Title: Not Only by Blood Are Brothers Made

Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit being made, this is just for fun.

Rating: PG-13 for violence and injuries

Spoilers: LOTR and my fanfics

Warning: injured elf and angst

Beta:

Dedication: for my longsuffering hubby for putting up with my LOTR obsession

Inspired by the brief exchange between Legolas and Gimli at the Black Gate in ROTK.

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Gimli shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had been keeping watch over his injured companion since the previous afternoon, refusing all offers of aid or rest. The humans were very solicitous of the elf. Living as close to Mirkwood, ah Eryn Lasgalen he corrected himself, as they did they very likely knew who was in their care. Even if they did not know him from contact with elves of his father’s realm, they had probably heard enough of the Quest and the War of the Ring to know who an elf and dwarf traveling in each other’s company were likely to be. Gimli wasn’t certain whether that comforted him or made him more nervous.

He scanned Legolas’ ashen features once more and his frown deepened. His outlook would be considerably improved if the elf would just awaken. He and Arod had dragged Legolas into the town just after mid day the previous day, the elf having taken injury in a rockslide that Gimli continually berated himself for not anticipating. Legolas had lain buried for more than a day before Gimli had managed to locate him and dig him out. Gimli’s relief upon seeing that his friend still breathed had been tempered by the extent of the elf’s injuries. Legolas was battered and bruised almost beyond recognition, his left ankle badly gashed and right arm as well as several ribs broken.

After doing what little he could for Legolas, he had constructed a crude litter for Legolas to rest on and hitched it to Arod. The horse had seemed to understand what Gimli intended and he co-operated in every way, much to the dwarf’s relief. It was a further stroke of luck that Gimli had questioned Legolas about their whereabouts the night before the rockslide and the elf had told him that he wished to pass through the town; otherwise Gimli would not have known of its existence.

Gimli was even more concerned by the time they had reached the town. Legolas had not so much as stirred since the dwarf had pulled him free of the rubble. Over the period of years that he and Legolas had been friends, Gimli had seen the elf injured often enough to have a fairly good notion of how long it took most wounds to heal for him, and by the dwarf’s reckoning, Legolas was long overdue to awaken even then.

He shifted again and rubbed his tired eyes. They had been on their way to Rivendell to meet up with the hobbits, who had journeyed from the Shire for a visit with Elrond’s sons. He had already sent word both to Rivendell and to Legolas’ father of his friend’s injuries. Legolas would not thank him for the latter when he woke but Gimli knew that if it had been him that was injured; Legolas would have done the same for Gloin would wish to know. He fully expected to see King Thranduil arrive as soon as he was able, as well as the twins and the hobbits. He wondered briefly if the town’s people had any idea what they were in for.

The door opened and a rather comely young maid entered carrying towels and a pitcher of steaming water. Behind her was another maid, her sibling apparently, bearing a large bowl and fresh bandages. The two girls smiled warmly at Gimli and set about bathing Legolas’ face, arms, and upper torso and changing his bandages. Gimli was rather impressed by the manner in which they spoke to Legolas as if he were awake and aware, explaining everything they were doing to him as they did it. The girls folded the quilt covering the elf up to expose his legs, leaving his hips modestly covered and bathed his feet and legs, as deftly avoiding jarring his ankle as they had his arm.

They had finished and were tucking the quilt snugly around the unconscious elf when a woman who also resembled the two girls entered the room, a tray of food in her hands. The girls exited then, taking the items they had brought in with them. The woman removed a bowl of what looked to be a clear broth from the tray and set it on the small table by Legolas’ head. The rest of the tray she handed to Gimli.

“Ye needs ta eat, Master Dwarf. Ye’ll be doin’ ‘im no good if ye sicken.” The look she gave him brooked no resistance, and Gimli was strongly reminded of Lady Eowyn for a moment. He began to eat, and the woman smiled in satisfaction. “Now then, after ye eat, ye can go next door and have ye a bath whilst I watch over th’ Prince.” Gimli’s negative response prompted another stern look. “Master Dwarf, I promise ye ‘e’ll be looked after as though ‘e was in ‘is own ‘ome! The folk ‘o this town ‘ave a lot to be beholden for to ‘im an’ ‘is kin. We’d not ever ‘arm ‘im.” Gimli looked at her quizzically.

“I’m thinkin’ that’s a tale I want to hear.”

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Nera had insisted that Gimli bathe and rest before she would tell her tale. In the end, his arguments had proven useless and after she threatened him with being dragged into the yard by her sons and doused with water like a prize pig, he relented and did as she had bidden him. He slept far longer than he had wished to and it was the next afternoon before he again sat with Legolas and heard the town’s legend from the mistress of the house they rested in.

It had been centuries ago, Nera said, that her ancestor had stumbled across the corpses of elves slain by orcs. One survivor, there had been, an elf child about the size of a four year old human. Her ancestor had taken him in and cared for him until his family could be found. It was only after the elfling had been reunited with his kin that they had discovered his identity. Ever afterward, the Elvenking had looked after the town’s people in gratitude for their service to his son.

Even when the town had been abandoned just before the War, he had aided them by giving them shelter and passage through his realm to safer territory. After the lands had been cleansed and were safe again, he had helped them to rebuild their town.

“So ye see, Master Gimli, to our thinkin’ th’ debt’s long since paid an’ then some. We’re in ‘is debt now, so’s anythin’ we can do to aid ‘im or ‘is kin, we’ll do an’ gladly.” She grinned at him. “O’ course, we’d a-done it anyways, but especial ‘cause ‘e’s th’ Prince.”

“Well, lass, that explains a lot. I’d wondered why he wanted to come here. He usually avoids towns like poison.” Gimli studied his friend’s still face for a moment. Crazy elf, he thought, you could have just told me that. It was just like Legolas not to speak of his own history. In the years that had passed since the War, Gimli had managed to get Legolas to share a few stories from his past. Most of his knowledge of the elf’s history came from the stories told by Aragorn, Arwen, and Arwen’s incorrigible brothers, much to Legolas’ chagrin.

“Aye, I ‘member ‘is last visit. A good thirty years gone it were. I were just a young’un, but I ‘member it.” She rose and moved to the elf’s side, smoothing the quilt covering him and laying her hand along one pale cheek. “I’m no’ likin’ th’ look o‘‘im, Master Gimli. ‘E’s gettin’ fevered, too. I were afeared o‘ this. That weren‘t no nat‘rel rockslide, it were an orcish elf-trap. Them orcs used ta set ‘em all over th‘ foothills ‘round here. They‘ll drop a ‘uman quick enough, but they‘re set up ‘special to take down elves. Chock full o‘ nastiness an‘ poison, they is. ‘E‘s gonna be powerful sick.” Gimli muttered a dwarven curse under his breath.

“I knew something else was wrong. He should’ve awakened by now. Those scalawags that lord Elrond calls his sons had better hurry. I’m thinkin’ we might be needin’ them.” Gimli scowled fiercely at his friend. “You listen to me, you crazy elf. Don’t you be dying on me and leaving me to explain it to your father!”

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Gimli had insisted on helping Nera and her daughters clean, salve, and re-bandage Legolas’ wounds. She had very carefully removed the bandages on his leg and splints on his arm to check for contamination. The worst area turned out to be his ankle and Nera had lanced it, draining it until she was certain no infection or contamination remained. After she had replaced the bandages, tying them on in such a way that the air could reach the site of the infection and aid it in healing, she shooed her daughters out of the room.

In spite of the draining of the ankle, Legolas’ fever was still dangerously high. With Gimli’s help, Nera placed towels soaked in frigid well water on his bare skin. Legolas thrashed weakly, trying to throw the towels off his body, but the dwarf held him still with a strength that belied his short stature. Through the night, they replaced the towels when they became warm.

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“Master Gimli, if ye’d prop ‘im up a bit we’ll see iffen ‘e’ll take a bit o’ broth.” Gimli lifted the elf’s shoulders and slid his compact body behind Legolas so that the elf rested at an angle on his chest.

“It’ll be easier this way. In case he decides to struggle, I can hold him still. And blast it, Nera, I told you to call me Gimli.” The dwarf shot the human woman a look of mock-irritation.

“Aye, tha’ ye did. I were forgettin’. Sorry, Gimli, “she replied with a weary smile.

“Well, don’t be forgetting again, lass, else I’ll have to take my axe to you,” Gimli returned with a faint chuckle. “Aye, that’s a relief to see,” he commented, watching the broth disappear without resistance. Nera spooned the last of the broth into Legolas, smiling when he swallowed it easily.

“Now we’ll see how tha’ settles afore we try givin’ ‘im some more.” Nera rose and set the bowl aside, returning to flip the covers up to look at Legolas’ ankle. “’Is ankle still looks good. There be no ‘eat in it, an’ no redness. Tha‘s a good sign, tha’ is.” She reached up to help Gimli ease the elf back onto the bed when Legolas’ eyelids fluttered and he groaned. He flinched in pain and his uninjured arm flailed about wildly. Gimli caught his hand and gently folded the elf’s arm against his chest, tightening his other arm around Legolas’ chest, avoiding the ribs he knew were broken.

“Easy, I’ve got you, “he soothed the not quite lucid elf. “I’ve got you.” Legolas stilled at the familiar sound of the dwarf’s voice.

“Gimli?” he whispered hoarsely. “What…?” Legolas’ voice faltered and Gimli winced in sympathy.

“You got caught in a rockslide, laddie. You were hurt and you need to keep still. Do you understand?” Gimli shifted slightly to be able to see the elf’s face and Legolas hissed in pain as the movement jarred his ribs. “Sorry, Legolas!”

“S’alright, Gimli,” Legolas slurred. His head lolled back onto the dwarf’s shoulder. “Tired,” he murmured, his eyelids drooping.

“Here, let’s get you settled so you can rest some more,” Gimli and Nera shifted the elf back onto the bed as gently as they could, wincing at the soft exclamations of pain the elf made. Nera ran a cool, wet cloth over Legolas’ face and he smiled faintly.

“Hmmm,” he murmured, his half lidded eyes rapidly loosing their hazy focus. He took a hitching breath and relaxed into a deep sleep. Nera started, alarmed but Gimli grasped her arm.

“No, lass, ‘tis all right! ‘Tis when their eyes’re closed that you need to worry.” He patted her arm and then moved back to his chair. “Go get some rest, lass. I’ll watch over him.” Nera nodded, drained from the long night’s work, and left for her room.

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Legolas felt like he was floating up through layers of mist. As lucidity returned, so did pain and he could not suppress a cry when he tried to shift onto his side. He stilled immediately and lay gasping as the pain slowly subsided. A familiar voice came from somewhere to his right, but he was still too hazy and hurting to identify it.

“Easy! Don’t try to move just yet.” A broad, bearded face hovered above him wearing an expression of deep concern. Oh, it was Gimli, then. If the dwarf was openly wearing that expression, then it must be bad indeed. Legolas tried to draw a deep breath but his injured ribs protested and he choked, trying not to cough. Racked with pain, the fingers of his uninjured hand twisted in the cloth covering him.

“I told you not to move, you crazy elf! You’re going to hurt yourself worse.” A string of curses in dwarvish followed and Legolas felt Gimli’s hands on his shoulders. A moment later, the dwarf was sitting behind him and propping Legolas up. The position eased his breathing somewhat, and the elf forced himself to relax. “Just relax, that’s better.” Legolas’ hair had fallen over his face and Gimli’s battle-roughened hand smoothed it back with far more gentleness than most would have given him credit for. “Just breathe shallowly and those broken ribs of yours won’t hurt so much. Are you thirsty?” Legolas tried to nod, but his head throbbed too much to move.

“Yes,” he managed to whisper hoarsely. The cool rim of a metal cup was placed against his lips a moment later and blessedly cool and sweet water trickled down his dry throat. He tried to drink greedily, but the cup was withdrawn after only a small amount. He was ashamed to hear a whimper of protest escape his lips.

“Not too much at first. You want to keep it down, don’t you? Let’s see how that settles for a bit and then you can have more.” They sat in silence for several minutes before Gimli spoke again. “Better now?”

“No,” he whispered, the pounding in his head increasing with every move he made. “Did you bury your axe in my skull? Ungh!” He broke off, gagging and coughing, the water he had drunk coming violently back up. Gimli turned him swiftly and as gently as he could onto his side so he would not choke as he vomited. As the last of the heaving finally subsided Legolas lay gasping for breath, his chest and abdomen in agony from the vomiting and the broken ribs. He shuddered uncontrollably, from both pain and shock.

A cool wet rag swept across his brow and face, soothing him a bit. Gentle hands turned and lifted him, propping him up and easing his breathing. The wet and stained covers were removed and replaced with dry, soft covers that did not irritate his wounds. Legolas passively allowed Gimli and the woman to do whatever they wished, too drained and in too much pain to even voice an objection, if he had had one. He laid still, eyes closed.

“Lad, you still with us? Legolas?” Gimli’s voice sounded worried, so Legolas opened his eyes, careful only to move them and not his aching body.

“Here, gwador,” he whispered, his voice harsh from sickness and dehydration. The dwarf’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“No cursing me, now, or I’ll have to knock you down another hill.” Legolas’ chuckle turned into a gasp of pain and the dwarf winced in sympathy. “Sorry, lad. I’m too used to trading insults with you.”

“Not a curse, stubborn dwarf,” the elf wheezed, losing the fight to stay awake. His eyes fluttered shut, his companion’s voice sounding in his ears then fading to nothing.

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Gimli’s think fingers scrabbled on the elf’s neck, seeking the pulse point there and sighing in relief when he found it. He turned to Nera, his worry for his friend showing clearly.

“Nera, how bad does it usually get?” Gimli was dreading the answer, but it was his way to face things head on.

“This is ‘bout th’ worst I ever see’d,” Nera stated softly, frowning. “Them orcs didn’t mean their traps to kill. Just to ‘urt enough tha’ they’d be able to come back an’ pick up what got itself caught. Dead things was no fun for ‘em. ‘Specially elves.” She smoothed the covers over Legolas again and laid her hand along his cheek. “Iffen I didn’t ‘ate th’ nasty buggers already, this’d sure enough do it.” Her eyes flicked back up to meet the dwarf’s. “’E feels a mite cooler. Mayhap ‘e’s over th’ worst.”

“I hope so, lass,” he replied, his eyes resting on his friend. “I hope so.”

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Gimli started awake, his eyes immediately focusing on Legolas. He relaxed visibly, seeing the elf’s chest rise and fall steadily. A brief touch to the pale brow confirmed the elf’s fever had lessened considerably. He settled back into his chair again, shifting until he found a reasonably comfortable position.

Gimli was not one who had much use for introspection. His life before he had joined the Fellowship had consisted of hard work, equally hard play, and not much in between. That had all changed as soon as he and the other eight members of the Fellowship had left Rivendell. He could hardly reconcile the being he was now to the one he had been then.

That he would come to be fond of the hobbits he had expected after hearing his father speak of Bilbo Baggins with much affection. Gandalf had long been a trusted ally, so no surprises there. Aragorn, he quickly came to admire and even though he could see the ring’s influence in Boromir, the Steward’s son had many admirable qualities and the dwarf found that he counted him a friend, albeit cautiously. The elf, however, had been a different matter entirely.

In the beginning Gimli had distrusted the elf, the long animosity between their races figuring prominently in his reasoning. That the elf so obviously carried the same feelings toward him exacerbated the issue. As time passed, however, Gimli had been forced to re-evaluate his opinions. Dwarves are observant by nature, one had to be when one dwelt deep beneath the ground where the slightest shifting of walls could seal one’s fate, and Gimli was more so than most. He watched Legolas interact with the others, and slowly his prejudices began to fade away.

The longtime friendship between Legolas and Aragorn was what first started the process. Aragorn’s character did not lend itself toward choosing someone petty as a brother in all but blood. Then, Gimli began seeing all the little things that Legolas did to ease the burden on the mortals he traveled with. He frequently passed portions of his meals to the perpetually hungry Pippin, took Frodo’s turn at watch on the rare occasions that the Ringbearer was able to sleep without ill dreams, and steadfastly supported Gandalf and Aragorn’s decisions. The true turning point had been Moria. Legolas had distracted the cave troll, allowing Gimli to escape its attentions long enough to regroup and he had been the only one to react swiftly enough to pull the dwarf to safety on the crumbling stairs.

Gandalf’s fall had had a profound effect on all of them. Gimli’s reaction was first anger, then deep sadness. The hobbits openly wept and he had seen both Boromir and Aragorn surreptitiously wiping away tears. The elf’s reaction had almost moved Gimli to tears. Legolas had appeared confused at first; unable to comprehend that the wizard was gone. By necessity, the elf had pushed his feelings aside then, helping Aragorn, Boromir and himself to get the grieving hobbits up and moving toward the safety of Lothlórien. In unguarded moments, however, Gimli could see the deep sorrow in Legolas’ eyes.

In Lorien, the first tentative steps toward friendship were made. He began accompanying the elf on walks through the magnificence surrounding them and really talking to the elf as well as listening to him. He was surprised to discover how young Legolas actually was by elven standards. Gimli was no youngster, but neither was he old and from then on he insisted on calling Legolas ‘lad’ as he frequently did Aragorn and Boromir. Rather than being offended, the elf had been amused and that dealt the death blow to the hostilities between them. Gimli’s infatuation with Galadriel only cemented the bonds of friendship and from that point on, he and Legolas were inseparable.

Neither Gimli nor Legolas had blood siblings. That they fulfilled that role for each other had been an unexpected turn of events, but Gimli had not a single regret. Had he been able to choose a brother, he would not have been able to choose one better than the elf. As far as Legolas was concerned, Gimli and Aragorn were the brothers he had not been blessed with by birth. He had gone toe to toe with his father over his friendship with Gimli on one occasion that Gimli had accidentally witnessed and the dwarf had been strangely flattered by the vehemence with which his friend defended him. Thranduil must have been impressed as well, because from that point on he was careful to keep his interaction with Gimli as civil as possible.

Gimli smiled ruefully; Legolas was as bad as he was for fretting over his friends. He remembered vividly one time after the remaining Fellowship had returned to Minas Tirith after the destruction of the ring. Gimli’s hand had been injured during the battle at the Black Gate and while he was able to manage most tasks, braiding his hair and beard had been beyond him.

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“Stubborn dwarf! You will make your hand bleed again.” Legolas’ fair face bore a frown. “Here, let me see.” He grasped the dwarf’s injured hand with a gentleness that belied the annoyance in his voice and inspected it. “Well, you have not damaged it further, thank the Valar, but you must be more careful in the future. Gimli, why did you not ask for my help? I would have gladly given it.” Gimli’s harrumph made the elf chuckle. “Stubborn, stiff-necked dwarf! Stop being so proud and give me that comb.” Legolas dropped down to sit cross-legged in front of his friend and began plaiting the dwarf’s beard. Gimli squirmed. “Hold still. How many times have I seen you do this? I think I can braid well enough to do it properly.”

A few minutes later Gimli’s auburn mane and beard were respectably braided, and no one the wiser that the dwarf had not done the braiding himself. As far as he knew, Legolas had never to this day told anyone that he had tended Gimli’s hair and beard for two weeks until the dwarf’s hand had healed enough for Gimli to take the task back. Over the years, Gimli had had occasion to return the favor once or twice when Legolas had taken wounds to either his arms or shoulders.

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It amused Gimli to remember how, in the early part of their friendship, both of them had been reluctant to allow the other to see any sign of what either perceived as weakness. Such things were in the past now. Both he and Legolas valued honesty far too much to hide anything from each other. Gimli never hid injury or his occasional homesickness for his father’s dwelling from Legolas, and the elf never hid his sea longing or the bouts of melancholy it caused from Gimli. The almost constant banter they indulged in served as amusement for both of them, as well as an effective antidote to the elf’s melancholy and a screen against unwanted scrutiny from others. It was one thing to let your brother see your pain, but an entirely different one to let others see it.

Gimli’s eyes flicked back to Legolas again and noted with no small relief that the elf was beginning to stir. His color was much improved as well and Gimli began to hope that Legolas was indeed over the worst of his malady.

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Legolas continued to improve markedly from that point on, and within a couple of days had recovered enough to sit outside and jest with his companion once again. His father arrived shortly after that, and thankfully no diplomatic incidents arose between him and Gimli. The twins and the hobbits arrived two days later and mayhem ruled in the small town.

Thranduil had taken upon himself and his escort the task of ensuring that there were no more traps such as Legolas had fallen victim to left in the area and thus led short patrols in the territory surrounding the town. The twins declined to join him, their reason being that they would be superfluous and that someone must stay behind to keep Merry and Pippin out of trouble. The hobbits protested this statement loudly, claiming that they had outgrown the tendency toward troublemaking that had plagued their youth with a certain amount of success. In the end, Legolas had played the peacemaker, asking the hobbits to keep him company. Elladan and Elrohir ended up taking Gimli on a tour of the town’s taverns, all three of them.

The town quieted considerably as the visitors took their leave, each group departing within a day of each other and leaving behind them yet more legends for the towns’ inhabitants to pass down to their children.