a headache lurking behind his eyes.  He had known that quest of Elrond’s would have repercussions, which is why he had feared it from the first. 

He had felt the first stirrings of the Sea long ago, but had willfully smothered it to follow his father into the East.  It had been no great loss to him then, for he had no desire to be taken by Valinor.  But now was he held back by more than stubborn principle alone?

“Good morning, my Lord.”

He started at the sudden but soft-spoken salutation.  “Good morning, Gwaelas,” he sighed, giving him informal leave to enter.  After attending him so many years, the capable Nando knew how to read his lord's mood from a distance.

“I trust I find the King well today,” he smiled.

“No, the King is not well today,” Thranduil returned, but not without a hint of a wan smile himself.  They both knew what concerns hung over him now. 

Gwaelas smiled; it was just another day in Lasgalen.  “Perhaps some breakfast will improve his outlook,” he suggested.

Legolas closed his eyes against the pillow, unwilling to face the day and all it would bring just yet.  To have survived yesterday was a relief, but today there were other concerns to be addressed, trials that had nothing at all to do with Gimli.  They were inescapable, but if he could avoid them for another few moments he would. 

Last night the call had come again, and now he regretted to have invoked it for all the unrest it had caused him.  In a futile attempt to merely escape it for time he had deliberately closed his mind in the black oblivion of real sleep when at last they had all retired.  But now he knew that to have been a mistake all its own after a night like that, now that his head seemed twice as heavy as it should.  For the moment it was a miserable morning.

“I know I shall earn your displeasure today regardless, my lord,” he heard Erelas say, and at last he turned to squint up at him.  The lamplight was hard enough to endure now in the dark of his room, though he knew outside the Sun was mocking him far more.  “I know how you dislike to rise late, and deemed this the lesser of the two evils.”

“You were quite right,” Legolas said groggily with more sardonic formality than usual, letting himself fall limp again and pulling the cover over his head.  “Thank you.  You have my permission to withdraw.”

“As you wish, Legolas.”  

He knew Erelas was smiling, but he refused to get up until he had gone.  He was procrastinating, but at the moment he did not care.  Hiding from the realities of life had never seemed more inviting.  But nothing would be resolved if he never chose to face it, so it was with great reluctance that he forced himself up and brought the lamps to life. 

He dressed quietly that morning, setting aside the finery of the day before, choosing instead a simple but elegant tunic of dark woodland colors.  In that at least they had unreservedly adopted the ways of their silvan people, preferring the verdant shades of the forest to the old princely greys of Doriath. 

He was mostly silent as Erelas attended him, more pressing concerns weighing upon his mind.  Erelas – who had long been his chaperon, guardian, tutor, and almost a second father – did not press him, but tactfully left him to his thoughts.

“Master Gimli sleeps still?” Legolas did ask at last.

“Like a log, my lord,” the other said.  “Shall I wake him?”

“No, let him sleep,” Legolas smiled as he turned to leave.  “He needs it.”

So saying, he entered the corridor and began his resolute walk to his father’s study.  He had waited this long, and now he thought it best to openly broach the subject and have done with it, for he kept no secrets from his father.  Still, that seemed to make it no easier.  The tapestries along the walls only worsened it, flashing before his eyes the old memories of their long lives, all he would be called upon to relinquish.  If he lingered still, it was because he had not yet the heart to sever all the ties that bound him here.  It would be a bitter task, he thought, to deliberately fray those bonds in the coming years by drifting ever farther from home, but he had made his choice.

He could only pray his father would not embitter their parting more.  Thranduil would have every right to resent his leaving, even to refuse his consent.  Perhaps he was imagining more than he should, but the thought had begun to smack uncomfortably of willful betrayal on his own part.  Was this indeed a manifestation of some weakness unworthy of the sons of Oropher?  The Elvenking deserved better from his own.  That possibility tormented him, and for a moment he hated the Sea with all its damnable desire, and would have thrown it aside like a wet blanket if only he was able.  

In a renewed agony of conflict, he found himself standing irresolutely at the curtained entryway of the King’s inner sanctum, reluctant to knock.  He knew his father was inside, for he felt his presence there, a benign power that had long been a comfort to him but had now become all the more a silent accusation for it.  

Worse, he knew his father was equally aware of him there despite the  gem-bedewed drapery between them, waiting with quiet patience for his resolve one way or the other.  Was he ashamed to face his own father?

It wrung his soul, but he did rap on the door.

“Come in, Legolas.” 

Thranduil’s voice was solemn, but soft.  Resigned.  Legolas slipped past the curtain, but could not bring himself to draw any nearer.  In his moment of roiling self-accusation it seemed intolerable to presume upon any such familiarity now that he stood on the verge of desertion.  Thranduil looked upon him with something akin to compassion, and not without a keen twinge of regret that his own son should fear to approach him. 

“Father, I . . .”  The words caught in his throat, leaving him uncomfortably speechless.  Elbereth, it would have been easier if Thranduil were prepared to fight it, to yell, curse, or even revile him as he thought he deserved.  But he just sat there, waiting to endure the injury he knew was coming, waiting without a murmur for his heart to be lanced in final reward for his centuries of sacrifice.  “I . . .”  But it was impossible, and at last he sank disconsolately onto the bench that stood there against the wall, burying his face in his hands.

“I know,” Thranduil said, in a deeply sympathetic tone that Legolas had not heard for many years.  “I know.  You are not the first whose hand has been forced.”  He sighed, for this was difficult for both of them.  The silence was awkward.  “Will you not come nearer?  Or must you insist upon throwing my station in my face?"

Legolas stood with a start, not wishing to grieve him more than he must.   Thranduil beckoned to the chair near him that either Linhir or Galadhmir usually occupied, and when Legolas had set himself down in it he turned his own to face him directly.

“What did you expect of me, Legolas?” he asked, a bit hurt by the other’s reticence to approach him.  “Did you expect to be blamed for what is no fault of your own?  What have I done to deserve your mistrust?”

What hurt now was that these were not accusations, but sincere questions.  And Legolas knew that in his reluctance to hurt his father he was only hurting him more.  Thranduil would sooner take the thrust and be done with it than have the sword hang unacknowledged between them forever. 

“I mistrust only myself,” he said in apology, still not quite daring to meet the afflicted gaze opposite him, his hand gone white-knuckled around the arm of his chair.  “I know not what to do.”

“Well, you might try confiding in me,” his father suggested pensively, leaning forward to look him in the eye, silver tracery sparkling on his collar.  “Here I am, your father, in the flesh.  Talk to me, shout at me, weep on me, but please do not shun me.”

Legolas felt tears unshed and unbidden prick his eyes, recognizing that tone of longsuffering clemency, the voice of one who has been inexplicably set aside after so many years of confidence.  And in that he saw silence as the greater evil.  “Forgive me,” he begged.

Thranduil’s brow furrowed for a moment as though those words held for him more significance than Legolas knew.  But somehow he managed a passing hint of a smile, cheerless but comforting.  “I already have,” he assured him.  “Legolas, I could no more command you to stay than I can forever fetter a falcon.  When you feel you must spread your wings, who am I to hold you bound?”

He felt a nameless burden lifted from him, finding sympathetic encouragement where he had least expected it.  His father was the first who had not spoken of the West as a surrender, but as a challenge.  He would not be falling into blissful oblivion but rather ascending into their appointed destination, on to the next stage of their lives.  There was nothing shameful in it.  “But I owe everything in the world to you,” he protested.

“No, you do not,” Thranduil returned.  “I have only done as every father ought, and the part of life I gave you is not mine to possess.  What of your mother?  I like to think she is waiting for both of us.  Twice she gave you to me; I cannot hold you from her forever.”

“No.”  It was a relief to speak plainly about it.  But Legolas could not help feeling some lingering guilt over the fact that he would now succumb to one of the first trials appointed his to bear.  Thranduil had endured many tragedies along the unforgiving road of life.  He had fallen often, but had always picked himself up and continued on knowing full well he would be made to fall again.  Would his son admit defeat upon the first daunting rise?  “You have spent so much of your strength for me,” he said.  “I would that I could be strong now for your sake.”

“Nonsense,” his father insisted, though he could not hide the pang of regret in his voice as well.  He knew what this would cost him.  “I am just stubborn; you are the strong one.  I knew that this day was inevitable.  Do not blame yourself.”  There he paused, sinking back in his chair, flooded it seemed with other memories.  “I feel for Celeborn.  He has lived on borrowed time ever since the day he was wed.  Now that they have come to a pass from which there at last is no escaping, his world is riven at the seams.  I offered him what solace I could as one who has faced the very much the same and lived to remember.”  

His voice trailed away and his eyes lost their focus for a moment, his thoughts perhaps miles away.

“Winter will be upon us before long, Legolas,” Thranduil said at last, idly turning the wineglass on the desk by its slender stem amid the assortment of discarded notes and manuscripts.  “I hear they are taking the horses to the river today.  I think it would do us both some good, and Galadhmir did promise me some time for myself.”  He glanced up with a winsome smile.  “Come out with me.”

Legolas hesitated a moment, much though he would have enjoyed the opportunity on any other occasion, these last practical traditions that heralded the coming winter.  But he felt he was too spent to appreciate that kind of recreation today, and the emotional strain had only aggravated his elusive headache.  “Gimli still sleeps,” he said in excuse.

“Fine,” Thranduil returned with an exasperated lift of his brows and voice.  “If he sleeps, let him sleep.  But today the horses need scrubbing, and I wager that Dwarf is not interested in a swim.  Hm?”

Legolas said nothing, but he had to admit it did not seem like something Gimli would especially hate to miss.  Dwarves did not seem to mix well with tall horses and deep water.  “Give me some of that,” he said at last, pulling his father’s hand toward him and helping himself to some of his wine.  It was something their own people made, not so strong as the stuff they imported from Dorwinion, but enough to wake him up. 

He had learned long ago that to consent to self-pity was a sure way to remain sunk in it.  Perhaps this invitation to a lapse into inelegance was just what he needed.  After all, it was such a simple request his father put to him.  How could he refuse after all that had just passed between them?

“Very well,” he acquiesced at last.  “I shall come.”

Gimli woke that morning to pain, only dimly aware of the familiar voice gently calling his name.  Feeling as though there must be a bull raging about in his head, he forced open his eyes to see Legolas standing over him with a smile, accompanied by one of his lackeys. 

“Good morning, Gimli,” he said, annoyingly cheerful.  “We began to wonder if we would see you again before the morrow.”

Gimli groaned irritably and made an unsuccessful effort to sit up.  “Go away, nightmare,” he growled in a singularly groggy voice, eliciting only broader smiles from both Elves.

“Gimli, this is Erelas,” Legolas introduced the other.  “He is now empowered to look after you when I cannot.”

“You will excuse me if I am not gracious.”

Legolas smirked and turned aside to prattle a few Elvish directives to Erelas, who gave a smart bow and turned from the room.  “Come now, but slowly,” he beckoned when the other had gone.  “If you insist upon lying abed all day, you can have no fun with us.”  He took the Dwarf by the hand and helped pull him upright. 

“Ooo, even my hair hurts!” Gimli groaned, putting an ineffectual hand to his head.  “How did you get away with it?  I could swear I took no more than you.”

“Perhaps not,” Legolas said, leaving him to sit up in bed as he took a seat there at the bedside table.  “But I was raised upon it.  I meant to warn you.”  He smiled, but Gimli saw no humor.  In fact, he saw very little of anything.

Erelas returned then, bearing a laden tray.  Legolas thanked him pleasantly as he set it down before him. Erelas had a few more questions which Legolas answered, apparently not entirely to his satisfaction.  But then he left them alone.

The exchange had meant nothing to Gimli, nor did he care.  He watched through squinted eyes as Legolas set about utilizing what had come on the tray.  It looked like a stout glass of milk to his eyes, with two round brown . . .

“Boiled eggs?” he asked.

“No,” Legolas answered matter-of-factly, cracking first one and then the other into the glass, deftly stirring it all with a long silver spoon.  Gimli felt he would be sick.  “I have not even made you taste it yet, and already you go white as a sheet!  It is not so bad as all that.” 

“What is that noise?” Gimli groaned instead, hearing those incessant voices drifting again through the halls.

“Noise?” Legolas asked with an arch of his brow, looking a trifle offended.  He returned his attention to the task at hand, the clinkety-clink of spoon on glass almost as painfully annoying as the chanting outside.  But worse, Gimli’s comments had seemingly drawn the Elf’s mind to it, making it simply impossible for him to refrain from humming the tune himself.  

“Here, now,” Legolas said at last, tapping the spoon on the rim before setting it down on the napkin.  “Trust me, you will be glad later to have taken it.”

“I don’t want it,” Gimli insisted stubbornly.  “You expect me to drink that?  If you do, you are mistaken.”

Legolas was undeterred, facing his friend as he would an obstinate child who refuses to accept his medicine.  “I could have Erelas bring a straw, if you like, so I may force it between your teeth.  Or shall I pry you open with the spoon?”

Gimli gave no answer, merely glowered, crossing his arms adamantly over the bedding.

Legolas loosed a terse sigh, his dark brows low and even.  “Thranduil doubted you would have the stomach for it.  Am I to tell him he was correct?”

Oh, that was hitting below the belt.  What was he to do in the face of an open challenge from the Elvenking?  He might as well have been called a mollycoddle to his face.  Well, if Thranduil could stand runny eggs, then Gimli son of Glóin could stand runny eggs.

“Give it to me.”

It was indeed an unpleasant experience, but somehow he managed to refrain from bringing it all back up again.  Ha! he thought triumphantly, even as he struggled not to be sick. 

“The Sun smiles upon us today, Gimli,” Legolas said, relieving him of the empty glass.  “Many of us are gathering down at the river to bathe the horses before the first frost.  Will you come?  We would very much like to have you.”

His vision was clearing by this point, but he knew not whether to attribute that to time or to Legolas’ strange cure.  Perhaps there had been more in it than just milk and eggs.  He glanced askance at the Elf, grateful he could trust him as he did, but finding his current dependence upon him a bit disconcerting.  It would have been so simple for someone – Erelas, perhaps – to slip something less desirable to him, to end his days swiftly and painlessly.  Or worse, to forestall until the full effect would take him in Erebor.  But this was all ridiculous; Legolas knew them better than he, and they would not dare flout the decree of their King.  Would they?

Legolas regarded him passively, leaving him to his thoughts for the moment, awaiting his answer.  His braid fleetingly reminded Gimli of the ropes of woven gold wrought by the Faerie-kings of legend, perhaps not so far from the truth if the Elves gave their hair for bowstrings.  Even Thranduil, perhaps?  It was strange to imagine the probable origins of tales as old as those beginning with these beings who still dwelt whole and hale in the world.  It was enough to skew anyone’s practical sense of time to speak with a living legend from the realm of nursery rhyme.

“Horses?” he asked at last.

“You need not handle one,” Legolas assured him.  “You may sit by and observe if you like.  But I would enjoy your company.”

So earnest, so considerate.  He could hardly refuse.  “I suppose it would be better than idling around here all day,” he grumbled, enough to inspire a brilliant smile on the Elf. 

Powers preserve him – what had he got himself into now?

Soon they were both mounted upon Arod, riding at a slow and easy pace to the appointed bend in the river, a pace inspired more out of regard for Gimli’s lingering headache than concern for the horse.  Arod had no right idea where they were going, so he was docile beneath Legolas’ directives, following the shaded forest paths with the smooth gait cultivated by the Rohirrim. 

Autumn was indeed near at hand, the leaves of the wood already tinged with hints of the brilliant colors to come, the crisp song of cardinals in the air.  Even so, the day was unseasonably warm, which Gimli supposed had inspired the Elves to call this event at the river.  He would wager they had never wasted a clear day in their lives.  And once his eyes had accustomed themselves to the light, it was somehow not at all unpleasant to be out on horseback in the clear open air.  Arod reached aside to snatch a fallen apple in his teeth, but was forced to drop it after the first bite.  Legolas laughed and assured him there would be plenty gathered to sustain him that winter.

Gradually other sounds came to Gimli’s attention, splashing, laughing, whinnying – mostly the glad crashing of horses through water.  In a moment he saw why.  There in a sparsely wooded clearing where the river bent in a branching detour from its main course, where the current was yet swift but not so strong as the full flow, scores of Elves had gathered with just as many horses, all of them going shirtless and frolicking in the deep water, sending up terrific splashes as they did so.  There was the occasional diligent one who actually did employ soap and brush, but that was hastily done so he and his mount could hold their own against the caprices of their fellows.  There was altogether more play than work going on.

Legolas was greeted by several of his companions who quickly glanced up from their games to acknowledge him.  Protocol was generally suspended for holidays like this.  Briefly, as Legolas drew Arod to a halt at the nearest embankment and surreptitiously helped him down, Gimli felt he now knew what it was like to be a sparrow at a bird bath dominated by robins.  It seemed there was no water near that had not already been whipped into a bubbling froth, calming only to have yet another stampede go cavorting through it.  Still, things seemed a trifle more staid here at this end, and he soon discovered why.

“Suilad na vedui, Legolas.  And a good afternoon to you, Lord Gimli,” Thranduil greeted them from where he stood chest-deep in the steady current, the dark head and proudly arched neck all that could be seen beside him of Maethor his steed.  If the Elvenking was surprised to see him, Gimli had to admit he hid it well.  “I see Legolas at last badgered you into joining us.”

“I did no such thing,” Legolas returned before Gimli could say a word, shedding his shirt and boots.  “I merely asked and he accepted.”

Thranduil leveled a sly look upon Gimli with a barely discernible shake of his head as if to assure him that he knew better, regardless of what Legolas would say.  Plainly he had also been cornered by several of his son’s innocent requests.

Legolas coaxed Arod into the river, and was summarily swept away into the general splashing confusion.  The Rohirric horse was unsure of himself at first, but quickly found his footing and was eager to socialize with his newfound stablemates.  Gimli stayed where he was; there was no way he would get involved in all that, but since Thranduil’s presence acted as a gentle damper on the rowdiness he was content simply to sit by on an outcropping of rock and let his feet drift in the swirling river.  He was dimly aware of a few condescending glances from certain Elves about, but none ventured to say a word if the King did not first manifest his own disapproval.

For himself, Thranduil waded into the gravelly shallows, his great stallion following as dutifully as a hound.  The sun glinted off the diamonds studding the black leather of his belt as he emerged from the water, the only deliberate mark of royalty Gimli could descry upon him, and indeed naught else was needed.  There he set about brushing most of the water from Maethor’s dark and gleaming coat, slinging sparkling droplets aside with each firm stroke, giving little or no heed to the rampant ruckus behind him.  Even Gimli, who was not known for an abiding interest in horses, had to admire the beast.  Like his master, Maethor carried not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him, sleek and well-muscled, obviously trained in many disciplines.  The fact that this made him a beautiful thing was only of secondary importance. 

Content not to be noticed until the whole outlandish thing was concluded, Gimli was somewhat surprised when Thranduil glanced aside to him with what could almost have been the beginnings of a smile, still currying wet tangles out of the silken black tail.  He was still curious, it seemed, carefully preparing his final opinion, and unconcerned if the object of his interest was aware of his scrutiny.  “You realize, of course,” he said, with even a glint of wry humor in his eyes, “that this is but an exercise in futility.”

“My lord?”

Thranduil shook his head as if to say he would understand in time, and returned to his grooming.  “Do you mind my company, Gimli?” he asked then, taking him at unawares.

“No,” he said immediately, only to wonder that such an answer had come so quickly and surely from his mouth.  Yet he admitted it was true, little though he would have believed it only two days ago.  Ordinarily such a question would have been justified the other way round, for it was Thranduil who was empowered to crack the whip here.  Of what concern were Dwarvish sensibilities to him, much less individual preference?  But he could see Thranduil was pleased with his answer, recognizing that it had been inspired by neither intimidation nor the obscure evil of political flattery. 

“I am pleased to hear it,” he said, running the smoothed tail through his fingers.  “That simple word from you ultimately says more than any other could.”  He looked up and lay a strong but fond hand on Maethor’s rump.  “Like a horse, you are no flatterer; the noble beast will throw a king as soon as his groom.” 

Gimli found his lurking grin a bit contagious.  He could not recall having been compared to a horse before, but it seemed complimentary in the circumstances.  Legolas’ father had a talent for saying nice things in strange ways.  Thranduil dealt Maethor a gentle slap on the rump, the massive beast trotting away into the field with a glad squeal to join several other loosed mounts where he immediately sank to his knees in the grass and began rolling, effectively nullifying all the work Thranduil had put into his grooming.  

The Elvenking returned to the water, sitting contentedly across from Gimli against another out-thrust rock in the shallows, letting the current sweep past him.  At that moment he was strangely no less a king than before, even though stripped of his regalia and sitting in the river like a dog in the height of summer. 

But idyllic as it was, it could not last.  Another crashing, splashing crowd rounded the bend, unwittingly drenching Gimli ere he could move and inspiring an indignant outburst from Thranduil, though the edge in his voice was blunted with laughter.  “Legolas!” he shouted in complaint, drawing himself up against the rock behind him to avoid the onrush of flying hooves and white water.  “Do you wish to crush me?”

That brought them to a quick halt, agitating the water further.  Gimli sputtered and cleared his eyes, only to hear another bright peal of laughter.  “Something tells me you are all wet, friend Gimli!” came Calenmir’s voice.

“Nor is he the only one,” Thranduil sedately reminded them from his corner in the shallows, the sheen on his hair dulled again by the unsolicited deluge, for he had been wholly drowned in the last swell of a wave.  He looked like a wet cat, but somehow regal still. 

“My apologies, father,” Legolas offered from Arod’s sodden back, valiantly biting back whatever urge to laugh had come upon him.  “I did not see you there.  And Gimli . . .”  Here he did sputter despite his best efforts to the contrary.  “Yes, I am afraid you are all wet!”

It hardly mattered, for every one of them was wet.  Luinar declined to comment, though he seemed grimly satisfied with the mishap visited upon the Dwarf.  He and Calenmir went on with their apologies to their King, who carelessly waved them away.  Legolas dismounted into the river and set Arod loose to tramp to the shore, who only showered them again as he shook the clinging water from his silver coat before joining his comrades afield.

Wordlessly, Thranduil wiped a trailing droplet from his brow, forgiving the foreign horse his uncouth manner and enduring the last indignity in magnanimous silence. 

Legolas crouched there in a position midway between his father and Gimli, comfortably heedless of the onward flow of the river about his waist.  “I am sorry,” he said at last with smile as Gimli wrung out his beard.

“Oh, never mind it,” Gimli.  “I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later.”  In truth it was not so humiliating as it would have been had Thranduil not suffered the same.  As it was, it seemed the Elvenking had fared worse than he, though better prepared.  This was certainly not how he had ever imagined keeping the company of the Green Wolf, which ranked among the more flattering epithets attributed him in certain Dwarvish circles.  The White Devil was another, the Fox, that Incubus of the Wood, and some other less creative epithets he would just as soon forget now.  

With Legolas and Thranduil engaged for a moment in soft conversation for their ears only, a dark and subtle motion caught his eye just beneath the shimmering surface of the water.  Feeling it slip cold and smooth around his feet, he knew well what it was.  Intrigued, Gimli reached down to snatch it as it passed, careful to take the long reptilian ribbon just behind the head.  The sunlight gleamed brilliantly upon its dark writhing back as he brought it up to curl around his wrist like living rope, forked tongue flicking in and out erratically.

Legolas turned with a short yelp.  “Gimli, what have you – ?”

With an abrupt roar of disturbed water, Thranduil sprang clear of the river and had his feet under him in a feral crouch upon the bank.

“Be still, father,” Legolas admonished, though he seemed just a bit put off by the slithery creature as well.  “You will disturb him.”

“I disturb him!” Thranduil returned incredulously, obviously with no intention of reentering snake-infested waters. 

Gimli laughed wryly, enjoying some unexpected pleasure at the Elvenking’s expense.  Quite unintentionally, it seemed he had stumbled upon Thranduil’s weak point.  He knew he shouldn’t, but somehow he just could not resist letting his captive slither purposefully from one arm to the other, just to make that great feline warrior squirm.  

Thranduil stood, regaining somewhat of his ruffled dignity.  “Gimli,” he said at last, “when at last you have done playing with that, I have something I would discuss with you.  You and your kin may yet be of some use to us.”

“Certainly, my lord,” Gimli said, his curiosity piqued.  “I shall listen if you would speak your desire.”

“Speak?” Thranduil asked.  “Come; I shall show you.”

When all of them were dressed again, Gimli followed as Thranduil led him into the echoing deep places of his halls.  Here the torchlight danced brightly across the walls, bare and unadorned in comparison to the great corridors above.  The bustling crowd of silvan servants and other assorted members of the household parted at once, practically falling over themselves to make way for their King.  It was not particularly unusual to see Thranduil descend to their levels, but this was different. 

“There,” he said at last, stopping at the riverside and pointing down the length of the outbound cavern.  “The war left our portcullis in some need of repair.”

Legolas hissed, for he had not been down since his return.  “Gah!  What foul craft of Orodruin was this?  The same that took the Deeping Wall, if at least my nose does not deceive me.”

Gimli did not know what it should have looked like, but he knew a mess when he saw one.  And even he could smell the acrid traces left from the blast.  He might have asked what portcullis Thranduil meant, for there was nothing discernible left.  The rubble had been built up into an impromptu gate with room enough to allow the river its course, but if his father’s tales be true, such an immovable handicap must have wreaked havoc with their method of shipping.  The streaks of black had been scoured away as well as they might, but the faint stains of the blast still marred the walls, like echoes of the chaos gone before. 

For a time Gimli took his careful measure of the project, considering the work and logistics it would require.  Stonework and metallurgy of course, together with a new system of draw ropes.  The cavern itself must be shored up again.  There would be much involved, but still it was not in the end a difficult project.  Moreover, he was rather pleased with the thought of adorning Thranduil’s realm with a stamp of sturdy Dwarvishness. 

“Yes, my lord,” he said at last.  “If such is your wish, we of Erebor shall lend you our skill.  But,” he maintained, “every Dwarf has his price.”

Thranduil smiled, though the expression was now without warmth.  “So have I,” he said, producing an exquisite emerald the size of a plover’s egg, of a rare dark hue that seemed to reflect his eyes.  Appraising it in his own hand, Gimli saw that it had been skillfully cut so that if one looked into the face of it he would see within a six-pointed star.  It was no paltry gift, and an admirable first payment. 

Masked in the guise of cold-blooded business, Thranduil was offering Erebor his renewed favor.  And here Gimli felt he had been employed to forge more than just gates. 

One foundation of the bridge had been rebuilt.  It remained now for him to see the other laid.

It had appeared to be a productive day.  Suspicions were laid to rest, preliminary alliances commissioned, friendships confirmed.  But, as rose-colored as those steps seemed to be, Legolas soon realized they had only just scratched at the surface, for that evening he stood sullen and silent before a conclave of the innermost court of only the Lords and their sons in a safely sequestered chamber, doors shut and curtain drawn.  Gimli was the subject of their unrest, so Legolas bore the brunt in his stead.   He said not a word as the debate passed between the lords, feeling an indignant twinge of betrayal that they should still be arguing the case at all.  What in Elu’s name was so terribly wrong with Gimli? 

For once, Thranduil was not directly responsible for this impromptu council.  Indeed, he seemed caught between his peers on either side.  He presided in silence, uncomfortably drumming his fingers on the carven arm of his throne as the principle debate was dominated by Lords Galadhmir and Anárion. 

“No,” the latter was saying adamantly.  “The hospitality due a guest is one thing, but we are not obliged to open all doors to him.  It is heedlessly unwise to take a potential opponent so deeply into our confidence.  Have we any more than Legolas’ word as regards the character of this Gimli?”

“Is that not enough?” Calenmir protested, though his father would have liked to shush him.  “When has Legolas ever failed in his trust?”

“The escape of a certain flat-footed wretch comes readily to mind,” Anárion said pointedly.  He was not known for a habitually sharp tongue, but as a remnant of the Fall of Gondolin he was acutely perceptive to any real or imagined vulnerability harbored complacently within the realm itself.  Naturally the escape of Gollum had particularly unnerved him, as it had them all.

“That was no fault of his!” Calenmir protested vehemently, suddenly on his feet, seeming to take greater offense than even Legolas did.

“Calenmir, sit,” Galadhmir commanded, pulling back on his sleeve.

“I must say, Thranduil, that I do not believe Anárion’s fears to be groundless,” Linhir ventured cautiously.  He appeared to be wavering, made wary by his unforgiving duties as seneschal, but unsure of the merit of his own initial disquiet as it gradually diminished.  Beside him, his son Luinar seemed to harbor no doubts of his own, arms crossed rather petulantly as though he had been told to keep quiet.  “We all know the value of the voice of experience.”

“Yes,” Galadhmir agreed with a touch of irony, “and it should be quite clear what may be expected for the callous slighting of Dwarves.  Or have the rest of us forgotten what befell Aran Thingol?”

Thranduil squirmed in his seat, perhaps considering upon just whose head such a blow would fall now.  

“For myself, I shall accept the word of my sister’s son as sufficient,” Galadhmir continued.  “He may have much yet to learn of the world beyond our wood, but he is not blind.  Nor were the members of Mithrandir’s Fellowship chosen for faithlessness.  I cannot speak for the others of his kin, but I hold Gimli to be trustworthy.  It would do us greater harm to spurn him.”

“Nothing is certain,” Anárion returned immovably, perhaps haunted in memory by the inscrutable face of Maeglin.  “You cannot know him any further than he wills.  So long as he remains, his presence within our halls is naught but a growing liability.”

“What would you have me do, then?” Thranduil demanded at last in frustrated exasperation, silencing them both.  “I have seen no guilt in him, and that is not to say I have not looked for it.  I have searched his soul as deeply as I dare, and indeed he suspects us, but one look at us secreted here will hold him blameless for that!”

Anárion drew himself up straighter, seeming at best rather disappointed in his King.  He had earned some of Legolas’ benign resentment, but at the same time he understood it was only Anárion’s jealous sense of security that was inspiring his dissent.  “Thranduil, such sentiments, especially on behalf of a nogoth, might easily be misinterpreted,” Anárion said grimly.  “One might suspect you were becoming rather fond of him yourself.”

“Forgive me if I am!”

In the stricken silence that followed, Legolas at last allowed a slow smile to creep across his face.  His  father was again the very vision of agonized indecision, one hand slapped over his eyes as he slouched wearily against the confines of his magisterial chair.  It was plain from his tone that he did not want to be fond of Gimli – that hairy, uncouth, endearing barbarian – but simply could not help it.

Luinar at last rolled his eyes in utter incredulity.  “Elbereth Gilthoniel!” he breathed, seeing even mighty Thranduil undone at his foundations.  “Will someone explain this madness to me?  I know no one values my opinion, but for pity’s sake voice your own!  Will you tell him?” he asked, giving his father’s shoulder a determined shove.  “Will you tell him what you were telling me last night, about how foolish he is?”

That brutally candid remark arrested the undivided attention of all present, Thranduil not least of all.  “Yes, Linhir,” he said, in the same calm and chilling tone that had unnerved many.  “Perhaps you would like to tell me to my face.” 

Linhir, meanwhile, seemed to regret having ever opened his mouth in the first place.  “As Anárion has observed,” he began deliberately, “I merely think it unwise to open our borders and sanctums to a son of Erebor without first being assured of mutual commitment from that quarter.  From a strictly political position, it smacks of willful capitulation in the face of a rival power.  It is not conducive to a strong public image.”

“I am not a statesman, Linhir,” Thranduil reiterated.  “I do not care what it looks like.  If I must suffer my son to go alone into that den of wolves that is Erebor, I shall not give them ready excuse to molest him by providing Glóin’s son with reason to complain against me.” 

His reasoning was unassailable from that standpoint.  Sacrifices of pride and perhaps of inviolability must be made to ensure amiable relations in the long run, as two wolves may forego a damaging clash with merely a proud sniff. 

But that was only if they could cuff their subordinates into submission.

“And Luinar,” Thranduil continued then, rounding sharply upon what he deemed a disruption waiting to happen, “you will cease your harassment of the Dwarf.  I cannot tell you how to think, but so long as you abide within my halls I can indeed tell you how to behave.  Anárion,” he turned, “your cautions have not fallen upon deaf ears.  Set your mind at rest, for neither have blind eyes fallen upon Gimli.  And now, if there are no further objections,” he sighed at last in a tone that clearly said he did not want to hear them if there were, “I have had quite enough of arguing this case.  Lord Gimli shall stay until he chooses to leave, and I stand by what I the conditions established yesterday.  Those who would challenge it will do so before me alone.  Otherwise, I want to hear nothing more of it.”

After those first few tumultuous days, time passed with few or no unfortunate incidents to mark them.  Still, Legolas knew that Gimli was patiently awaiting his return to Erebor.  He remembered how eager he had been to at last see his own homeland again, and had determined not to deprive Gimli of his own for much longer.  But he had kept him at least until today, for this was one day he would not wish to spend abroad, far from the landmarks and traditions that year after year had made it special.

He returned to his room now on this crisp autumn morning, bearing a carefully packed satchel on one arm.  He stopped a moment just inside the doorway, catching the faint smell of pipeweed in the air.  It had been a trying week for the Dwarf while surrounded by acutely sensitive noses.  No matter; they could endure another day or so, and then Gimli would be well on his way back to his own kind, a sobering thought for Legolas as he considered going with him.  The others were not thrilled with the idea, Calenmir, Anorrín, and Luinar.  That one had held his peace as ordered, but was still no friendlier to Gimli than he had ever been.  Legolas had long ceased trying to bridge the chasm between them, resolved to let the matter run its due course.  Luinar was a creature of extremes, he knew; and it would not surprise him if in another ten years or so, Luinar Linhirion would be one of Lord Gimli’s most pugnacious defenders.    

He turned to the wardrobe to quickly snatch a loose cloak before leaving.  A tentative chill was in the air outside.  But as he pulled open the door he was greeted by a great billowing cloud of smoke.  

“Ai!” he yelped, half in surprise and half in complaint, drawing back to cough.  “Gimli!  I can forgive your smoking in my room, but please,not in my clothes closet!”

“Thought you were your father,” Gimli apologized stiffly, relaxing his quick defensive posture.  Regardless of the understanding between them, the fear of Thranduil was still upon him. 

“Well, come out, for pity’s sake,” Legolas insisted, standing clear, “lest you die for want of clean air.”

“It is a bit thick, isn’t it?” the Dwarf admitted, stepping out.

“Yes,” Legolas agreed dismally, wondering if he might borrow a change of clothes from Calenmir until his were rescued.  He was known to endure many things, but never would he go about scented like a Dúnadan.  In any event, he was relieved to see that the cloak he sought had not been inside after all, but rather was left folded neatly in a chair by the capable hand of Erelas.  He would have to thank him later for that timely curtail of duty, probably not what he would have expected for it.

“Come, Gimli,” he said, pulling the green mantle over his shoulders. “Daylight beckons, and there is still something else I would show you.”

Gimli followed as Legolas led the way through the winding forest paths.  The Elf seemed to find simple pleasure in the silent company of the trees, so he did not interrupt.  The first nip of frost had come, and the great masses of leaves above had all begun shifting their colors, at length putting aside their spring and summer green for the rich hues of autumn.  There was the subdued racket of chittering squirrels and flitting birds, the instinctive autumn rush of nature effecting a strange calm on those who did not share their cares. 

At last after a long wandering trail they emerged into a sizable clearing where many a carefully pruned rosebush grew, all of a dark red.  The mounds they grew upon, Gimli noted again, were unsettlingly regular, those at the fringes fresher than others.  A great beech tree grew in the center of the field, welcoming the sun upon its changing leaves, strangely alone in the midst of the petite bushes standing in concentric rank upon rank around it.  It was a bright sun with a thinning but tenacious warmth, as though defying the onset of winter.  Gimli knew not rightly what this place was, but he had an instinctive idea.  A silence lay over it, the distinctive silence of the dead. 

“This is the Hírildan,” Legolas explained as they moved through the flowering sentinels.  “The Ladies’ Vale.  Here lie all the fair roses of Lasgalen fallen in defense of their home while their warriors met their foes beyond beneath the trees.”  As he passed, his fingers brushed some of the younger shrubs, planted upon still tall mounds.  “As I feared, their ranks have grown.”

Soon surmising that they were headed for the central tree, Gimli was content to hold his peace.  It was indeed a very Elvish tribute, so unlike the burials of Dwarvish dead.  There were no slabs of stone to mark the graves, no names carven in deep imperishable runes.  Merely a rosebush.  But, knowing Elves as he did now, he realized they might indeed rest easier knowing they left their bones in the slow embrace of living roots rather than entombed in unfeeling stone.  He could not confess to understand it, but he could see it.  And indeed it seemed fitting to honor thus the fallen flower of womanhood, lest their sacrifice be forgotten.  All a tomb in the heart of a mountain needed was a reverent dusting over the years; these memorials must be tended with care, in their own fair and silent way demanding the recognition and remembrance due them, the wives, mothers, and daughters of Lasgalen. 

Reaching at last the filtered shade of the beech tree, Legolas lay a fond but solemn hand to the smooth bark before turning to sit in the lap of its great roots.  "My father planted this tree,” he said quietly, as Gimli seated himself near, “over my mother's grave.  He would sooner sacrifice the great groves at his very gates than see this one come to harm.”

In that Gimli found reason for the prickle that traversed his spine as he leaned against the trunk, knowing it bore the full and vibrant blessing of the Elvenking.  He suddenly felt as wary as one who dares to touch dragon treasure, even if Legolas seemed not to mind him sitting against it.  But certainly he would refrain from picking at the bark. 

Calmly, Legolas opened the satchel he had brought with him and, brought out a lapful of pale yellow roses in full bloom.  Taking them in hand he began to skillfully plait them into a chaplet worthy an Elven-queen.  “These were her roses,” he said absently with a hint of a smile, talking to himself as much as to Gimli.  “Thranduil has maintained the line unbroken despite the ravages of the war.  Every year on this day he still cuts a bouquet for her, and I bring them here even if she cannot see.”  He paused a moment to select another blossom.  “This is my begetting day,” he said at last, by the way.

“You mean birth day?”

“It matters not, for often with us it is the same,” Legolas explained.  “But to me it seems foolish to celebrate that which is not rightly the beginning.  My first year of life was no less precious merely because I had not yet seen the sun.”

Gimli realized then he had never given much thought to Legolas’ mother.  His father had seemed enough to keep in mind.  But of course he had to have one.  He remembered Lórien, and wondered again what Lasgalen had been before Mirkwood.  Had it been happier then, without the lingering scars of war?  Had it prospered beneath the rule of a strong and just king, a fair queen at his side and a bright prince reared between them?  How full of promise the future must have seemed then.

Now he looked out over a nigh countless host of blood-red rosebushes, somehow terrible for their benign beauty in commemoration of atrocity.  He knew and had seen Dwarvish women in battle, for that strength was in their blood.  But it still unsettled him to imagine Elven ladies valiantly wielding bow and blade only to be brutally maimed and hewn down by orcs.  Yes, life was beautiful, but tragically so.  Not for nothing did roses bear thorns. 

And in regard to thorns, he glanced aside and saw that Legolas had begun to bleed in reward for his efforts, but seemed to take no notice.  A familiar Dwarvish insult rose again in his mind, something about Elves and their lily-white hands, creatures who shrank from pain.  How often had he repeated it?

“How is Lasgalen treating you?” Legolas asked, happily unaware of the other’s thoughts.

“Oh,” Gimli said with a noncommittal sigh, twiddling a fallen twig, “I must admit their tolerance is admirable, if somewhat strained.”

Legolas nodded, winding yet another long stem through the burgeoning crown of pale golden roses.  “We can only expect so much so soon,” he said.  “Tomorrow, if it please you, we shall prepare our mission to Erebor.”

“Oh, yes?” Gimli asked, bushy brows lifting in suppressed delight.  “Grand!”  Yet, he realized he would miss Thranduil when he had gone, something that was certainly strange enough.  What an endearing old firebrand he had turned out to be!  He and Glóin might have been the best of friends under other circumstances; they seemed somehow cut from the same cloth, those two.  But still, introducing Legolas would be quite an ambitious bite for him to chew as it was.

“Legolas, just look at your hands,” he admonished, as he would have scolded a careless child for hurting himself.

“It is no matter,” the Elf insisted, twisting the last errant stem into place.  “What is an expression of love if for it we make no sacrifice?”  He proudly examined his handiwork, mindful not to stain the delicate petals with his blood.

“Splendid,” Gimli said.  He had meant only to humor him, but he had to admit it was a lovely bit of work.  

Legolas hung it upon a low branch, a fair token very like the rings of wildflowers left by the children of Dale for the nymphs they imagined lived in the wells.  Gimli was strongly inspired to craft something now for his own mother, but could not see the brusque Lady Káli crowned with flowers of any sort.  He would think of something.

That afternoon, Legolas found his father in the wooded alcove just beyond the palace grounds, seated easily in the low slung branches of a rambling willow, watching a heron wade deliberately through the water.  He was clad in a simple but royal tunic of scarlet, a brilliant hue the silvan craftsmen prided themselves upon and reserved only for their King.  The gentle bite in the brisk air seemed not to concern him; he had endured many a harder winter than this would be.  He had endured many things.

Legolas approached and leapt into the branches with him.  “Are you pleased, father?” he asked then, seeking his honest opinion, though it was not often he was given anything else.  So much had come between them so quickly: the matter of Gimli, the stirring of the Sea, the abrupt end of Greenwood as they had known it and the beginning of a new era.  Now he would leave him for Erebor.  What was passing through his mind? 

Thranduil sighed, seeming loath at first to answer.  “We both know what it is to be lonely, Legolas.  Do not expect me to be pleased at the prospect of being lonely again.”

“I shall not be going all at once,” Legolas assured him, producing a folded parchment from his sleeve.  He had merely waited for the right time to bring this to his father’s attention, fearing to ask too much of him at once.  Marked plainly with the seal of Elessar, it was the charter from Aragorn and Faramir detailing the grant of his fiefdom in Ithilien.  Thranduil reached back and gently snatched it from him with the deliberate authority of sovereign fatherhood, breaking it open to let his keen eyes wander over the closely written page. 

“So, Aragorn wants you to be a prince of Ithilien, does he?”  He seemed to consider the idea, weighing the advantages in his mind.  It was asking much now to send his heir abroad for a considerable length of time – fifty, a hundred years of Men – beyond the reaches of his influence.  All through the past centuries he had trained and groomed him for the role, but now at last the time came for him to release him in the hopes that his fledgling had taken his lessons to heart and knew how to fly, a difficult pass for every parent.  There in the stream, the heron took wing just at that moment in poignant illustration.  “Well,” he sighed at last, “at least Gondor is not the ends of the earth.” 

“I have your blessing them?” Legolas asked eagerly, leaning over to look his father in the eye.

“This is your endeavor, Legolas,” Thranduil insisted, pointedly tapping the edge of the folded paper against his son’s brow above.  “If you wish to take it upon yourself, so be it.  But I must insist upon a renegotiation of these terms."

Thranduil hitched himself up into a more dignified posture on his perch.  Then he seemed to remember a question he had long harbored but left unasked.  “Pardon your father’s ignorance,” he said evenly, “but what, pray tell, is the Deeping Wall?” 

“Oh. The Deeping Wall was the defense of the fortress of the Rohirrim.  It was breached in the same way I assume the cellars were breached here.  But that devilry was the work of Saruman.”

Thranduil nodded solemnly, his gaze distant.  “So Saruman the White turned traitor, did he?” he mused grimly, and with some measure of unholy satisfaction.  “I truly am not surprised.  I had heard rumor of that, but they never tell me anything.”

“He insisted he was ‘Saruman of the Many Colours’,” Legolas corrected, in a sarcastically prim voice.  “He prefers to go about now in all the hues of the rainbow.”

Thranduil snorted.  “That sounds ridiculous,” he said with a severe bark of a laugh.  “Always will a fool sacrifice tradition to a meaningless whim.” 

Legolas knew his father had never loved that wizard.  Mithrandir he endured, and Radagast he favored, but Curunir had wasted no time earning his ire.  He remembered the first White Council his father had attended, for he was not regularly invited to such.  Thranduil had returned home in a high royal pique, and only later did Legolas hear that Saruman had been less than complimentary.  It was safe to say that Thranduil had hated him ever since.  He wondered what had become of the turncoat, released prematurely by Fangorn.  Had he crawled into a hole somewhere to brood upon his wounds?       

“Gimli wishes to return to his own home,” he said then, tactfully changing the subject to reflect more pressing matters.  “I have promised that we should begin our preparations tomorrow.”

“Very well.”

The brevity of his consent was somehow uncomfortable, as though he was not pleased but saw no point in objecting.  Legolas had the unpleasant realization that he was growing apart from him, which he in truth had no wish to do.  “I shall miss you, father,” he offered. 

“No more than I shall miss you,” Thranduil said, turning to him with the gleam of sincerity in his eyes.  “Go where you will, Legolas; and may the Sun shine on your path.  But tread with caution, I beg you.  You have always been a bright boy, but you have been somewhat sheltered here.  There are still those in the world who do not hold the tenets of honor in such high esteem as we, and do not recognize what should remain inviolable.  Reserve your trust for those who earn it, and do not at once assume the best of all.  The Long War is ended, but a longer one rages on, just as it has through all the ages – more subtle, but no less destructive.  Friendship or no, do not lower your guard in its face.”

“Heart of the hawk, wings of the dove,” Legolas said, repeating the well-learned maxim.

“Exactly,” Thranduil nodded, winding a slender leaf round his finger.  “Give them no cause for offense if at all possible, but do not let them influence you, and never sacrifice integrity to convenience.  Call a spade a spade if they give you no other way.  Better to fall to blade or shaft than to die the slow death corruption brings.  And I have seen both.”

“I know you have.”  Legolas smiled, for he had known his father would not let him go without a last instruction in the narrow paths of honorable political relations.  He had heard it all before, many times.  “Have no fears for me.  I will manage.”

“Manage,” Thranduil repeated with a touch of incredulity.  “I pray you do.  It is not for nothing that never has an Elf ventured into Erebor alone.  You do know what you are doing?”

“Rest assured, I have given the matter much thought in the past days,” Legolas said calmly.  “And my mind is set.”

Thranduil seemed to have to swallow that with an effort.  Plainly his mind was set otherwise.  “So be it,” he said at last, resignedly.  “But let it be said here and now that should any harm befall you at Dwarvish hands, the Mountain shall rue it before the end.”

The palace again seethed with restrained activity and expectation, for Thranduil’s Elves were now prepared to see their prince off again.  It seemed to their minds that he was gone far too often of late, enamored by lands that were once of little concern to them.  Of course, the fact that he was on his way to Erebor did not pacify them at all.

Legolas was well aware of the general opinion regarding his broadened horizons, but he tactfully did not address it.  They would grow used to it in time, as they did with everything else.  Those who could not adapt to a changing world were those who did not survive the long years of Mirkwood.  Indeed, he was doing a bit of adapting himself.

He was not entirely pleased with the ceremony his father had insisted go with him, no less than four guards to shadow him in irreproachable uniform, adding a royal flair as well as a royal annoyance.  It was not that he did not appreciate them, but on the whole he thought he would be better able to get along among strangers if he did not seem to bring his own army with him.  Four jealous Lasgalenath were match enough for many.  Never was Thranduil given to pure ostentation, so anyone he would deem worthy of such a charge as this would be a warrior of the highest degree.  Legolas would take them along, but he did not have to tell anyone until push came to shove that he intended to shed them in Dale.  This embassy he would manage his own way.

In his room, Gimli was taking final inventory of all he had brought, which was not much.  With such a meager listing, he need not worry about forgetting anything.  True to his word, Legolas had long ago returned his old clothes to him, laundered and mended.  A rather fastidious bunch, these Elves.  Still, Legolas would doubtless be arrayed as befitted his station if he was to be fulfilling diplomatic errands for Thranduil along the way, and it was with a bit of regret that he resigned himself to look still like a returning veteran in the company of a prince.

There came a quick rap on his door, which was closed, something he had noticed was uncommon in this place.  Elves seemed to dislike shutting themselves in anywhere.  “Come in!” he called gruffly.

“Thank you, master Gimli,” Erelas said as he let himself inside, a carefully wrapped bundle under one arm.  “My Lord Legolas begs your pardon that he is unable to see these to you himself, but he is presently at the mercy of the King.”

Gimli gave a wry laugh at the perceived dry humor, and Erelas offered a bit of a smile.  “In any case, he prays you will find these more agreeable than you did the first, and that you will accept them in good faith.  For he insists that it is most improper for a worthy lord such as Uzbad Gimli Glóinûl to return home from victory with naught to herald him.”

Hearing Dwarvish honors come from the mouth of an Elf of Mirkwood was not the first surprise he had taken here, but certainly one of the more unimagined.  Erelas left him to discover the contents of the package alone, thoughtfully closing the door after him in accord with their guest’s noted preference. 

Pulling loose the pale strings, Gimli revealed a neatly folded suit of clothes worthy a Dwarvish prince, made entirely of Elvish materials.  He marveled at it for a moment before daring even to touch it, all of soft forest green, deep burgundy and a dark pine brown, embellished with an angular Dwarvish design in silver embroidery.  There was even a smart brown cap to go with it.

Some time later, Gimli again stood before the crystal mirror, infinitely more satisfied.  Legolas, or whomsoever he had appointed to oversee the project, had carefully studied the one Dwarvish tunic in the whole of Lasgalen ere they returned it, faithfully reproducing the particular style in accord with their own touches.  The resulting marriage of form and substance eloquently evoked a Dwarvish lord who had adapted himself to an Elvish realm, which was precisely what he was.  Unprecedented, perhaps, but appropriate.  The gold chain of Legolas’ gifting lay proudly upon his shoulders, the little pouch at his belt containing the Lady’s hair and Thranduil’s emerald.  It had been quite a journey thus far. 

The velvet cap was something new to him, as it seemed the tailors had been at a bit of a loss, having only vague ideas of what sort of thing Dwarves would wear besides their helmets.  Feeling bold, Gimli put it on his head at a rakish angle, strangely pleased by it.  There was no telling how those of the Mountain would see it, but he did not care.  He liked it. 

He packed the rest of his accouterments, his clothes and his armor, grabbing his axes and tucking his helmet under his arm.  Time at last to head for home.

Since the outlet from Thranduil’s cellars was still out of commission – something Gimli looked forward to rectifying – their flotilla of three swift little boats was being prepared beside the bridge outside.  These were all stained a rich dark brown, the subdued color typical of Mirkwood.  Somewhat reluctantly, Gimli surrendered his weapons and baggage to one of the Elves bustling about there, who set them neatly in the foremost of the three, that one sporting highlights of silver over the bow.

“Ah, Gimli!  Eager to be going?"

Turning, Gimli met again a grinning Legolas, but it was not that which caught him off his guard for a moment.  In all practical regards the Elf was arrayed exactly as he was, in the same royal green and red and brown with silver tracery.  But his was distinctly elvish in cut, adorned with silver trails of ivy rather than abstract designs.  His attendants were in fact dressed like him as well, but sans all the royal embellishments and silver heraldry.  Rather one could say it was Legolas who was clad like them.  

Everything about Mirkwood was practical, Gimli realized again, so it should not surprise him that a prince should assume the same dress as his guard, something that still afforded him complete freedom of movement.  Originally it was perhaps a scheme to afford the prince marginal anonymity amid his guard lest he present too obvious a target, but one look owned Legolas by far the most striking among them, rendering the half-hearted camouflage of little value.  A quick glance assured Gimli that none of them were bearing bow and arrow, but all of them openly wore long knives at their belts.  

Ready to be cross at being tricked into uniform, Gimli stopped.  Wait – perhaps this was yet another subtle play of Legolas’, for it may seem now to the eyes of the Mountain that the Elvish retainers waited upon him!  A strange but amusing thought.

“Afford me your patience for but a few moments more,” Legolas said, “and then we shall be off.  If I am not mistaken, father should – ”

A call was given for attention, and all the Elves at the riverside turned at once.  

“Legolas,” Thranduil began, sifting through the folded papers in his hand.  “This one for Esgaroth, this for Bard of Dale, and this,” he said, handing the impressively sealed and majestically beribboned salutations to his son, “for Thorin of Erebor.  Mind you do not confuse them.”

Legolas gave his father a withering glance as he snatched the three letters into his own hands.  “I can read well enough.  I have been doing it for years.” 

Something else Gimli only just noticed was that Legolas had plaited Galadriel’s white ribbon into his hair, as an elvish knight would wear such a token from a lady.  For a moment he was almost jealous, but a Dwarf with a ribbon would be a ridiculous thing.

“Furthermore,” Thranduil continued, “you may present these to Thorin Stonehelm, and assure him of the continued friendship of the Wood in both peace and peril.”

Legolas sighed, as though reciting a weary litany, accepting the dark velvet sack he was given.  “Yes, I have made the speech before.”

“Yes, but take care not to sound too enthusiastic about it all,” Thranduil insisted with a wry smile.  “The last time I sent you to Esgaroth you seemed so accommodating that they were soon at my feet asking for access to my treasuries.  And, for love of the Belain, do not ask them if there is aught we may do for them!  That is, unless you would like to finance the doings of a fisherman’s guild and repairs for the pier a second time.”

“Not especially,” Legolas confided, as Calenmir stifled an infectious laugh. 

“I thought not.”  Thranduil paused for a moment with an affectionate hand upon Legolas’ shoulder.  "Be wary, be safe, and may the Belain go with you."

"I shall not forget," Legolas returned in the same earnest tone.  "I shall be back before you notice I am gone."

An order was given by someone; the red and green vested guards took their places in their own boats and manned the oars.  Legolas pulled away from his father and went to take his own before he could hesitate, but even Gimli saw it was not without an effort.  He followed, climbing in at the bow as Legolas directed.  Thranduil stood on the bank, looking majestic as ever, even if rather lonely.  Doubtless he would be wracked with worry before they were even out of sight.

The Elves gathered at the riverside began a militant chorus as the three boats cast away into the swift eastward flow, augmented by the firm strokes of the rowers.  Legolas paused for one last look behind, letting their craft drift on its own for a moment.  But after the last silent farewells, he turned back to the task at hand and took a firm lead as was his place, their prow cutting through the dark water like a blade.

The last stage of their monumental journey together had begun, the last great uphill climb.  Last, but most certainly not least.

With home behind them, Legolas forged ahead with tireless strokes, riding the eastward flow of the Forest River.  It was not a great distance to Esgaroth; indeed at this rate they could be there by nightfall if they made no delay.  He knew these waters like the back of his hand, though Gimli seemed to doubt that.  The Dwarf was obviously ill at ease as they navigated the rushing rapids, though with little incident.

“Was it only concern for Arod that convinced you to take to boating?” Gimli demanded testily after riding a swift stomach-fluttering dip in the current.

“Not only,” Legolas assured him over the muted roar of the river, guiding their boat with deft hands.  “You may not believe it, but even an Elf may grow horse-sore with time.  And in any case, this was the swifter route.  Nor would I have the gall to make you ride double unto the very threshold of the Mountain.  Honestly, my friend, what do you take me for?”

It was a swift but rather monotonous trip downriver.  With an occasional glance behind, Legolas assured himself the others were still following admirably, Faenon and Nibenon, Beriorchan and Dorthaer.  That last one he would need to consider carefully; appointed by Thranduil, he would not be keen to stay behind in Dale when Legolas would wish him to.  He had been the commander of the royal guard since the days of Oropher, and would not be dismissed easily.  Their eyes met now, and Legolas knew very well that Dorthaer already suspected him.

As planned, the luminous contours of Esgaroth glowed before them in the dark of evening twilight, the city lights reflecting off the shimmering water below.  There they spent a restful night at the hospitality of the Master and his household, who were always willing to accept the Elves when they came.  Those people would be ever grateful to Thranduil and his kin for their succor after the ruin wrought by the dragon, if indeed they did not fairly idolize them.  Legolas did not forget his father’s errands, and saw that his message was dutifully delivered ere they left the city behind.

The clear dawn sun found them on their way again, but this time pushing north to Dale against the current.  It was a more strenuous test of strength and stamina than the day before had been, the river itself against them, but it was nothing five of Thranduil’s Elves were unequal to.  Legolas maintained an almost grueling pace, the silver highlights flashing on his sleeves, driven by an impatience he could not explain adequately even to himself.  He rightly should be dreading the encounter looming ahead, but procrastination had never gained him anything. 

The wind from the north had assumed a definite chill as autumn came on.  It would not be long before the mountaintops saw snow again.  Gimli was dozing contentedly against their packs in front at Legolas’ feet, for they had woken him rather early.  Legolas slowed for a time, his arms burning with fatigue after several hours of incessant rowing.  He could hear the others follow suit behind, gratefully accepting the chance to relax their headlong plunge, for everything of flesh and blood tires eventually.  Erebor could be seen on the horizon, plain as day though it was far yet.  Fixing his eyes upon it, Legolas could only wonder what awaited him beneath that craggy mass of ancient grey stone.  A den of wolves, Thranduil had called it.  A den of Dwarves, certainly, but which was more perilous seemed difficult to say. 

Resolutely they pressed on, hour after hour, three sharp bows cutting through their flowing path as the river guided them north until it turned within sight of Ravenhill, the southern spur of Erebor itself.  That place Legolas remembered well.  Now they passed through the valley that seemed the lap, as it were, of the Mountain.  At long last they sighted the riverside piers and boathouses of the Dale men, a mere league from Erebor’s Gate.

“Legolas!” exclaimed King Bard II, forgetting himself for a moment as he rose from his throne to greet his guest.  The court was all but empty except for them, something Legolas was admittedly rather glad to see, for he had already been spectacle enough.  “Well met, and welcome!  I understand you spent the war in the South.”

“I did, my lord,” Legolas affirmed, accepting the glad comradely embrace as between princes.  He had had little time to do much else besides thrust a silver circlet onto his brow.  His father had been adamant on that point.  “We have returned now, my companion Gimli and I.”

“Ah, yes, the son of Glóin,” Bard said, recognizing him.  Dorthaer and his following had remained at the door, but still well within sight of their charge, at strict and silent attention even as they made an effort not to crowd Bard’s own guard.  “Hail, Gimli Elf-friend!  You have greater courage than many, for not all wars are waged on the battlefield.”  At that Bard turned back to face Legolas, a smile younger than his years lighting his face.  “Now all realms reclaim their heirs,” he said.  “The Greenwood would have been bleaker without you, my friend, though Thranduil has not seen fit to relinquish his reign yet, and may the Valar bless him for it.  Here am I now in the throne of my father.”  He shrugged in gesture of self-evident truth.  “Somehow I did not think the day would never come.”

“I did,” Legolas said.  “Even when I knew you as a boy, I knew the day would come in its own time.  All too soon to my eyes, when I remember the face of your father’s grandfather and the rebuilding we wrought together.”

“Yes,” Bard said, turning to invite his guests up to the dais where the thrones stood in stately array.  “The first Bard is gone now many years, but here is the second.  And Dale rebuilds again.”

There came a rush of restrained footsteps in the side corridor, a clear echo in these halls of whitened stone.  “Mae govannen, Ernil Thranduilion!” began Brand, Bard’s eldest and heir.  “Too long has it been since last I saw you!”

“Three years,” Legolas concurred.  “And it was enough to make a man of you, I see.”  Brand beamed at the compliment.  He was become a strapping young prince, a worthy scion of Bard the Bowman’s line.  “As it was also enough to make a woman of the fair little sprite I remember,” he said, turning to Bard’s daughter Emeldir, sending her into unspoken transports.  “A tree may take on raiment of blossoms in a matter of days, my lady, and the passing years have done you no disservice.” 

“Neither have they to you, my lord,” she returned with a graceful dip that pooled her pale gown on the floor, her eyes aglow like stars. 

Behind them, their mother the Queen had entered, and walking with her was the youngest addition to their burgeoning family, a winsome child with autumn flowers plaited into her auburn hair.  Legolas felt a new smile spread unbidden across his face, for children were a fascination for him.  There were too few among his own people.  Wide eyes of summer blue met his own, bright with innocence and also the endearing but often terrible precocity of youth. 

“Ríel,” her father said,  “show Prince Legolas and Lord Gimli that you know how to greet them properly.”

Regaining an affected poise, the regal manner of the adults reflected almost in jest by this diminutive figure of a princess, Ríel dropped her gaze and offered to them a pair of the most adorable little curtsies Legolas had seen in far too long, her small shoes tapping on the polished stone. 

“You have been blessed in your family, my lord,” Legolas said, offering Bard a bright smile.  “But I am quite sure you have no need for me to tell you so.”

“That I have not,” Bard assured him.  “But if they will excuse us, we may speak more freely on the porch.”

When the pleasantries were concluded they parted ways, Legolas and Gimli following Bard while the Queen resumed charge of the rest of the family.  Except one.  “No, no!” Ríel protested vehemently, not at all pleased with this turn of events, pulling back on her mother’s arm.  “Negonas, Negonas!” 

“Ríel, for shame!” the Queen scolded the recalcitrant child, but Legolas turned and beckoned agreeably, making it difficult for the good Lady to refuse.  Ríel scampered after them eagerly despite the shade of disapproval that passed her father’s face, delighted to at last go where she liked.  Legolas knew he was undermining parental authority, but he could not help himself, almost as much enamored with the child as she was with him. 

“Sit where it pleases you, my lord,” Bard said, indicating the chairs arrayed on the porch.  The sunlit view of Erebor was magnificent.  Legolas did not see his guard for he did not bother to look, but he knew they shadowed him.  He seated himself across from Bard, and Ríel clambered uninvited into his lap.

“Legolas, you will spoil the child before the sun rises on the morrow!” Gimli reproached him.

“I spoil her?” he returned innocently as little fingers wound themselves in his hair.  “Nay, Gimli, I believe it is she who indulges me.”

Bard smiled at their banter.  “You are to both go on to the Mountain?” he inquired.  “Unprecedented, I must say.  I marvel that your good father sent with you no more than four guardsmen.”

“It was the very least he would allow me,” Legolas confided, though the persons in question were well within earshot.  “They have preformed admirably thus far, but we shall see.”

“You have naught to fear from Thorin, I am certain,” the king went on, glancing toward the looming majesty of the mountain as an autumn breeze swept through his raven hair.  “A fine son of Dáin is he, and a finer figure of King Under the Mountain than his namesake, if I dare to say.  Already he has proven himself a worthy neighbor, so that I have little to fear whilst we live in the shadow of his realm.  To be thrice allied with Thranduil in the Greenwood would only strengthen our defense when the ill will of years past is spent, feuds and quarrels forgotten.  The Easterlings would think twice ere they challenged the three kindreds again.”

“So we may hope,” Legolas said, speaking around the shifting form of Ríel in his lap.  “I go to lay the final foundations of that aspiration at Erebor’s roots.  Our – ”  Here he had to pause, as Ríel boldly pulled his circlet from his brow to give the gleaming bauble closer inspection; he paid her no mind, though her father was mortified.  “Our horizons have broadened far already from where they stood but last year, now that there at last is a King in Gondor.”

But Bard had momentarily forgotten their conversation, his face lit with a strange but pleasant expression.  “You were meant to be a father, my lord,” he said at last.  “I may not live to see them, but I know you will sire some wonderful children someday.”

It was a bittersweet thought, for Legolas could still remember a time when there was nothing he had wanted more.  He had often dreamt of his own offspring, a new generation to raise amid the imagined joys of fatherhood.  But that a lifetime ago, before Mirkwood.

“Perhaps,” he said at last.  “It seems I was not promised that happiness in this world, but perhaps in another.”

The moonlight streamed in bright beams through the open window, bathing him in an ethereal glow.  Erebor was softly transfigured as well, constant and unchanging in a shifting world.  It had stood before the Dwarves, and it would stand when the Dwarves were no more.  Tomorrow it would accept an Elf.

“My lord?” Dorthaer inquired from behind him, still veiled in shadow.  He had answered his summons only to be met with pensive silence, but had still waited a few patient moments ere he prompted him.  “You asked for me?”

“I did,” Legolas said, turning at last to face him, a firm air about him.  “It is my wish that you and the others do not follow when I go on to Erebor.”

“Alone?” Dorthaer demanded, incredulous but not entirely surprised.  He was a canny Elf, that one.

“Certainly not,” Legolas assured him, careful to let no trace of a smile touch his face as he turned back to the window.  “I shall not be without Gimli’s company.”

Dorthaer was by no means satisfied with that answer, and Legolas could feel his festering unrest as he was caught between two masters.  “With all due respect, my lord,” he persisted, “I must ask if you know what it is you are attempting.”

“If you mean, do I know what I shall meet within those walls of stone,” Legolas said, “no, I do not.  But I do know how I shall go to meet it, and that is without any more armed escort than Gimli had to protect him in our own realm – which is to say, none.” 

“That is hardly the same!”

“Why so?”  Legolas turned again, feeling that vibrant strain of his father within him coming to the fore, a part of him he must learn to stir more often.  “There is indeed honor among Nogothrim.  They shall not kill me outright any more than you would dare lay a blade to Gimli.  The danger here is not of life and limb, but rather of impressions and appearances.”

Dorthaer was silent a moment in obvious indecision.  “Very well, my lord,” he said at last.  “But ere you force me to neglect the charge I have been given, you might do well give thought to what fate you send us at the hands of your father the King.”

“The King need not know.”  Legolas felt his daring grow now as he deliberately countermanded his father’s command.  “Stay here and await my return.  We shall return to Greenwood together, and none shall be the wiser.  Understand me, Dorthaer,” he said.  “My hands are no freer than your own.  This is what I must do.” 

The next day dawned fair and clear, with the unmistakably crisp scent of autumn about it.  The sun shone down full upon the grassy plain, where could be seen two charmingly mismatched riders who had chosen to avoid the well-trodden road between Dale and Erebor.

Gimli shifted in the saddle, astride a patient and sturdy pony given him by a man of the city in payment of a standing debt owed to Glóin of the Mountain.  Providence had brought the name to his memory, and the matter was now settled to the satisfaction of all, but he still could not help but wonder how his father would consider the bargain.  In any event, she was a good solid little horse, strong enough to carry both her rider and their packs as she plodded along.  There seemed no hurry in her nature at all.

Legolas rode beside him, handsomely mounted on a young white stallion bearing subtle touches of silver reminiscent of Arod; a worthy beast hired from a boy of the Bardings.  Though somewhat awed by the Elven prince who had taken a fancy to his horse, the youth had relented only when Legolas had assured him the steed would be duly returned and given the utmost care in his charge.  Already the Elf seemed to regard the horse as the beloved pet it was, giving commands as soft as thistledown, not nearly so firm as Gimli thought he ought to be.

Growing somewhat apprehensive of the meeting to come, he glanced aside at his companion prancing about beside him, the horse made restless by the slow and steady pace of the pony.  Legolas certainly looked impressive enough in the same green and silver, burgundy and brown.  The Sereguren lay easily over his shoulders, gleaming sharply from a hundred silver leaf points that scattered light like dew.  That had doubtless been his father’s touch.  He looked indeed like something from the royal heart of Greenwood, and therefore Gimli realized he must look the same himself.  But that could very well be the least of his worries. 

At last they surmounted the gently rolling bluff that was the demarcation of the inmost valley of Erebor in the glorious light of the mid-morning sun.  The mountain loomed before them on almost every side, grand and inescapable, beautiful to Gimli’s eyes.  Word had gone before them, and already there could be seen movement about the gates.

“You go on, Gimli,” Legolas said, pulling the horse to a halt in the rippling grass as he observed what lay before them.  “I shall wait until they see fit to receive me.”

“Very well, lad,” Gimli consented, in no position to argue yet.  “Don’t go anywhere; I shan’t keep you waiting long.”  So saying, he beat his heels against his pony’s flanks and spurred her into a jag-paced trot, leaving Legolas to stand behind.

It took a bit of time, but as he neared the bridge over the winding river there came the brazen yell of trumpets and the throaty cheering of the guard and heralds, welcoming him home.  Then from the mouth of the gates there came a veritable outpouring of jolly faces, among them his own father and mother, and the entourage of King Thorin.

“Gimli!” Glóin clapped him on the back as he dismounted there among them.  “It has been too long!  Welcome home, welcome home!”

“Good day to you, son,” smiled Lady Káli as she swept him into a brief and fierce embrace.  “Shame upon you for tarrying so long.”  Gimli returned her endearments, though he wondered anew how Legolas would regard her.  At least she had condescended to wear a sort of gown for the occasion, a heavy thing of uncompromisingly practical cut, of a deep wine-red hue generously spangled with gold.   

“Well met again, son of Erebor!” King Thorin welcomed him with open arms, his gem-encrusted robes glinting in the sun as did the jeweled stays in his sandy-colored beard, perhaps the nearest to blond the Dwarves could boast.  “But how is it that you come dressed as a prince from war and victory in the South?  It is gratifying to see the honor King Elessar has shown to our kin.”

“It is, my lord,” Gimli concurred, bowing low before him, inwardly bracing himself.  “Elessar is a worthy friend.  But my path has led me through the Greenwood, and if I am nobly attired it is to the munificence of the Elvenking that gratitude is owed.” 

“So, Thranduil received you honorably!”  Thorin was smugly satisfied, twisting the end of his forked beard at his belt as he heard the account, though a murmur swept through the crowd and there were dark looks scattered about.  “That is grand, though indeed I expected no less of him.  Still, there are those among us who yet doubt the Elvenking’s goodwill,” he continued, raising his voice in general admonition.  The offenders knew who they were.  “Perhaps this will at last convince them otherwise.  But come, Gimli; you are wearied from your journey, and tonight these halls of stone shall resound with merriment.”

“Glad tidings, indeed, my lord,” Gimli said with another bow, for they were, but he was not yet in a position to appreciate them fully.  “But if I may be so bold, an honored friend and companion has accompanied me.  He waits yonder for leave to approach the King Under the Mountain.”

By now Lady Káli had already caught a glimpse of him.  “Who is that?” she asked with a terse grunt, slapping her son on the shoulder and pointing.

Gimli looked back and could indeed see Legolas as he waited atop the bluff, a distant but regal figure of windswept green and burgundy with flashing white, now and then touched by the brief glint of silver in the morning sun.  “He is Legolas, the son of Thranduil,” he said, “Elven-prince of the Greenwood.”

“What’s he want?” Glóin demanded gruffly before Thorin could say a word. 

“He doesn’t want anything,” Gimli returned.  “He comes out of courtesy.”

“And I shall receive him with such, and with the honor that is his due,” Thorin decreed, pursing his lips thoughtfully.  “Legolas is ever welcome in my halls, so long as memory endures of the goodwill that flourished between his house and that of Dáin my father.  It shall not be said of Thorin Stonehelm in the first years of his reign that he flouted the heir of Thranduil.  Let him approach.” 

Gimli turned and gave Legolas a wave.  His trust in Elvish eyesight was not in vain, for the Elf immediately sent his horse into a gliding gallop into the valley.  Gimli felt all eyes watch him come, particularly his parents and King Thorin, the muffled beat of approaching hooves now the only sound.  The expectation was palpable.

Only a short time had passed since he had left him there on the rise, but as Legolas drew nearer them and dismounted smoothly in the autumn winds, Gimli already knew there to be a change in him.  Gimli looked on him as his kinsmen did, and saw that Legolas was courteous as ever, but closed.  His expressive eyes were hard, inscrutable, his manner firmly demanding as much deference as he gave, carrying himself with the ageless dignity expected of a lord of the elder race.  A covert glimpse toward Thorin revealed that the Dwarvish King arched a strong brow in silent admiration, and so Gimli recognized the wisdom in this departure from the self-effacing Elf he had known.  Legolas would not fawn for their approval and thus earn only their contempt.  There would be no lasting peace but among equals.

The similarity of their attire was not lost upon anyone, least of all upon Glóin and Káli.  

“The warmest regards to you, Legolas son of Thranduil,” Thorin welcomed him with a half bow, a dignity that Legolas returned in perfect form.  “Well met and welcome.  Many have been the years since we were honored to receive the intrepid sovereigns of the Greenwood.  Regardless of the past friendship that has blessed relations between our realms, one of our own has been nobly attended by your house.  I place mine now at your disposal in payment of his debt.”

Solemn words, and grand, worthy a Dwarvish Lord.  Even so, they did not sit well with many present.  Gimli knew the animosity toward the Elves of Greenwood festered still beneath Thorin’s pleasantries.  Here was a prince – the flesh and blood of the infamous Elvenking himself – who had once condoned the capture and imprisonment of their kin.  Bonds did not sit lightly upon the Dwarvish race, and the memory burned. 

Legolas smiled, though the once innocent expression now manifested much of Thranduil’s vivid edge, his eyes the same fell gleam.  Gimli did not like it, this eerily complete throwback to the father.  And what was more, the ease with which he wore the guise was chilling.  “It is a debt we would freely forgive, my lord Thorin, for the pleasure it brought us,” he said.  “Gimli distinguished himself well in the shifting tides of war, and if all the defenders of Erebor are like to him, I do not wonder at your mastery of the hosts of the East.”

Thorin returned the regal smile, though Gimli could see he was positively beaming inside.  “And so the Fair Ones of the Wood remain fair-spoken as well,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt, his many rings sparkling green and red and blue, the same as the jeweled ax adorning his hip.  “Welcome to Erebor, my lord.  I rejoice to receive you.  You are already known to Lord Glóin, I presume.”        

“Our paths have crossed before, yes.”  Legolas turned his penetrating gaze upon him, and Gimli felt his father stiffen.  “It is my hope that in days to come they shall cross more often, and gladly.  The friendship of so venerable a lord is not to be spurned.”

Venerable.  Gimli appreciated his outspoken regard for the proud old dwarf, though Legolas was still uncounted years the elder.  He had not changed so much after all. 

“And beside him stands the Lady Káli, his capable wife.” 

Capable, yes.  But she was a firebrand, Gimli knew, and Glóin’s prejudices had rubbed off on her in their telling over the years.  He cringed inwardly to imagine the time Legolas would have taming her if he did not orchestrate his efforts effectively.  Already she had bristled on her husband’s behalf, drawing herself up as though in battle array.  Or could her hostility be inspired also by a strain of the same parental jealousy that had initially beset Thranduil?

“Well, Prince Legolas,” she said, in an unmistakably scornful tone, standing like a grizzled she-bear before an elegant stag, “this is indeed an honor.”

"Well met, Lady Káli of Erebor," Legolas replied with a gallant bow.  “The honor is mine.”

Even Gimli noticed that Legolas was deliberately laying on the charm a bit thicker than usual, his face as beautifully guileless as ever.  Lady Káli seemed to hesitate at that, as though the Elf’s gallantry had stricken her sarcasm cleanly across the knees.  She blinked after a long moment, staring rather ill-manneredly as though she were appraising a beautiful horse and yet could not account for his behavior or find fault where she looked for it.  She seemed undecided whether to apologize for her incivility or to scoff that he was too naive to understand her meaning.  Glóin still said nothing. 

“Come, come!” Thorin said at last, clapping his great hands for attention.  “Take charge of the horses!  Bring their effects!  Follow me, my lord; follow me.”

The King turned to lead his guest into his domain, his entourage following obediently even if not entirely satisfied.  Gimli saw Legolas pause a moment, glancing back to the rippling grass of the plain as if reluctant to abandon the world of sunlight.  Gimli met his gaze as he turned back, and lo and behold, it was only Legolas who stood there, the same he had known from Rivendell and beyond to the ends of the earth as it seemed.  The self-assured severity had gone, leaving only the kind-hearted friend he remembered, though he seemed rather nervous now.  Feeling a swell of the old amiable affection, Gimli beckoned encouragingly as he had at Aglarond.  And with a deep breath, Legolas again turned his back upon the world he knew, and consigned himself to Erebor’s dominion. 

Legolas glanced around his quarters, taking in what were to be his surroundings for the next several days.  His Dwarvish attendants had left him with hardly a word, neither party craving the company of the other.  But now at least he was left a few moments to himself to pull himself together again before facing any of them.

It was a room he would imagine to be typical of a Dwarvish lord, furnished with sturdily built fixtures, carven walls and bold draperies.  He sat down on the side of the low-standing bed, elegantly covered with the pelt of a snow leopard.  The size of everything would require some adaption on his part, he thought.  Even so, the bed was not intolerably small.  As his father had often said, the Dwarves were obviously big folk at heart.

With a sigh, Legolas loosed the hidden clasp at the shoulder of the Sereguren, letting the brilliant glimmering mithril slide off of him like a serpent.  He stowed it inside a drawer in the bedside table along with the satchel of Thranduil’s gifts for Thorin, unconcerned.  He would not have worn the bauble at all but for his father’s explicit request, for Thranduil knew how such would impress Dwarvish kind.  Still, there was only one bit of mithril he would not be parted with, and all else was to his mind superfluous.

Folding his legs under him on the bed, Legolas turned his ring nervously on his finger, succumbing to the insidious worry that gnawed at the fringes of his mind now that he had successfully passed the point of no return.  He hoped he had managed to make a good impression as his father would have had him do, but in truth he had no idea how to handle such people!  Dwarvish eyes were difficult to read, so wary and suspicious.  In the depths of this mountain he already felt awfully alone with Gimli elsewhere, though he did his best to squelch the first twinges of homesickness along with the same dreadful crushing sensation that had plagued him in Moria.  He would endure for Gimli’s sake, remembering the promise he had already made him in Lasgalen. 

He had not forgotten what Gimli had said once about his mother’s noted resemblance in temperament to Thranduil.  He had kept that candid observation very much in mind, and had approached the formidable lady accordingly, but he had yet to see what would become of it.  He must admit to himself that to his eyes Dwarvish women were indeed hideous by feminine terms, and would be easily mistaken for the opposite gender by untrained eyes.  He must train his own quickly.  But even as disconcerting as it was, he was determined that she would never know his true heart until he succeeded in correcting it.  And he did intend to try.  If beauty was only skin deep, the same must be true in the opposing case.  Yes?

He stood and paced for a time, regaining his composure in expectation of the civil confrontations yet to come.  He had not mistaken Glóin’s silence.  Somehow that unnerved him more than bitter words would have.  Laying a hand against a wall, he found it to be cold and lifeless, as he had expected.  The lord of these halls was obliging enough, but even the mountain itself did not yet welcome him.  Already he felt he was starved for growing things, like a tree deprived of sunlight, but he endeavored not to dwell upon it.  The halls of Erebor were different from the untamed caverns of Aglarond, and eighty years of Dwarves could not completely efface two centuries of Dragon.  There were many tastes upon the air here, and none especially pleasant. 

Slipping off his boots, Legolas returned to his cross-legged seat on the bed in the shadowy light, letting his windblown hair down from its plaits with idle fingers, a nervous habit that had tenaciously survived his childhood.  He recalled the parting advice his father had given him, considered the challenges that remained for him to surmount on his own.  Somehow it became a very lonely moment.

But it was a moment soon shattered by a heavy but succinct rap on his door, which had been left ajar.  Raps were by no means voiceless, and this one had asserted the air of staid demand.  At first he dared to hope it was Gimli as he rose again to his feet, though he had not recognized the tread.  Perhaps he had expected Thorin, or perhaps even Glóin come to rake him over the coals. 

But Erebor would prove full of surprises.

“My lord,” Lady Káli began gruffly with a bit of a stout bow as Legolas resisted the temptation to stiffen in expectation of he knew not what.  It may have been his imagining, but she seemed almost polite.  She was curious at the very least; that much was plain, especially if the universal complexities of the feminine mind were applicable to her kind.  Very well, Legolas chose to indulge her.  He had intended to bore his way into this closed-minded fortress that was Gimli’s family, but he had never imagined the door would be held open to him.  Was this the proverbial chink in their armor?

“Lady Káli,” he returned with a slight but courteous bow of his own, warily governing his expression until he knew her purpose.

She did not answer for a time, but there was nothing awkward in her silence.  She would speak when she chose to speak.  For now she seemed content to look him over again, and strangely Legolas felt no desire to contest this unspoken maternal privilege, even if he thought the moment less than opportune now that she had caught him barefoot with his hair loosed.

“The room is satisfactory?” she asked at last.  Perhaps she meant to sound conversational, but there was something about her tone that indicated there was indeed a right and a wrong answer to her inquiry. 

“Quite,” he decided, allowing himself a shade of a smile.  She was strangely endearing when she was not out for his blood; rough, but with an charisma all her own he was at a loss to name.  Given a moment he could recognize her influence on her son, for there was much of Gimli in her manner.  “I do not ask that anyone be put to unnecessary expense on my account.” 

“Good of you,” she nodded firmly, as though granting him the initial stamp of approval.  Legolas hardly dared imagine what sort of indelible stigma he would have earned for himself otherwise.

Words did not pass easily between them.  As uncomfortable silence settled upon them again – uncomfortable so far as Legolas was concerned – she looked at him long and hard with the critical eye of a jealous mother.  Legolas endured without complaint, knowing Gimli had fared worse beneath Thranduil’s paternal inquisition.  He tried valiantly not to stare in return, though it was an intense inner battle.  But after a time the redoubtable Dwarvish lady pursed her generous lips and seemed to nod to herself.  He had no right idea what conclusion she had come to, but he dared to hope it was a favorable one.

“Long hours pass wearily alone in a strange place, Master Legolas,” she said, drawing herself up self-importantly with a thumb hooked rakishly in her belt.  Fashioned of gold-studded leather, it was too sturdy to be called a girdle.  “Come, if it please you.  Put your boots on and I shall show you the Mountain.”

Clad in a favorite old robe with a flask in hand, Gimli strolled barefoot across the stone floors of his father’s spacious chambers, humming a jaunty old ballad to himself as he headed toward the steaming bath two of his father’s young attendants had readied at his request.  They watched him incredulously, wondering if this was indeed the same Gimli they had known before the war.  He stopped, noticing their vacant stares.  “Get out of here!  I don’t need any witnesses!” he barked, waving them off with kindred good-humor.  They left, and gladly, likely to go tell the tale the length and breadth of Erebor.

But Gimli was beyond caring.  This, he had to admit, was one somewhat Elvish habit that he had discovered to be strangely pleasant.  Tossing his flask into the water with a gratifying splash, he climbed into the great stone basin himself, robe and all.

Glóin returned before long from speaking with the King.  From the look on his face, his protest had fallen upon contrary ears, as expected.  “What are you doing?” he demanded gruffly of his son.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” Gimli returned, catching the bobbing flask and pulling the stopper.  “I wager it would smell a mite grander around this place if we used this thing more often.”

“I worry, you know,” Glóin went on warily, ignoring the comment.  “In my experience most Elves are alike, Wood-elves most of all.  What has suddenly given them such grand stature in your eyes?”

“You do not know Legolas,” was Gimli’s sober answer, all banter aside.  “You have never wished to.  Were it asked of me, I would trust that Elf with my life.  More than that, I would trust him with the lives of my kin.  And more than that, I would trust him with the life of the Mountain.”  He popped the cork back on, turning the flask loose again to bob around the confines of the tub.  He ignored the ever-worsening expression of his white-bearded father as he continued in the utterance of what amounted to heresy within Glóin’s house.  “Thranduil is a worthy ally, and a fearsome foe.  Why should we spurn him?  And by the wayside, Thranduil also wishes his portcullis reforged.  And Éomer of Rohan has granted me the Glittering Caverns – ”

“Can’t you hear them whispering?!” Glóin shouted at last in desperation, effectively silencing Gimli’s rambling.  “Alliances are to be endured, the cold business of kings.  But of this I have not seen or dreamt the like before!  Look at you!  You have been too long among the álfar already.  I shudder to think by what craven means this particular one has won you over to him, a kin of giggling beribboned fools – !”

“This Elf is above reproach!” Gimli thundered, sitting bolt upright with an angry splash.  Even he was surprised at his vehemence, perhaps because the old term ‘álfr’ connoted more credence than was tasteful to the old legends of double-dealing and trickery.  To attribute such slander to Legolas was now intolerable.  “Thorin Oakenshield himself was reconciled with Thranduil in the end.  Is that not enough?  Would you have the Elvenking come himself to plead your pardon on his knees?  Or is it that you fear him?”

That was a deliberate barb, and Glóin received it as such.  His countenance darkened terribly as he tugged sharply at the chain of gold behind his beard, sending sparks of light from his sapphire medallion.  “We owe him nothing,” he maintained.

“Oh, do we not?”  By this time Gimli had thrown caution to the wind, as often happened when he and his father chanced to quarrel.  And he had seen a thing or two since he had left home.  “Do you imagine the Mountain could have outlasted the war had not Thranduil borne the brunt of the army that marched upon your flank?  The Mountain stands by the valor of Thranduil as much as Thranduil himself stands by the valor of the Mountain.  How long will you choke on an empty grudge?”

“Empty!” Glóin protested, his weathered face reddening, drawing himself up until he seemed fit to burst.  “So, the wrongs of your father’s house now mean nothing to you!  Fie!  The conceit of the Wood runs deeper even than I knew!  Had I imagined such insidious sentiments would infest your mind while on errantry, I – I – ” He trailed off rather abruptly, and Gimli, who had been dourly prepared to meet the rest of his harangue, was not certain at first if this hesitation was brought on by stray thought or the palpitation of an old and heated heart.  It did happen sometimes, now that his father was aging, that his mind lost its way for a moment, usually while under stress like this.

“Yes?” he prompted at last, hardly daring to hope the argument could be postponed.  He needed to get back to Legolas soon.

“What was that you said of Éomer some time ago?” his father asked at last, thick brows lowered thoughtfully.

Inwardly Gimli gave a sigh of relief, thankful for the agreeable change of subject.  Nothing would be gained by shouting, no matter how often they tried it, and he had begun to think his lure had failed.  “The King of Rohan has granted to me lordship of the Glittering Caves,” he said, sitting back with a cocksure grin.

“It is a worthy grant?”

“If Balin had known such unspoilt grandeur yet existed,” Gimli said solemnly, “he would not have not thought the forsaken depths of Moria to be worth his effort.”

The gleam he had come to know so well showed itself again in his father’s worn but clear eyes, and he knew he had successfully distracted his brooding mind from the Elf in their midst, at least for that moment.  Glóin was silent for a long while as visions of glimmering walls and stately pillared halls danced before his eyes.  He nodded smartly, hands on his stout hips.  “Good boy,” he commended him simply, including so much in those two brief words.  He left, murmuring gladly to himself, and Gimli was thankful now to see him go.  Legolas had flown from his father’s mind like morning mist before the sun, but he would remember shortly.  Very shortly.  And Gimli resolved to be prepared when he did.

Legolas followed obediently, as was obviously expected of him.  Káli had shown him several of the more sparsely populated sights of Erebor, for she seemed inclined still to shun great crowds while in his company, a goal they could both appreciate even if for slightly different reasons.  Now she had taken him to the very heart of the mountain, to the tombs of kings past. 

Two candles flickered in lonely vigil beside two great stone coffins, adorned with bold runes in the enigmatic Dwarf tongue.  As a mausoleum in the dark center of a cavern, it was one place Legolas would have been loath to visit of his own initiative, but he had promised himself a timely tribute to their fallen ally when he chanced to pass.  Now seemed as good a time as any.

“Here lies Thorin Oakenshield and Dáin Ironfoot, Kings Under the Mountain,” Káli told him, her heavy voice resounding about the chamber with a dead air.  “There still lies the sword Orcrist, where it was lain by the hand of the Elvenking.”

“Yes,” Legolas said softly.  “I remember.”

Quietly he advanced on the twin tombs.  Standing over Thorin’s, he dared to run his feather-light touch over the distinctly Elvish contours of the famed sword, the same his father had lain there decades before after the Battle of Dale.  The blade was lifeless now, manifesting none of the warning glow for which it was renowned.  The orcs were worsted, and many years of hard-won peace were expected to follow.  

He felt her eyes on him.  At first it was like a blade of ice pressed between his shoulders, reminding him of his subordinate place here in this realm of strangers despite whatever nominal honors the king granted; but gradually it was softened to merely a steady regard.  She certainly is not reticent to stare, he thought with a hidden smile, but that he could forgive.  In her silence he recognized the intense workings of an independent mind, something he was glad to see in the given circumstances. 

He turned to the newest grave, the stonework still new, taking the light dust from the name with a smooth sweep of his hand.  Dáin was still highly regarded within the house of Lasgalen, high praise for a lord of the Nogothrim as one of the very few Thranduil freely named a true prince among Dwarves.  Legolas only regretted that he had been denied the grace of a final meeting with him ere he met his long awaited fate.  The light of the vigil lamps was thin and spectral, as though reluctant to disturb the rest of the fallen.  With Orcrist dormant, there was need of color here where all living hue seemed stolen.  From his belt Legolas produced one of the emeralds of Girion, part of the dragon treasure granted the Elvenking after the ascent of Dáin to the throne of Erebor.  He placed it above the runic name where it offered a soft green glow reflected from its many facets, complimenting the silent tribute of the Elves upon the tomb of his predecessor.  Someday, when Thorin Stonehelm would at last take his due place beside them, it could be that the tradition would be continued if any of the Elvenking’s house remained still to witness his passing.

Returning to the corridor and leaving the dreary majesty of the dead kings behind them, Káli led him at last toward more lively surroundings.  She seemed lost in thoughts of her own if the severe set of her brow was any indication, and for a time Legolas was quite content to leave her there.  If she were weighing her own opinion of him against her husband’s predetermined hostility, he dared not disturb her.

There in the hallway there was a masterful bas-relief depicting the jagged range of the Misty Mountains.  He stopped beside them to find his bearings, after a moment recognizing individual peaks.  In Hollin Gimli had said that they were often the subject of artistic renderings in his home.  

“Do not tell me,” he said with a smile, pointing out each one as he named it.  “Barazinbar . . . Zirakzigil . . . Bundushathûr.”

Káli was silent, then loosed a genuine smile.  “Yes,” she said.  “And how has an Elf of the Wood learned to speak the names given by Dwarven folk?”

“It is only one of the many things I have learned from your son, my lady,” he said.  “Still, my father would be beside himself to hear such words come from my mouth.  To us, they are Caradhras, Celebdil, and Fanuidhol.” 

“I will confess, Master Legolas,” Káli continued as they resumed walking, softened in some small degree, “I know not what to think of you.  Gimli does not choose companions lightly.  And I myself find it difficult to reconcile that one with such gifts as with which you seem endowed should be answerable for the unworthy deeds attributed to his name.”

This question Legolas approached delicately, knowing he was given the slimmest chance now to redeem himself.  “Unworthy or not, the particulars of the given case may depend greatly on your own point of view, Lady Káli.  I do not deny that your husband was confined by the authority of my father, but such are the consequences of the suspicious days and ill temper that both are now past.  I do not repent of my part, for never has anyone of the free folk suffered cruelty at our hands.  But I would be grieved if such as that should cost me the friendship of your house.” 

Káli nodded and returned her gaze to the floor, the stone worn by the passage of many feet over the course of many years.  Legolas regarded the subject as closed for now, hopeful that he had made the most of the brief opportunity.  With a thunderous round of barking, a pack of hounds went bounding through the corridor.  Very different from Thranduil’s wolves, these were stouter with heavier jaws and shorter hair, very much dogs without the hybrid influence of their wild brethren.  They stopped in a rough pile at the sight of an Elf in their midst, and seemed undecided whether to bristle or to seek his affections.  Most chose the former, though their throaty growls were not without a plaintive whine as they slunk past them. 

“A lot of beggars, they are,” Káli said gruffly, waving them away.  “They’ll be under your feet at the table before you know it,” she assured him.  She was becoming almost affable, a good sign.

A dark and surly looking Dwarf went out of his way to give them a glare as he passed, muttering something into his beard.  The rough sounds suggested themselves as spoken Khuzdul, and Legolas deemed himself fortunate not to understand the particulars of his comments. 

But Káli understood. 

Catching him by the shoulder with an iron fist, she brusquely swung him back around to face her directly.  “What was that you said?” she demanded with thunder in her grey eyes.  Legolas retreated a few wary paces, for he sensed a storm brewing.  “Will you repeat it?”

Throwing her hand off of him, her antagonist repeated it and more with a sneer on his face.  He must have said something monstrous, for Káli struck him a crashing blow upside the head that sent him staggering backwards, giving Legolas just as violent a start as it did her foe.  

“You pompous, foul-smelling varlet!” she berated him in a terrible rage, looming with ready fists.  “Dare to breathe again such foul words and you shall have worse!  None shall cast slurs upon the house of Glóin; and he is a guest of the King!  Teach your throat modesty, you – you – !”  As boundless as Legolas imagined her vocabulary to be, she seemed unable to find an epithet degrading enough, and would have hit him again had not Legolas caught her wrist in his own firm grasp.  She tried reflexively to throw him off, but his strength was a match for hers.

“Please, my lady,” he begged, unwilling to see the disturbance escalate further on his account.  He would not have sparks stricken heedlessly in an atmosphere so dangerously flammable as this.  “You have already had vengeance enough.  Let it go.”

She hesitated, and Legolas could feel her seething anger as something dreadful.  But he did not release her, and gradually her wrath cooled, influenced somewhat by his presence and his own deliberate efforts to calm her.  At the same time, he cast a passive but withering glance upon the other Dwarf, who had by now righted his jaw and was fuming with a grievance all his own. 

When Káli had again safely bridled her passion, Legolas allowed her to shrug him off with a grunt.  “You forgive far to easily, son of Thranduil,” she said, moving on with a haughty toss of her head while the black-bearded one glared daggers after them.  “It does you credit, but beware lest someday your mercy be misplaced.”

(Author's Note: I swear up and down that none of this was inspired in any way, shape, or form by Pirates of the Caribbean!)

Attired once again as befitted a son of a Dwarf lord, and prepared again for a bit of a confrontation, Gimli tramped again through the boldly lit corridors of his home in search of his father.  Thrown over one arm he carried a tunic of bronze orange, adorned at the hem and cuffs with angular accents sewn in gold.  Of all he had found it seemed best suited for Legolas, more befitting his stature as it had been intended for a prince of Dale.  He carried also the chain of wrought gold Legolas had given him in Greenwood.  That might itself serve as a peace offering in Glóin’s eyes. 

He found him at last, sitting in the company of Lord Dwalin.  There is another nut to crack, Gimli thought rather dismally, wondering if Glóin’s resistance to Legolas was inspired by some degree of embarrassment at the way his son was deporting himself before the surviving members of Thorin’s old company.  Lords Nori and Bofur also remained to be convinced. 

“Gimli!” Glóin welcomed him with unexpected cheer.  “Come.  I was telling Dwalin what you told me of the gift of the King of Rohan.  But you have yet only teased our minds with imaginings.  Tell us of these caverns of yours.”

It was something Gimli never tired speaking of, so he gladly obliged them.  “They lie in the north of the White Mountains,” he said, “beside the fortress of Helm’s Deep.  Though you would never guess their riches to hear the Men speak of them.  Never have I seen their like.”  And so he began, reliving the sights and sounds of Aglarond and describing them as best he could for his kinsmen.  And it seemed they became more rapt by the moment with the telling, Glóin pulling thoughtfully at the chain of his medallion, Dwalin fingering the long end of his braided mustache.  “None who have seen will be able to scoff at them,” he said at last, leaning back on his heels self-contentedly.  “Why, even Legolas – ”  Here he stopped and slapped a hand to his brow, remembering at last the nagging voice in the back of his preoccupied mind.  By Durin’s beard, he had almost forgotten him!  It had been so long already, and now here he was idly chatting about caves and realms and other things that would keep well enough until another time.  “Your pardon, father, Lord Dwalin.  I have been derelict in my hospitality long enough.”

By now Glóin had darkened again, for once more the Elf had intruded upon him.  “If that is the company you would rather keep,” he said simply, though the remark was shot with venom.

“I wonder at you, son of Glóin,” Dwalin added for himself with a lift of his thickly bearded chin.  “One may question your judgment in bringing the Elf to the Mountain.  Do you seek to aggravate the old grievances that are best left buried?”

Gimli turned back, prepared for the conflict.  “It was not I who brought Prince Legolas to the Mountain,” he stated firmly.  “He came of his own will, not to aggravate the past, but to offer peace in the days to come.  Nor has Thranduil turned a blind eye our way.  Already he has conceded much in suffering to send his only son into your hands.  He knows your opinion of him well enough.” 

“An opinion not undeserved,” Glóin insisted, beating a fist upon the padded arm of his chair.  “An opinion I begin to doubt you share.  One might believe even that you have grown to like them.”

"I do like them!" Gimli admitted at last, laying all his cards on the table for better or worse.  “I have found in Legolas as true a friend as I could wish.  And Thranduil is a grand old lord well worth his salt!  If you choose to hate him until your dying day, so be it.  But do not expect me to go blindly with you any longer!”  

Both Glóin and Dwalin had risen impulsively, still hale for their age.  “Do not speak to me of the worth of Thranduil’s house!” Glóin snapped in return, his eyes ablaze.  “It was in the weakness of death that Thorin pardoned them!  Dáin was not trussed like a bullock and left to a forgotten end in a forsaken cell!  Thorin the son knows nothing of Elves and their ways!  They receive him, but I will not.  Not so long as he holds my son from me!”

With the sharp clatter of metal upon stone, Gimli violently cast the heavy golden carcanet at his father’s feet.  “There!” he shouted, angered beyond prudence.  “Persist in your stubbornness if you will, but that remains to be matched!  Given freely from the deepest treasury of the Elves, it has earned a sorry welcome!”

Hearing it had come from Elvish hands, Glóin kicked the gleaming treasure noisily across the floor as though he despised it.  Gimli turned on his heel and stormed from the chamber.

He found Legolas in his room, standing at the dresser and squinting at a small square mirror of polished silver.  Dwarves did not shrink from crystal, but they had yet to make mirrors of it.

“Forgive me, Legolas,” he said with a sigh.  “I did not mean to leave you alone so long.”

“Set your mind at rest, my friend,” Legolas smiled.  “Your mother fulfilled your neglected duties on your behalf, and proved herself to be enjoyable company.  She has only just released me from her charge.” 

“She – !”  Gimli knew not what to think of that for a moment.  Was his mother hedging now to his side of this battle?  That would be a relief indeed.  He coughed to tactfully smother his truncated exclamation.  “So, what do you think of her, Legolas?”

“I think you were right,” he said.  “She is indeed very like my father.”

Gimli chuckled, hooking his thumb in his belt.  “I did say that, didn’t I?” he conceded.  “I hope you have not said as much to her.”

“Oh, no,” Legolas assured him, taking an easy seat at the side of the bed.  “I dare not presume upon such familiarity yet.”  He was quiet a moment, all banter fading in the face of the stark realities that awaited them beyond the door.  He still wore the woodland finery he had come in, but at the moment he seemed less a prince and more a friend, turning his ring absently as though he found his royal responsibilities bothersome.  “Gimli,” he asked at last, seeming uncertain, “did I do right?”

“You did right,” Gimli readily confirmed, remembering his impressive deportment at the gate.  There were many discontented individuals within the Mountain who would not have thought it worthwhile to cross the adamantine son of Thranduil, but would have deemed him much easier prey if they could see the gentle heart that lay beneath.  “Any weaker a front on your part would have been unfortunate.”

Legolas nodded.  He had ceased turning his ring and had begun running Galadriel’s long white ribbon through his slender fingers.  At the moment Gimli was glad to see he was not wearing it, remembering Glóin’s scathing description, all the worse because it was a half-truth. 

“What has happened?” Legolas asked of him with an idle air.  “You carry a bad aura, my friend.”

“I just bathed a moment ago,” Gimli protested, willfully misconstruing the comment.  His wry humor was rewarded with a welcome smile, lightening a somber moment. 

“Yes, I did notice,” Legolas assured him with fleeting laughter in his eyes.  “But tell me, what is it that passes among company I am not meant to keep, and in words I am not meant to understand?”

He knew.  Gimli was thankful Legolas had yet been spared the particular details of whatever unpleasantry might have been passed around, but he was not deaf to it.  He was finding Elves to be particularly sensitive to tone and inflection, more so than most.  He had found their perception to be much wider as well; one could not hide the airs of hostility from those who had been trained to recognize it.  “My father is determined to be difficult,” he sighed candidly. “Twice now already he and I have come to loggerheads when your name is mentioned.  I would swear his eyes go as green as Thranduil’s – ” He stopped short, wondering if that was the right thing to say anymore. 

“I feared that,” Legolas admitted, taking no offense.  “I do not wish to provoke him, but it will not profit either of us if we never say a word to each other.”

“Let it lie until tonight,” was Gimli’s advice, “and pray he has mellowed by then.  At least you will have King Thorin at your back.”

“And your Lady Mother,” Legolas added with a knowing look.  “She is one to be reckoned with, and I have seen she has but small tolerance for incivility.”

“Oh, almost I am afraid to ask,” Gimli grimaced, wondering what his mother had done already.

“Let it suffice to say that there is a certain Dwarf within these halls with a richly deserved bruise beneath his beard who thinks no good of either of us.”

“She hit him?”

“She had her blood up, and would have beaten him as mosaic into the flagstones had I not stopped her.”

Gimli groaned, wondering who it had been.  “She insists that actions speak louder than words,” he said.  “But she is not helping our case by sparking new feuds.”  As he painted this dreary picture, Gimli noticed that Legolas had begun smiling.  “Well, isn't she?” he asked.

“Of course,” the Elf said.  “But I was flattered all the same.”

“So she likes you?”  That was a fortunate turn of events.  Gimli knew he should not really be surprised if he knew his mother.  She would follow his father, was the friend of his friends and a foe of his foes, but she had a mind of her own.  She had no personal feud with Thranduil and his kin beyond that which Glóin had passed on to her, and that had lost most of its sting over the long years though it was stirred up from time to time.  If Legolas would only turn that clear smile of his on her it would be enough to inspire a reconsideration at the very least.  She would not be stricken by a fair face, but she had always entertained a soft spot at heart for a beautiful character.  Thorin’s kinsmen Fili and Kili had been high in her affections.  Thus he should not wonder if Legolas had fared well beneath her first curious inquisition.  Her new disposition would make things interesting within the family circle.

“I dare to hope that she does,” Legolas said.  “I cannot profess to be particularly fond of her yet, but her company is not unwelcome.”

“Then, here,” Gimli said, tossing him his new clothes.  “Change into that, and some of this crowd might find you a bit more palatable.  I’d like to introduce you to a few friends of mine.”

The noise steadily grew as they neared the forges, the incessant music of hammers and anvils and hot metal resounding through the caverns.  Gimli knew he was taking Legolas far out of his element, but if it was ever to be faced, now was as good a time as any.  Not once had he heard a protest from him, for the Elf endured it all with good grace.  How deep that tolerance went he could not yet say, but he would make a point to take him outside tomorrow just to ease the strain.  Despite all the self-composed calm that Legolas seemed to enjoy, Gimli had a sneaking suspicion that Elf’s nerves were in truth pulled as tight as viol strings. 

The traffic also thickened here, and Gimli met several old friends.  He waved to Frár, clapped Borin on the shoulder as he passed.  Superficial pleasantries were exchanged between Dwarf and Elf, though the latter was still regarded with a certain measure of distrust.  At least they were speaking to him, Gimli thought, though there were many who chose to ignore him completely.  They would be trouble.

“Gimli, you rogue!” called another from the crowd, and Gimli looked to see a good-hearted friend coming their way. 

“Lóni!” he returned, accepting the rough embrace as between two dwarves.  “It does me good to see your smile again, at least.  I have met entirely too many glowers today.  Legolas, this is Lóni son of Lorin.  Lóni, Legolas of Greenwood.”

The familiar shadow fell over Lóni’s eyes, much to Gimli’s disappointment.  But when the other Dwarf saw the initial and customary coolness was not returned by the Elf, he relaxed.  It was a brief and fleeting moment, but one of enormous implications.  “Greetings, Legolas,” he offered with a casual bow, as between friends.  It was perhaps presumptuous of him to throw out all trace of the protocol due a royal-born ambassador from an allied realm, but even so his manner was more than welcome.  But Lóni did more than that, and offered to Legolas as a matter of course his honest, work-roughened hand. 

Gimli said nothing, watching with baited breath, his hopes rewarded.  It seemed to come as a mild surprise to Legolas, if among the Elves, too, the gesture implied a mutual trust and cessation of hostilities.  One could not draw blade if his right hand was surrendered to his foe.  After only a moment Legolas gave his strong hand into Lóni’s grasp, returning it without reservation, another ally assured.

Gimli laughed and jostled Lóni’s shoulder.  “I knew I could count on you,” he said, glad an unpleasant conflict had been avoided.

“I imagine you will both have trouble enough without dealing with me,” Lóni smiled, revealing his good nature.  “Welcome to Erebor, Master Legolas.  Though I am one of the few who would say so.”

“I must confess I have noticed that,” Legolas said with an attempt to smile in return.  Gimli could see the Elf felt confined despite the optimistic turn of events, and he thought it best not to linger in the bustling corridor.  “Your kin is of the Iron Hills?”

“Yes,” Lóni said cautiously, somewhat taken aback.  “How did you know?”

Legolas shook his head as if to deny the special powers of clairvoyance that Lóni seemed to suspect.  “I begin to see a pattern,” he explained simply.  “I find Dáin’s people to be on the whole more accommodating.”

“Going to the forge?” Gimli asked of him.  “That is one thing I want Legolas to see.”

“Come, then,” Lóni beckoned, turning to lead them on.  “Flói is there already.  You will want to see him, I imagine.”

They wove their way through the throng of preoccupied Dwarves, each of whom was engrossed in his own affairs and giving only sidelong notice to the starkly misplaced figure among them.  Even so, most everyone had heard of the Elf in their midst by this point, and even if most were too proud to do more than turn up their noses as they passed, Gimli knew that Legolas was very much on their minds.  What was he really like?  What was his true purpose?  What were his thoughts?  They were gauging his state of mind so far as they could, even as Gimli was.  How real was his passive facade?  Could he possibly be content among them?  Or was he threatened at heart, vulnerable, concealing his insecurities as best he could?  Gimli had to admit the last was the most likely, and feared it was more obvious than Legolas would have wished.  It made a more uncertain impression.

A shrill and unearthly screech sent Gimli’s heart into his throat just as a falling streak of grey hit Legolas squarely between the shoulders.  Faster than sight the Elf spun into a ready crouch, blade drawn in his hand.  Reflexive though the action was, it did not fail to leave an impression of its own on those who surrounded them, for everyone had stopped cold where they stood.  Even for those who did not consider Legolas an Elf of his worth, his status had escalated from merely unwelcome to dangerous.

As for his assailant, it had leapt back up to the high shelf of stone on the wall, screeching down at them again.  Grey as a squirrel and yet more the size of a cat with a white ruff of fur around its impish face, it was unlike anything Gimli had seen before, though it was somehow reminiscent of what he had heard of the apes of the south.   

Lóni gave a nervous laugh, recovering from the suddenness of the whole incident.  “Master Legolas,” he said, “let me introduce you to Scatha, Thorin’s little devil.”  It screeched back at him, but earned only the growling ire of several passers-by as activity in the passage returned to normal.  “He found him in the ruin of the siege, thinks he belonged to an Easterling chieftain and so took him for plunder.  Don’t mind him; he’s harmless.” 

Gimli followed as Lóni went on toward the first of the forges.  But looking back, he saw Legolas was still regarding the keen-eyed creature with a natural curiosity.  And the little furry imp stared right back, pausing to tug at the elaborate gem-encrusted collar buried in the fur at its throat.  “Legolas!” Gimli called, wresting his attention back to their immediate purpose.  “Let him alone.  Come on.”

Legolas followed, but not without looking back.

The forge was a stifling place, brightly lit and full of glowing furnaces, contained fires, and busy, half-clad, sweating Dwarves.  Sparks were flying and constant noise echoed from every wall.  They did not try to talk, for it would have been pointless.  It was long-missed bit of home to Gimli, complete with the overpowering scent of hot burnt air, but Legolas could not completely hide the fact that he probably thought it a living hell on earth.  Gimli only chuckled to himself as they walked amid the cacophony, knowing some things were simply hopeless.  But fortunately for the Elf they were headed instead for the adjacent chambers, where the heat was not so heavy nor the noise so deafening.  He chose to ignore the embittered glares of several smiths who obviously objected to the admittance of an Elf into their inner sanctums.

Lóni led them back into the side corridor in search of Flói, another that Gimli harbored great hopes for.  Flói was not so friendly as he was merely indifferent.  But he could work with that. 

“Flói!” Lóni called gladly, swinging the door wide and tromping in.  “Gimli is back, and he has brought a friend with him.  I trust you will condescend to give them a bit of notice at the very least.”

Behind a cluttered worktable was hunched a great figure of a Dwarf with a wealth of russet red beard adorned with gold, focused intently on the design drawing taking form beneath the charcoal pencil held resolutely in his sturdy hand.  He did glance up to briefly regard his friends, and seemed not overly surprised to see an Elf among them.  “Good day, Lóni, Gimli, Master . . .”

“Legolas.”  Before Gimli could say anything, Legolas had offered his name, devoid of title or superfluous honors.  Flói nodded before he turned back to his work, content to let his visitors entertain themselves.  The name of Legolas was not unknown in the Mountain and Flói knew well who this Elf was, but seemed unimpressed. 

Even so, Legolas seemed to have taken a keen interest in Flói’s work.  Gimli concluded that it must have been the influence of the artist in him, and it was not long before the Elf had drifted around the table to scrutinize the drawing from his vantage point over Flói’s shoulder.  Gimli looked and saw the creation in question was to be a jeweled flower, a brooch that would likely be included among the bridal finery of Bard’s daughter.  The smudges already evident on the paper made it clear Flói had been having difficulties of his own with a streamlined form that went against his angular nature and inborn love of straight edges.  Suddenly disconcerted by the burgeoning ideas evident in Legolas’ eyes, Gimli feared he would do the worst.

“Do not be afraid of curves,” Legolas fearlessly suggested, pointing out the sharp offshoots that were the clustered leaves.  “They do not grow that way.  And you might give this a bit more flair here.” 

Gimli and Lóni held their breath, wondering how Flói would take such brazen correction.  The obsessive craftsman did turn to look up at his unsolicited assistant, and indeed seemed rather annoyed.  But Legolas offered him an innocent smile that made his suggestion seem more a help and less a criticism.  “Then you do it,” Flói surrendered in a huff, tossing his pencil down in disgust. 

Legolas took the pencil in his fingers and with a few light strokes like a dragonfly skirting the surface of a pond he drew a rendition of his own beside Flói’s attempt, bringing a definite form out of smooth and simple contours in a matter of moments.  It was a distinctly Elvish image, but nothing a Dwarf could not elaborate upon.

Flói looked at it critically, but also with certain admiration.  “How did you do that?” he asked rhetorically for lack of anything else to say.

“The same way any of us do anything, my friend,” Legolas smiled.  “Instruction, observation, and years of practice.  Hard lines have their own purposes, but you must tread softly if you would imitate what has life of its own.  See.”  With seeming effortlessness, he brought out another shapely sprig of leaves, letting only the very tip of the charcoal brush the paper.  The result was a beautiful conception of a jeweled masterpiece.  “Do you think you could make that into something worthy of the lady?” he asked.

“By Mahal, of course I can!” Flói declared, accepting the challenge and eager to prove his own skills before a foreign audience.  “Just wait and see!” 

Gimli loosed a pent up sigh, relieved that Legolas had found a foothold for himself.  He and Flói would get along as well as he could wish if this working relationship realized the promising future it seemed to have with Elf and Dwarf complementing one another unexpectedly well.  Flói did work best when he meant to impress someone.  He only hoped the inevitable reintroductions the night would bring would play out half so well. 

Flói insisted on bringing Legolas with him to see the selection of the gems he would employ.  That meant walking the length of the sweltering forge again, but Legolas did not shrink from that route.  As they passed the through the brief showers of sparks, Gimli noticed the little miscreant Scatha hanging about an iron-worker’s furnace, investigating the various tools about with its little mischievous hands.  The Dwarf in question turned with a laugh and singed the creature’s backside with a glowing brand, sending him bounding away with a yowl.  Legolas obviously thought very little of that stunt, for he sniffed indignantly, something only Gimli noticed.  Knowing Legolas’ way with all that went on four legs or wings, he had a premonition then that he would be seeing more of that little monkey than he could wish. 

What did one wear to a Dwarvish homecoming?

Back in his hewn chamber Legolas had set aside the tunic Gimli had provided, considering his choices.  He had brought several changes with him, not entirely of his own will, for Thranduil had a considerable say in how his son would appear if he was to represent him.  Legolas suspected his father had also reasoned that the danger to his person would be lessened in direct relation to how magnificently he presented himself.  That was probably true, but he knew he was required to walk a thin line between being impressive and becoming offensive.  But nor did he wish to appear underdressed.  Dwarves harbored a special love for ostentation, he had found, and he did not expect Thorin to slight Gimli’s return.  There would be more splendor gathered here in one place than there had been beneath the trees of his own home the night he rode back from the war. 

At last he dismissed the elaborate tri-colored outfit he had worn into the Mountain that morning.  He would not be redundant.  Three others he did not even consider, the quieter attire he had brought for himself when ceremonies were through.  He deliberated a moment more, but he knew there was truly little choice.  There was only one that was right for the occasion. 

With a twinge of nostalgia that was a momentary salve for his growing homesickness, he took it up almost reverently from where it lay on the bed.  Of a soft and heavy green, it was dark and yet possessed of a subtle but distinct shimmer like dew in the morning, warm yet slightly cool to the touch, like a midsummer’s afternoon with the wind in the trees.  Masterfully sewn at the fitted cuffs and collar and about the hem in prominent thread of silver was bright and bold tracery that could be seen by knowing eyes to be a pattern of script spelling time and time again in an unbroken chain the name of Thranduil. 

It had been made for shoulders a bit broader than his own, but he felt with some filial satisfaction that it fit him well enough, laced at the throat and wrists and belted about the waist with dark leather studded with diamonds.  It was strangely comforting to wear his father’s name, as though he could almost feel those kindred hands on his shoulders as a support in whatever trials awaited him.  Carry me with you, had been one of Thranduil’s last requests, something Legolas was glad to do.  He would need him.

With it went a robe of the same design meant to be draped prominently over one shoulder.  Legolas found he had to pull it a bit farther in front to keep the end from brushing the ground, for he had never been quite as tall as his father.  He regarded his spectral reflection earnestly in the sheet of tinted glass Gimli had managed to find for him.  Robbed of all definite color, at first glance he could almost have seen the shade of his father, only to find it was himself.  There is a good deal of Thranduil in you, had been Celeborn’s verdict during those days they lingered in Lórien.  Legolas was becoming more aware of that as life called him ever farther from home, as he was made more the master of his own fate.  His manner at the Gate had not been entirely feigned.  He would always be proud to be Thranduil’s son.

And in that vein of thought, he retrieved the Sereguren from the bedside drawer knowing it would be his father’s will that he wear it tonight of all nights.  But he stopped short of putting it on, setting it beside the gifts for Thorin atop the polished dresser. 

He turned his eyes then to the doorway, aware of a scuffling at the floor.  His first uncharitable thought was of a rat, for they waged a yearly battle with them in Lasgalen.  But the sound was not the same sharp scratching.  Rather it seemed a curious pawing.  Drifting silently to the door, he pulled it open to meet a pair of beady black eyes in a furry upturned face.  Scatha retreated quickly, inspiring a bit of pity in Legolas, for the little imp obviously expected to be cursed or kicked as a matter of course.  He had seen the same in hounds and in horses, but this was new to him.

Crouching just inside his door, Legolas called to him.  "Come, Scatha," he said in a beckoning voice.  "Come here."  His quarry hesitated, curious but yet unwilling to trust. 

But ere he could coax him further, a pack of hounds came stampeding down the corridor baying as though the hunt was called.  Legolas held the door wide and closed it soundly once Scatha had shot inside like a cat with its tail afire, the dogs moaning ineffectually outside. 

“Thorin’s little devil,” he laughed as he turned to face his ward who had perched atop the dresser.  “Well met, I am sure.”  But in a moment the name proved well deserved, for already Scatha had begun rummaging in the velvet satchel and turned to throw a gem at him with a snickering screech.  Legolas caught it reflexively, but was not amused.  One did not play with a king’s tribute.  “Let it alone,” he said firmly, shooing the menace away from the irreplaceable treasures and thrusting them back into the drawer.  Scatha seemed indignant but unafraid, for Legolas’ discipline fell softer than that of many a dwarf.

Legolas reached out to stroke him, but quick-witted creature caught his hand in his small but strong paws, sniffing and examining it with undisguised interest.  Legolas reasoned that he had likely never encountered an Elf before, an experience far removed from his Easterling and Dwarvish masters.  And so he let the investigation run its course without objection as the inquiry advanced from his hand to the cuff of his sleeve, and from there along the length of his arm.  At last crawling to his shoulder as Legolas supported him in the crook of his arm, Scatha looked his new acquaintance in the eye for long moment, laying a bold paw on his nose.  Legolas could not help smiling, letting the strange tail curl around his wrist like a soft snake. 

Scatha was evidently very fond of his hair as well, but Legolas did not relish the idea of having the little sprite tangled there, and so he pulled him off to set him back on the dresser.  “You have looked enough at me,” he said.  “Now indulge me, if you will.  Neither have I seen your like before.”  Scatha seemed to understand well enough, as all good beasts heard the Elven tongue, but he had a concern of his own, baring his diminutive fangs and tugging at his throat.  Working his fingers gently through the fur as he had been invited, Legolas found the collar there, hard and stiff and unnatural.  It was a fine piece of work in its own right, but beautiful or no it was misplaced on something with as much wild life as Scatha.  He thought once, thought twice, then felt around for the clasp.  He found it at last, a subtle testament to the skill of the smiths; Scatha sat quiet as if understanding the help he was receiving.  At last it fell open, and Legolas pulled it away.  Just like a shackle, he thought grimly as it lay in his hands.  The freed captive rolled his small head and shoulders and then shook like a wet dog, glad to be rid of it; the marks in his fur revealed that he had seldom been without some such restraint.  Legolas could stroke him now without rebuff, for now Scatha seemed to enjoy his attentions.

As the little beast rubbed his head on his left hand like a cat against a post, Legolas used his right to trip the release on the gilded anklets he had found, growing more impatient by the moment.  He did not like leashes and confinement, and used them only when there was no choice in the matter.  Trapped in the sunless bowels of the Mountain, he felt a keen pang of sympathy for Scatha, for what future did he have here?  As unfamiliar as he was with its kind, it did not take great skill in woodcraft to see the animal was plainly meant for life amid the trees.  They were both misplaced here. 

He was interrupted by a loud rap at the door, and Scatha stiffened to peer around him intently, his black eyes keen and unblinking as he readied himself to flee or fight.  “Come in, Gimli,” Legolas called, gathering the tense animal in his arms.

Gimli came, resplendent in all the glittering regalia of a Dwarf lord.  “I – oh, Powers preserve us,” he digressed as he turned to see them both.  “Can’t resist a furry face, can you, lad?” he asked, more terse than humorous.  “Big sad eyes with a long sad tale; that is your weakness.”

“You have been at variance with your father again.”  It was not a question.  Legolas had grievances of his own, but tried to keep the ice from his voice; Gimli was not to blame.  What a day it had been already.

“Yes, I have.”  Gimli tromped passed him to the dresser where the Sereguren and Scatha’s collars lay together.  He indicated the sight of both.  “I can understand your compassion for the beast,” he said.  “But let the wrong eyes catch sight of that, and in a moment it is out that the Elf is filching the King’s jewels.  Then there will be no hope for you here for an age or more.”

Legolas sneared indignantly at the very idea.  “Suspicious minds imagine many evil things,” he said. 

“Yes, they do.  So it would be best to see that they imagine as little as possible about you.  Put them back.”

Legolas was loath to do it, but he had to admit Gimli knew his own people better than he did.  The collar went back on, along with the rest of the undesirable accessories.  He apologized as well as he could to Scatha, who seemed perplexed and a bit disappointed by this turn of events.  He looked up to find Gimli regarding him strangely.  “Yes?” he asked, somewhat bluntly.

Gimli grunted and looked away as if to dismiss it, fingering his chain remarkably as Glóin was wont to do.  “Nothing,” he said.  “You look like your father.” 

Indeed, he felt like his father.  “And you like yours,” he observed.  “What sort of weather might I expect tonight?”

“The stars shine for the most part, but with a chance of stiff winds,” Gimli answered wryly, extending his metaphor.  “The waters are calm, but many things lurk beneath.  If you should ever find yourself alone in diminished company, take care not to turn your back.”

The great halls were ablaze with torchlight and resounded with lusty song and dance, just as Gimli had expected.  It was a free Dwarvish revel and none had patience enough that night for extended ceremony.  The long tables were laden and the glasses always full, the victorious banners and standards of the Mountain adorning the high walls with tattered but proud color.  He and his parents sat beside Thorin at the king’s table in honor, Legolas placed among them.  Despite the merriment around them the air was tense there, for Legolas and Glóin were still not on speaking terms, which was not to say Legolas had not done all in his power to bridge the chasm between them.  Unfailingly polite, his overtures had earned only a frosty welcome until he at last deemed the reception not worth the effort. 

New concerns presented themselves in Gimli’s mind now, for things had changed.  More to the point, he had changed, and he was more attentive now to what the effects of Dwarvish celebration would be upon Elvish sensibilities.  He was acutely conscious of the endless echoing noise, the confinement of the crowd, and in general the free air that characterized the table manners of his people.  He glanced sidelong at Legolas.  He could never be ashamed of him despite his private fears, for the Elf’s demeanor was irreproachable, magnificent in the royal green and silver he knew in his heart must have belonged to Thranduil, the chain of mithril leaves on his shoulders and a circlet glinting on his brow.  He knew Legolas was influenced more by a frayed temper and a longing for the open air, but he managed to make his private insecurities something majestic, evoking the perhaps unfortunate but no less impressive aura of his father.  Such was a valuable skill if it could be maintained.  But his smile was more often fair but false, exhibiting a mounting strain only Gimli had acquired skill enough to see.

Glóin had insisted upon sitting as far removed from the Elf as he could, and Káli was willing to oblige him by taking the seat between, rather indignant for Legolas’ sake.  Gimli had not missed the fact that she had worn her best, a gown of black velvet cut in bold slashes to reveal the cloth of gold beneath.  He and his mother had spoken together beforehand, but the matter was yet to be addressed between her and her husband.  Still, Glóin was not blind and he knew already, only exacerbating his abiding dislike of the Elf.  The old lord’s eyes were sharp, and Gimli was relieved that Legolas went out of his way to avoid meeting them.  

At last, when the moon was riding high beyond their sight, Thorin stood and called for silence, his heavily bejeweled robes shimmering as he spread his arms.  “Dwarves Under the Mountain!” he began loudly when he had arrested their attention, but then had to wait for the bellowing cheer to subside.  “Tonight we receive back into our halls one of our own.  Gimli son of Glóin has returned from war in the South, and by his valor our people are renowned in the realms of Men.”  He had to pause again as another great enthusiastic shout went up from hundreds of Dwarvish throats.  “Now through him a call comes for our skill.  The Gates of Minas Tirith must be reforged!  The Fortress of Rohan rebuilt!”  At that there rose an even greater cheer that continued long, for the fortunes of several craftsmen had thus been assured. 

“But many yet are the gems refined by the fires of war,” Thorin went on, hooking his thumbs jauntily in his belt.  “Far from our own lands, the sons of the Mountain and the Wood have come together to strengthen the bonds that exist between their homes.  I understand that Elvenking Thranduil sends now through his son Legolas a pledge of his continued goodwill and favor toward people of Erebor, and it is my hope that his faith will not prove misplaced.”

There came some scattered applause here as well to Gimli’s relief, and though it was genuine in the hearts of those who offered it, it was short-lived and dampened by the stony silence of those who yet wanted nothing to do with their Elvish neighbors. 

“He does not expect it will be, my lord,” Legolas said for himself, standing in his place and seeming to take no notice of the obvious disapproval of the sizable minority of the populace.  “And he sends more than faith.”  Gently he set down the velvet bag of small treasures Thranduil sent in tribute, but in his hand held the one that outshone them all.  It was a silver eagle with mighty wings outstretched, set with deep eyes of emerald as green as those of the Elvenking.  Gimli was struck by the gift, for he knew well that Thranduil had not relinquished it lightly, and with such generosity came a challenge to be equally accommodating.  A slight hush had fallen over the assembly as keen eyes strove to assess the value of the gift from a distance.  “In memory of Dáin your father,” Legolas said, “Friend of Eagles.” 

Thorin took it carefully with obvious appreciation.  “Mithril!” he declared after a moment, arresting the attention of all with a hushed but collective gasp as the rampant eagle and the carcanet Legolas wore were recognized for what they truly were.  “A kingly gift, indeed, from the hand of Thranduil!  Whence comes truesilver in these days?”

Legolas smiled, and this time the expression was genuine.  “The war is won,” he said simply; “Dol Guldur and Mordor are emptied.  Sauron hoards it no more.  Doubtless much of it awaits your skill in the vaults of King Elessar.” 

“Hear, all!” Thorin called, new ebullience bright in his eyes.  “The Elves bring us more than their friendship.  The days of truesilver have come again!”

The wild and resounding roar was deafening as the hall erupted again into unbridled glee, as flagons were emptied and the heavy-footed dancing begun again, content that Thorin had finished his address.  With Gimli high in Elessar’s favor, Erebor would receive the first and best commissions from the crown of Gondor.  Truly they had entered a new age. 

“See how the thought excites them,” Thorin smiled, resuming his seat.  Behind him, Scatha peered round his shoulder, glancing from the Dwarf king to the crowd and most often toward Legolas, but he did not move for he was bound to his perch by thin chains of gold from the anklets he wore lest he make a nuisance of himself.  Legolas said nothing, but Gimli knew the sight grieved him.

“Excited to receive from Elvish hands what came first from a Dwarvish mine,” Glóin commented bitterly, breaking his stiff silence.  “Your pardon, my lord.”  He stood and left the table, likely in search of Dwalin and others who shared his disposition.  Gimli sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

“Pay him no mind, my lord,” Káli was saying to Legolas.  “Always he has been a cantankerous one.  It could be that he will hate your house for the rest of his days.”

“It would grieve me,” Legolas said regretfully as he watched Glóin’s back disappearing into the crowd.  Gimli followed his line of sight, noticing at once one particular knot of Dwarves with flagons raised singing a ridiculous sing-song faerietale about an Elf-king who lived in a black forest and lured children to their deaths.  It struck him to recognize that it shamefully smacked of Thranduil, and what he had once thought a harmless tradition had become personal insult.  He was glad at least that Legolas could not understand their words, but the grim set of the Elf’s features said that he recognized their taunting for what it was. 

He seemed lost in thought for a long moment, then quickly finished the lingering contents of his glass with the air of one deliberately walking through thorns.  “My lord,” he addressed Thorin at last.  “I have a request to ask of you.”

“Name your desire, my lord Legolas,” Thorin bade him, still impressed by the gift he had been given.  “You shall have it if it lies within my power to grant you.”

Legolas favored him with a weak smile.  “I pray that it is.  I fear I must beg your leave to quit your excellent company, my lord, that I may find a place where I may breathe.”

Here it was, Gimli thought.  The Elf can stand it no more.  He did look rather short of breath.  The rise and fall of his chest was increasingly visible as he fought for air, evidence enough of his plight if one knew the grace that usually characterized his imperceptible breathing.

“My profoundest apologies, Legolas!” Thorin said, straightening at once in his seat.  “Certainly; you have borne your trials admirably.  You will find an open terrace if you climb the winding staircase there and follow the corridor.  You may have my escort if you require it.”

“My thanks, my lord Thorin,” Legolas said, rising, “but that will not be necessary.  I expect I will rejoin you before the night is much older.  Gimli,” he beckoned quietly but firmly, turning his attention to him and his mother as he passed.  “My Lady, I would speak with your husband.” 

Leaving the stifling and reverberating hall behind him with the suppressed panic of one who knows his time is short, Legolas at last gained the stairway Thorin had spoken of, finding it just beyond the banner-adorned entry.  Dimly lit, the stairs shone quietly with colored stones of gold, red and orange, the many hues of dragon fire.  But Legolas took small notice as he bounded forward two steps at a time, striving toward the glimpse of the open sky he had been promised. 

He remembered this from the first time he had come here together with his father after the Battle of Dale.  One might have thought this place no different from the embellished caverns he called his home, but he could feel the looming weight of the mountain above him, ever present and unrelenting.  He had endured it only a day and yet could abide it no more unless promised a timely glimpse of the world outside where he could taste the free air again.  The heat and abrasive noise of the crowded hall, the hostile eyes of Thorin’s guard on his back, the barely contained discontent of Glóin together with the smothering confinement of too many bodies in too small a place had at last proved to be too much to bear at once, mercilessly sapping his stamina and leaving him now in desperate straits. 

He flew up the stairs that seemed to wind upward forever, running from the crushing atmosphere that threatened to suffocate him.  His breath came ever shorter and blood pounded in his ears, but he did not dare stop to take the stairway at a saner pace.  He needed to get out, away from these walls of stone. 

Finally when he felt he could go no farther and had almost resigned himself to being found later in an inelegant heap on the stairs, the passage widened and leveled into a straight and august corridor, darkened but for the beckoning glow of starlight at the far end.  The air was clearer now, and Legolas ran toward the terrace.  There, bathed at last in pale starlight, he fell against the rail like one half-drowned, drawing deep gasping breaths of cold night air. 

It had passed, the looming burden of the mountain above him, leaving him momentarily exhausted.  Whatever force of will had held him upright that day was broken, and he would need one or two long moments of his own to recover it.  At present he could not bear the thought of going back inside; not now.  Like a bird with clipped wings in a gilded cage, he was offered here some semblance of freedom, but promised only a return to the sunless depths whence he had come, for his task was yet unfinished.       

Gradually the clear night restored his vitality to him, like the clearing of mist over a stream.  The skies were clear here, but dark clouds gathered on the horizon and the wind was growing in promise of a storm.  He picked thoughtfully at the motif of a rampant dragon chiseled into the stonework, all very Dwarvish, though it seemed to be straining toward freedom even as he was, imprisoned forever in stone. 

But then he deliberately thrust such dismal thoughts from his mind and climbed to his feet.  A son of Thranduil did not wallow in self-pity, for there was no more useless an emotion.  There were other concerns to be addressed, notably the heavy tread on the stairway far behind him.  They had finally caught up with him.  Steeling himself for the confrontation, Legolas put his shoulders back and recovered what he could of his poise, prepared to meet Glóin as an acknowledged but benign foe.  He turned slowly to face the dark interior, putting the stars behind him in supporting ranks as he felt his raiment arrange itself impressively at his back.  He watched them as they came; Gimli seemed apprehensive, and with good cause; Lady Káli was restless, spoiling for a fight; and Lord Glóin seemed as bitter as ever, adamant in his estimation of the Elvenking and his progeny, with the subtle air of a huntsman who has at last cornered his prey beyond hope of escape.  It was his cold gaze that Legolas held as the kindred triad approached him through the shadows, and he could feel him grow uncomfortable beneath his steady regard.  Legolas did not expect this to bring any favorable results, but it must be done.  He loosed a terse sigh as he always did before beginning a disagreeable task, though the growing chill in the air made it abundantly and perhaps threateningly visible.  They seemed so fascinated by dragons here, he could just imagine how Glóin would interpret him. 

The Dwarf halted at the edge of the shadows as though his feet were rooted in the stone, instinctively unwilling to relinquish the imagined advantage of the darkness.  A lift of his bearded chin issued the challenge, demanding an explanation of this ill-timed meeting.

“Glóin of Erebor,” Legolas began, channeling all the authority he possessed into his voice.  He forwent the Dwarf’s title purposefully, and it was not without effect.  “I come to you not as a lord of my own people, but as the son of my father.”

“That goes without saying, Legolas of the Wood,” Glóin returned snappishly, stripping his adversary of all abdicable honor as well.  “And as such, you are more than fortunate that we receive you at all.” 

Legolas stiffened, feeling the wind break upon him where he stood.  But the slight was not entirely unexpected, and so did not fall so hard as Glóin had intended.  

“You are not alone in your estimation of us, Master Dwarf,” he said frostily with a smile twisted into something without emotion at all, his years again beginning to color his manner now that he was provoked, for he and his father had ruled the Wood long before there were Nogothrim in the Mountain.  “But you do not influence the throne of Erebor.  Thorin is a friend to Lasgalen, and lest you and your kind be the undoing of all that Gimli and I have established between us, I have come to discuss the redress of grievances between our houses.”

Glóin snorted, as if to kick aside without consideration whatever overtures of reconciliation were offered.  “Discussion will accomplish nothing, Master Elf.  A debt stands between us that cannot be redressed.”

“Cannot?” Legolas asked pointedly.  “Or will not?” 

“The difference matters little,” Glóin insisted haughtily, drawing himself up as if threatened. 

“And what do you want of him!” Káli snapped roughly, frustrated by her husband’s impudence.  “Shall he crawl to your feet and beg?  The past is dead!”

“No, my Lady,” Legolas said.  “The past is not dead, not so long as it is carried in memory.  One would hope the same follies would therefore not befall us again.  Would you have the Nogothrim pass through Lasgalen in peace, Master Glóin, or be regarded still as foes?” 

“The wars are ended,” he insisted stubbornly.  “We have no need of the Greenwood road.” 

Legolas met Gimli’s uneasy gaze, both seeming to recognize that he had his work cut out for him.  “My Lord Thranduil sends his regards to you in particular, Master Glóin,” he said.  “And the commission he granted to your son was extended to you as well.  You are both welcome within our halls.”

“A curse upon you and your halls!” Glóin burst at last as his festering indignation gained the upper hand.  “Never could you tempt me to return!  Not if all your ill-gotten hoard was emptied at my feet!” 

Legolas felt his own anger growing in spite of himself as dull thunder rolled threateningly above them.  Had he endured the crush of the Mountain and abased both himself and his father for this?  

“So be it,” he returned with more force than he had intended, enough to startle both Gimli and his mother as he advanced one angry pace to see Glóin fall further into the shadows before him.  “It will not be said of us that we did not attempt to make our peace with you!  Perhaps we expected too much.  Let us burn in the fires of your heart until it consumes you if you will, for it matters not to Thranduil that you despise him.  A worthy opponent he could receive proudly, but a avaricious rat in a hole troubles him not at all.”

His tone carried much more than his words, though the waning voice of his better judgement warned him that he had stepped beyond his bounds.  Glóin heard the sneer in his voice, for he spat at his feet and then stormed away to fume elsewhere.  Neither Gimli nor Káli dared say anything in the silence that followed, and Legolas stood unmoving until his own wrath had subsided.  He did not regret his words, but his delivery could indeed have been more civil.  But that night he had suffered as much of Glóin as he could gracefully endure.  Frustrated at every turn, he had at last lashed out blindly as his father was wont to do.  He had once seen Thranduil shatter a pane of glass with a bare fist.

As the heat of the moment passed, Legolas feared he had shattered something far more important, and much more difficult to restore. 

The next day found them back in the forge, if only to drown in noise the thought of the night before. Gimli had been reluctant to bring Legolas back there after seeing how much it seemed to demand of him, but the Elf had spent the night at the terrace watching the steady downpour of cold rain and insisted that he would be all right.

Gimli was himself busy with Frár, planning so far as he could what would be needed to begin work on the commission Thranduil had given them. Legolas was not far, making himself useful. If he was uncomfortable he hid it well as he and Flói designed still more additions to Emeldir’s dowry. They sat together at the cluttered worktable, Legolas drawing to his creative heart’s content while Flói chose the designs he favored and expanded upon them with scrawled notation in the margins, plans of precious metal and gems. The Elf wore the casual attire Gimli had provided the day before and his hair was held back in clasps of Dwarvish gold, but still there festered an unmistakable atmosphere of discontent among the army of smiths, held at bay only by the indifference of many others.

Sparks had flown in his own home last night. As often happens in Dwarvish quarrels the violence had escalated beyond the measure of the passions involved, and the most lasting damage was that done to the chair bereft now of a back. His parents had bickered before, indeed he had never known a pair of Dwarves who had not. It would be forgiven in due time as a matter of course, but the fact of it remained.

"Gimli," Frár asked at last in a low voice, following his line of sight, "what is he really like?"

"Legolas?" He watched as the Elf gently but firmly confiscated a charcoal pencil from Scatha’s eager little paws, fraternizing easily with Flói as they both critiqued a design Gimli could not see. "Like that, I suppose," he said. "Even now I’m not sure what to make of him."

"Neither is anyone else," Frár said wryly. "It seems his Elvish charm failed to impress your father."

Gimli gave a snort that was half disgust and half frustration. "Nor will it ever," he admitted at last. "He has shut his eyes and closed his ears against it."

"I care not one way or the other," Frár went on easily, turning an iron rod in his hands. "But I know cousin Náin will hate him for many a year. Nor will he ever love your mother."

"So it was Náin," Gimli mused thoughtfully, wondering what kind of repercussions would come of that.

"It certainly was," Frár laughed. "But I hear he deserved it. His has never been a delicate tongue, and Káli seemingly did not care for his insinuations. He is all boast and no brawn. Look at him there, throwing sparks at your Elf."

Gimli saw him. Náin was not far at his own station, pounding away on a glowing brand. But he seemed to hardly care what he was doing so long has he hurled showers of hot sparks as near to Legolas as he could.

Meanwhile, Legolas shooed Scatha away from his drawing again lest he smear it. Undiscouraged, the endearing menace bounded from the table to alight on his shoulder.  Legolas paid him no mind, for the companionship of another arboreal prisoner here in the Mountain was one of the few things that helped him to relax. He was by no means unaware of the inimical glances cast his way, but endeavored to ignore them, wearisome though it became.

"One can only endure so many flowers, Legolas," Flói said in a mild complaint that amounted to a new challenge, making himself heard over the din. "Conjure something worthy of Bard the Bowman’s house."

"Very well," he consented. "How is this?" What began as a few vague strokes gradually took form over the page as another great eagle, reminiscent of Gwaihir and Landroval as he had seen them at the Battle of Morannon and the fall of Mordor. Sweeping from the sky in a hunter’s dive with talons outstretched, it was as though lightning had taken wing, swift motion that would be captured wonderfully in faceted silver.

"Marvelous!" Flói decided as he snatched the paper, though Legolas was certain the Dwarf loved more the image of the finished work that he saw in his mind’s eye. "Just wait and see what I will make of it!"

"And what has so excited you?" Lóni asked as he passed, wiping sweat from his brow with a rag that perhaps had once been white. "Carving a niche for yourself, Legolas?"

"As well as I might," he managed before yielding to Flói’s interruption.

"Look!" the Dwarf insisted, dazzled by the visions he conjured for himself. "We could make this much like that the Elvenking sent to His Majesty. Or we could mount it on a crag of crystal and set it with sapphire. What say you?"

"Perhaps," Lóni said, his interest piqued as well. "But you could angle that wing up a bit, and spread the tail. You could do that much, Legolas? I like sapphire; we could do that."

"Sickening," came a candid remark before Legolas could answer.  They all turned to see yet another of the many shirtless craftsmen, this one with his nose turned up at the offensive scene before him. Legolas was ominously reminded of the tactless churl Káli had trounced in the corridor, but they all looked alike to him. Whoever he was, he did not bother to exclude the object of his scorn from the conversation this time.

"And what do you mean by that?" Lóni demanded, planting his feet belligerently as though he expected a brawl.

"I mean that none of the Khazâd who have ever been worth the name would let an Elf pollute their craft." He spat as though the very word was disgusting.

By now the forge had gone unnaturally quiet, as forges go. The lines of battle had materialized in a moment, all eyes watching the progress of the confrontation. Legolas tensed where he sat, but did not look back for Gimli lest it be construed as weakness on his part.  He was painfully aware that today of all days he had willfully neglected to arm himself. Curses, Legolas, you are far too trusting! had been his father’s lament from years past. He would be slow to forgive him this one.

"Down with it, Náin," Lóni growled in return. "Or do you not remember Belegost, and the service the Khazâd rendered the Elves of the Hidden Kingdom? There are precedents. I dare say Legolas is a better hand with a pencil than you will ever be."

Náin spat again on the hot floor, eloquently expressing his own opinion of them. "Suit yourself." he sneered, waving Legolas away in scorn. "All this elfish hobgoblinry has clearly gone to your heads!"

Legolas was on his feet in an instant, all else burned from his mind. He done being insulted.  "Do we still frighten you that much, little Dwarf?" he sneered.  "Be certain you never walk beneath the trees in the dark!"

The forge erupted in a terrific thundering roar of embittered shouting that only grew worse, coming even to blows as the matter of the Elf was sparked to a violent culmination in the madness of the moment. Legolas felt that he saw the future unraveling before his eyes. He was no coward, but he remembered what had become of Thingol! Little would his knife have mattered, for he was still loath to slay a Dwarf in the Mountain unless he was given no choice but between that black deed and death itself. But strangely enough it seemed he had been all but forgotten as Dwarf turned against Dwarf on his account. There was Gimli, entering the fray wielding a rod of iron in a futile attempt to restore order to chaos; another leapt onto the table itself as he sought to bring a hammer down on Glóin’s son, but in one great heave Legolas overturned the whole thing with a resounding crash, sending Gimli’s assailant sprawling in a shower of disordered paraphernalia.  The upended slab of oak then acted as a shield to stem the vehement tide against him. He looked up only to twist away instinctively as a glint of sharp light come spinning toward him through the bedlam. The hatchet blade bit deep into the dry wood with a resounding crack, and a hideous animal shriek rang through the hall with a bright spray of blood.  Legolas recoiled, a searing stab of pain in his hand.

The fury died as quickly as it had begun, all sticken by the peril they had brought on themselves in their blind rage, reminded of their own mortality by the lurid stains of crimson that had suddenly exploded before them. Worse, they feared they had brought real harm to the Elf himself, a heinous transgression that would not be soon forgiven by either the Wood or the Mountain.

Legolas looked at his bloodied hand for a long moment in the breathless silence, the other clasped around his wrist in a vain effort to dull the throbbing pain that he refused to show on his face. The wild spray of blood ran fully the length of his arm, but it was not his own. In that dull moment of lingering shock he had never been so grateful to have still all five fingers, but the enormous jagged splinter lodged deep in his palm was a dreadful thing, sharp and painful even though a minor wound that would heal quickly. At the end of the bloodied trail on the floor was Scatha, from whose small throat had come that piercing scream. He was still crying pitifully as the truncated end of his tail bled unabated, staining his ashen fur.

That was not supposed to have happened, and the implications were lost on no one. Even those most adamantly set against the Elf would never have dared threaten his life, for the honor of the Mountain itself was at stake. Yet in one frenzied moment it had become a frightening possibility. It was a sobering thought, let alone the fact that inviolate blood had indeed been shed against all law and every trust.

Thorin would not be pleased.

"You see, my Lord? The Elf carries his own peril with him!"

"That remains to be decided, Lord Bofur," Thorin ruled chillingly. The King Under the Mountain was in a formidable temper, to be sure, seated on his throne like a great bear on a crag. "Now that I have heard the disgraceful tale of what has occurred within my halls, I am of a mind to put a stop to this folderol. What is it you suggest?"

Gimli sat next to his father in the rounded formation of council chairs, enduring an equal measure of both indignation and anxiety. This was only the second day, and already there was trouble! Had Legolas been called to stamp out fires like this in his household? The Elf was not present now, for he had disappeared in a silent but sullen mood to change his clothes lest he look like something out of the slaughterhouse. He had taken Scatha with him to tend both their hurts, something with which Gimli knew Legolas would rather busy himself while the Dwarves took heated counsel among themselves. Already it seemed he was becoming fed up with the volatile world of the Mountain, and would not be disappointed in the least to hear his welcome had worn thin.

"It was regrettable folly for the Lord Legolas to come here at all," Dwalin said firmly. "I cannot guess why the Elvenking would provoke us so."

"Thranduil never wanted Legolas to come here!" Gimli threw in for himself, unable to sit quiet any longer. "He came because he wanted to. But I fear we have fallen far short of his expectations."

"Then he may go as he pleases, back to the Wood where he belongs," Nori growled. The long years of high living in the Mountain had made him fat and peevish, but had not dulled his vitality. He was not always so irritable, but Gimli reflected that this council was keeping the old lord from the table beyond his time.

"Stop this!" Thorin snapped, beating a jeweled fist repeatedly against the carven arm of his chair. "Thranduil accepted Gimli into his halls and kept him with favor.  Now what is he to think of the Mountain if not as a den of pigheaded fools intent upon making a lingering nuisance of themselves?  Master Legolas already has reason enough to be wroth with us from what I have heard.  It will be a grim tale that comes to the ears of the Elvenking if this is not righted."

"He must remain in the confines of the common halls," Dwalin said. "He must not reenter the forges."

"I doubt he would return there if you begged him to."

"So be it.  Much could have been averted if he had stayed away from the first."

"Master Legolas shall judge for himself what company he will spurn now," Thorin insisted adamantly, "though you all seem unworthy of him.  Or was it he who began the quarrel?" In answer he received only stubborn silence. "So I thought.  Now, you tell me the Elf was unarmed and is therefore blameless.  Who was it who dared throw the blade?  It matters not for whom it was meant."

"None would confess to the deed," Gimli had to say. "We know not who it was, for many things were thrown."

"A pity," the King sneered, idly fingering the braided end of his beard as he considered just what punishment he would have ordered. "And as for this Náin, it was he who began it?"

"Yes, sire. Nor is it the first time, as my Lady Mother will tell you."

"Yes, I had heard of that. A repeated offender in just two days," Thorin mused grimly, finding a victim at last. "Let this be a lesson to all," he decreed. "Náin son of Nali will bear twenty-eight lashes to repay in blood his insults to the name of Legolas Thranduilion o Lasgalen. Then he shall be imprisoned so long as the Lord Legolas chooses to remain here among us.  Any who would openly harass the Elven-prince will suffer the same fate, be he lord or no.  I have had enough of this murmuring, this malcontent.  And as for the unworthy miscreant who imperiled the life of Thranduil’s son – when I shall find him – I myself will see that he is impaled through the hand as well. In the meantime all those present in the forges at the time will be questioned until their part in the conflict is known."

"But, sire – " Nori protested.

"There is nothing more to be said," Thorin decreed firmly. "Will you bring more shame down upon the Mountain?  It is I who must answer for you!  Your fates rest now on the magnanimity of the Prince Legolas, and I pray he will forgive the monstrous debt we owe for this trespass against him. I will not have the house of Thranduil so affronted again!"

It was a slow and awkward task, but at last Legolas had managed to staunch the bleeding of Scatha’s tail. The little beast was as shy of pain as one would expect, unceasingly voicing a strange squeaking whimper.  Once he had pulled the ugly splinter from his own hand Legolas managed to hold him still and attend the wound at the same time.  At least most of it remained, he thought testily as he bandaged it as well as he could. It was an odd creature, but the tail had been beautiful. It was not shortened beyond use, though it would take some getting used to.

Freed at long last from the disagreeable attentions, Scatha fled to curl into a pathetic shuddering lump on the bed until the lingering pain should subside. Legolas did not blame him. He was himself still unfit to be seen, for he had given but little attention to his own hurts in the interest of tending Scatha before he should bleed to death. He had been offered Dwarvish attendants, but had tactfully declined them.

Now that he had the time he looked again at his hand. It was not so frightful now that the blood had been washed away.  It was not much more than a dark hole in his palm – no more than a very large prick really – but deep and sore. He flexed it cautiously and found it a bit stiff, but that would pass.

He pulled off the ruined shirt and donned one of his own. Of a simple woodland colors, it reflected the turn of his mind.  These Dwarves were impossible, and he was ready to be done with this mission before something worse happened.  He left Scatha to recover and went to seek company he understood, difficult though it was to find such in this place.  He was given a wide berth by the others in the corridors, for his change of temper was evident.  Sullen indignation had overpowered what vestiges of caution had governed his comings and goings; now he went where he and when he would, and none quite dared to oppose him after what had happened but a half hour ago. He could forgive the damage done him, for it would be indistinguishable in a day or so. But the memory of the vulgar words smeared upon his name would make him bristle for many days hence. He could endure much, but he would suffer no one to equate his kin with orcs. He reflected ruefully that a rat like Náin was probably not worth his ire, but at the moment he had not been able to help himself.

His steps led him through many winding ways until he had drawn near the front gates. A turn brought him to another tunnel, one that descended an incline into the less elegant chambers of the mountain that nonetheless seemed much more appealing to him at this point. The stables of Erebor were housed in an open cave at ground level that would admit the sun on a clear day, but for now the rain continued unabated.  The cold and wet sound was like music to him. The air smelled of horse and dust, but even that was better than the pervading aura of Dwarf.  Picking his way over the hay strewn on the floor, he reached out to stroke the pale face of one of the only tall horses to be found stabled there among the work ponies, the one he had ridden from Dale, pricking his ears and nickering as if to say, where have you been, and what are we doing here?

"Sometimes I wonder," he said, burying his fingers in the silver forelock. Horses never changed, and they remained beautiful in their simplicity. They did not care for difficulties of race or allegiance.  If only the weather would permit, he could have benefitted greatly from a timely ride.

"Mae govannen, my lord."

Legolas stopped, taken a bit off his guard. That was no Dwarf. He turned to see a Barding man standing at a respectful distance, silhouetted against the pouring rain outside. Moreover, he wore the livery of the king’s house. "Mae govannen," he returned courteously. "And what brings you to Erebor?"

"As the King’s courier," the Man explained with a patient smile, "duty often brings me to the Dwarvish Mountain. But this time I was given yet another trust independent of my errand to Thorin."

Legolas nodded absently. "Plainly you know my name," he said. "And there you hold the advantage over me."

"Your pardon, my Lord. I am Gereon, son of Gildas of Dale."

"The name is familiar."

"It should be, my lord. It was my son who gave you the use of his horse. He bade me come here – without your knowing, of course – and see how his friend was getting along."

Now Legolas smiled, remembering the boy. "He certainly did not let him go lightly," he said. "It could be that I return him before long."

Gereon turned a knowing look upon him. "There is unrest within the halls?" he asked surreptitiously lest Dwarvish ears catch his words. "I knew you had set a challenge for yourself, my Lord, when you left our city."

"So it has proven," Legolas said with a touch of wry humor as they stood together with the horse. "It grows by the day. I begin to believe it would be best to leave well enough alone until a few years hence, when I may visit without such peril."

"Perhaps, my lord.  Here you are still salt in old wounds.  And I may say also that the guardsmen you left behind are beside themselves with worry. The one called Dorthaer has not ceased to pace the halls of the palace in the past days."

A monstrous clap of thunder interrupted them for a moment, as though threatening the outcome should tensions go unrelieved. The rumble was a long time in dying away, and Legolas felt he could recognize a warning when he was given one.

"He need not worry himself for much longer," he said, his mind made up. He had fulfilled his father’s errand, and it seemed best to admit defeat for the moment in his secondary endeavor. It was not worth the risk just now. "You may tell him when you return that I shall not be far behind."

Despite Thorin’s ultimatum, the debate had continued for a disproportionate length of time. At last Gimli had won his freedom from the heated circle, understanding now in a dim way what had made Legolas break for the open air the night before. Tempers were running high, making kindred company uncomfortable. And so he went in search of more agreeable companionship.

He worried about Legolas, especially since he had been pulled away by the council at a crucial moment. It seemed he was not making a very fine figure of a host thus far. Curse Náin. What a shambles he had made of their efforts! Whatever tentative threads of trust had been woven between the Wood and the Mountain were certainly severed now, though he knew many of the grisly details would not come directly to Thranduil from his son’s mouth. Legolas had worked too hard already seeing this alliance established to let a splinter strike it a death blow.

He rapped on Legolas’ door there in the corridor, but received no answer. When a second knock earned no more acknowledgment than the first, he cautiously peeked inside. No one but Scatha looked up to greet him. "Oh, now where has he gone?" he grumbled to himself, perceptive enough to know the Elf was still riding the vestiges of a pugnacious mood. It made him uneasy to know Legolas was at large in the Mountain alone. He thought the Elf had better sense than that.

But his mind was soon put at ease as he turned to see his friend on his way back from the other direction. "Where have you been?" he demanded at once.

"To keep the company of the horses," Legolas answered succinctly, brushing past into his room and inviting Gimli in behind him. "I find them to be simpler companions."

"No doubt." Gimli closed the door behind him. "How is your hand?"

"It is nothing," Legolas insisted, though it seemed he made an effort to keep it hidden as he sat beside Scatha on the bed and inspected the bandaging on the shortened tail. He seemed dissatisfied with it. "Help me change this, will you? I could use another hand."

"First show me yours," Gimli insisted, knowing Legolas was purposefully making light of his injury.

"It is not – "

"Show it to me." With a brazen will that Legolas only resisted with half a heart, Gimli took it for himself and turned it up to see the damage in the full light. He grimaced a bit, for the dark slit was still plain to see though it had begun to heal in the last hour, accentuated by the ugly bruise surrounding the point of impact like frozen ripples.  "I am sorry about all this, Legolas."

"I am certain you are." He snatched his hand away to gather a reluctant Scatha into a firm hold against his side. "But it is my own fault."

"What?" Gimli turned back with a roll of fresh bandages in his hand – at least Legolas had been provided with that much. "And next I suppose you will claim responsibility for Náin’s words as well?"

"Náin is another matter," Legolas stated frigidly, bracing himself as Scatha struggled against him. "But we should not have put this trial to Erebor yet. They are not ready."

"That I cannot argue," Gimli admitted ruefully as he caught hold of the writhing tail long enough to loose the old bandage, deeply stained already. "But it may please you to know that at this very moment Náin has borne twenty-eight hard lashes to redeem every letter of your name. By Thorin’s command he is now chained in a cell so long as you stay."

"Good," Legolas grunted, watching as Gimli endeavored to re-wrap the wounded tail. "I may pity him tomorrow, but for the moment I care not.  A single day in the dark cannot matter much in the life of a cockroach. Ah!" He pulled his hand away as Scatha unwittingly clawed at it, utilizing a terse but colorful word for which Gimli did not ask a translation.

"One day? You will admit defeat already?"

"I cannot see that I have any choice in the matter," Legolas said. "My presence is only making matters worse, and I would leave before Erebor becomes more like Orodruin. Your father will be no more inclined to endure my company even if I should remain through the winter. I do not renounce the challenge, but it would be better pursued at another place and another time."

Again, Legolas’ reasoning was unassailable, much though Gimli would have liked to refute it somehow.  But it was still regrettable.

"Oh, you’re right, of course," he grumped, letting Scatha’s tail go now that it wore a new bandage. The little beast fled to the chair in the corner, plainly wanting to be left well enough alone for a while yet. Gimli could understand how he felt, and eloquently expressed his dissatisfaction with the whole episode with a choice word of his own.

The Elf seemed to regret it as much as he did. "Some things cannot be helped,” he said. “It is a wonder that we found our way this far, and Thorin has been pleasant enough." He looked down on him now with a hint of a smile, like the sun behind a cloud. "After all, it is more encouraging to laugh at life than to lament it."

"True enough. But you can’t thumb your nose at your enemy for long before you must face him again. I wonder what will befall us the next time."

"I prefer to think that nothing will mar the next time," Legolas said. "These past days were not fruitless. We may not have earned the goodwill of all Erebor, but what of Lóni? And Flói, and Frár?" Now he did smile. "And Káli. I have decided you are very much your mother’s son, Gimli."

"And you are more your father’s son than I realized before," Gimli returned, unable to help smiling himself. "What now shall we do with mine?"

Legolas stopped to become thoughtful again. "I do not know," he said grimly, gathering his legs beneath him on the bed as he continued to gently flex his hand. "I cannot leave him like this, but neither can I do aught to win his favor.  You still know him better than I, so what would you suggest?"

"Well . . ." Gimli twiddled his beard, thinking. "Mother has often said the best way into his heart is through his stomach. I do not suppose you can cook, Legolas?" he asked wryly.

"Yes, I can," the Elf assured him, though in the same twisted voice. "But I am not especially inclined to attempt that route unless as a last resort. But Káli seems to have won his regard somehow. Was she endowed with any particular attributes I may safely emulate?" His tone made it clear that the request came with extremely narrow confines.

"She had a sizable dowry," Gimli suggested.

An expression passed Legolas’ face remarkably like that of a horse with its ears laid back. "I might have guessed that," he said. "All comes back to revolve around the contents of a vault, does it not? It is not a price I would shrink from if he would only accept it, but I remember he has stated in no uncertain terms his opinion of our ‘ill-gotten hoard’."

"He has been known to speak without thought," Gimli said. "I would like to be there to see him refuse a worthy wereguild if it be properly offered. It is a standing debt of honor that he holds against you, perhaps irrationally. And it seems he intends to deny you any other means of repaying him. The commission your father extended to us was a fine attempt, but I imagine he wants no business with Thranduil until that debt of years past is acknowledged and settled at the expense of your house."

"Father would not stoop to buy the begrudged friendship of Glóin," Legolas said, the cautious shadow returned to his eyes that always appeared when he considered the affairs of his house.

"Probably not," Gimli conceded. "But would you?"

Legolas passed the rest of that day in a reasonable measure of solitude. He had spent several long hours on yet another terrace to watch the rain slowly cease, Gimli’s proposal very much on his mind. With his eyes turned south to Lasgalen, he had taken counsel with himself again and again, considering matters as they stood. The same arguments dominated his thoughts now that he had returned to the sunless depths of his room, donning his militant robes of green and crimson in preparation for yet another Dwarvish encounter over dinner. That particular setting always seemed to ruin his appetite despite the overabundance – or perhaps because of it – and he knew he would probably be hungry enough to eat himself sick when he returned to Dale. There was something unsettling in watching a Dwarf opposite him somehow consume three times what even his father could manage. And Thranduil was not known for picking at his food.

His knife had been still on his diamond dress belt where he had left it before.  He twirled the familiar weight of the blade first in one hand, then in the other, ignoring the lingering discomfort from his injury while gauging his ability to function despite it. He would not appear crippled before a crowd of Dwarves.

Gimli’s question continued to nettle him. He knew any such open admission of Glóin’s obsessive grievance would indeed displease his father. Furthermore, he knew that if it was left to Thranduil the supposed debt would stand unaddressed until Glóin should breathe his last and thus remove a stubborn obstacle. Thranduil knew he could afford to wait, and no mortal had ever outlasted him in a duel of wills. This, Legolas knew, was his own problem.

Scatha was beginning to perk up, but was still a bit languid. He was freed of all restraint, for Legolas no longer cared what was construed of his mercy, and had sent Gimli back to the king with the jeweled collars that had hindered his now constant companion. 

Whatever he chose to do, he would have to do quickly. He did intend to be gone tomorrow regardless of what happened tonight. It was not that he feared for his safety, but the incident in the forge had brutally proven just what a liability his presence had become. It seemed only by grace that no one but Scatha had sustained any grave injury in the madness. And now that Thorin was cracking the whip, those already set against him would resent him all the more. Peace may be restored, but in the meantime the chasm was only widened, perhaps eventually to a point when it would be unbridgeable.

He still had no love at all for that asinine fool Náin, but had grudgingly begun to pity him with the same reluctant sentiment that he had extended to the creature Gollum. The corporal punishment dealt him was justified – indeed it was freely employed among his own people for grave offenses. Thranduil disliked to put even the worst apples of the bushel to an untimely death, as seldom as it was ever considered or needed, for he had seen too much kinslaying in his time, and life had been precious in Mirkwood. So, if a good flogging would accomplish his purposes just as well, dealing brief wounds but a lasting memory, he was willing to employ it in place of a more unforgiving measures. Náin’s particular offense of open detraction of a lord – even of a prince – would likely not have earned him quite so severe a chastisement at even Thranduil’s hand, but Dwarves were sturdy people and Thorin knew his own business best. At heart, Legolas would not wish dark imprisonment upon anyone. The sooner he took his leave, the sooner Náin would be freed.

He considered now how he would deal with the matter of Glóin. He had riches enough elsewhere to afford to be extravagant in this attempt, but he wondered what he would be free to give that Glóin would not refuse outright. He had been known to speak before thought, as Gimli had said. Again his errant thoughts reminded him of his father’s supposed opinion of the matter, but the next moment he renounced all such cautions. He was not his father, and in this he would act for himself.

He knew not yet what he would do, but by the Valar, he would do it.

All too soon he was seated again beside Thorin at the king’s table, surrounded by less than hospitable company. He kept his palm faced down at much as he could. Gimli’s family was positioned directly across from him now, and so he endured Glóin’s obvious displeasure as well as he could. The conversation left much to be desired, for apparently the Dwarves were still uncertain as to his particular frame of mind, wondering if he intended to hold the transgressions of that day against them. Certainly he was in a position to do so.

"I offer the profoundest apologies of my house," Thorin said at last, over the final course. "Today will remain a black memory in the histories of the Mountain."

"I appreciate your concern, my lord," Legolas answered carefully, turning his glass by the stem. The others did not seem overly accustomed to such, and he wondered if the more refined glasses were employed for his sake. "I will forgive the incident, but it made clear to me the liability my presence has become to the peace of your realm. Lest another needless conflagration claim still more casualties, I shall take my leave of you with the dawn."

Thorin glared daggers at the sullen lords around them, but did not contest his choice. "As you wish, my lord. I would that you would stay, but if my own people cannot observe the simple trusts of hospitality, they are not worthy of your solicitude."

"It was heedless of me to provoke them before their time," Legolas said. The servants had begun clearing the discarded plates, relieving the table of much of the disorderly clutter. "As for the Lord Glóin, I particularly regret that I was unable to restore peace between us, remembering the welcome companionship of his son."

"You could have done no more than you have, my lord," Káli insisted firmly, heedless of her husband. "You have been more than gracious, and I for one shall remember it."

"Quiet, wife," Glóin growled into his beard, unable to bear her browbeating any longer.

"Quiet, yourself, you old gremlin!" she snarled back. "You never bothered to speak before this. Why should you now?"

"My lady," Legolas protested. He was of the same mind, but that was no way for a wife to address her husband in mixed company. "Please."

"Legolas, if you will not fight your own battles, I will!" Káli berated him, obviously quite fed up with this impasse. She was on her feet now, beating a strong fist on the hard wood of the table. "Glóin, you are a stubborn fool! All of you! What is to be gained by snubbing worthy fellows like these?"

"Down, woman!" Glóin bellowed, standing as well. "Do you dare goad me further?!"

"Goad you?" she sneered, rising to the occasion. "I’ll loose a tooth or two from that saucy mouth of yours!"

"Glóin! Káli!"

This was the last straw. Legolas rose imposingly to his feet and released the hidden clasp at his shoulder, letting the Sereguren fall in a brilliant cascade onto the table with a loud crash none could ignore. "Will this settle our debt in your eyes?" he snapped, incensed by the utterly childish tantrum he had witnessed.

Silence descended on the assembly. It was enough for a king’s ransom, and could not be lightly refused. It mattered little to Legolas in view of what the loss could gain for him, but he knew a storm would await him in Lasgalen when he related the event. Glóin wished for an open acknowledgment of the past? Well, here it was, and good riddance.

The old Dwarf was a long time in regarding the ultimatum. He plainly did not want to accept it, but the gleam of mithril had enamored him, and Legolas knew that by the old law an offer of ransom must be accepted. The others sat with baited breath as the tense moments passed slowly by. Káli looked as though she were ready to beat her husband’s nose into his face if he dared refuse this time.

"Very well, Master Elf," Glóin said at last, but reluctantly and with no emotion whatsoever as though his hand were forced. "You have not my pardon, nor my love. But with this will I consider the matter at an end."

"So be it," Legolas returned in the same frigid tone as everyone began to breathe again. "And for the first, I may say we have come to a complete agreement."