Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, names, dates and events belong to Tolkien, and I can assure you that I’m not making any profit off of this.

Author’s Notes: I’ve been working on this piece for a very long time (it was supposed to be ready for posting a year ago) and for some reason, when I’d just about given up on it, it started bugging me during what is supposed to be summer vacation time. For the handful who I’ve shown it to, I’ve mostly started over from scratch, and I’m afraid I’m quite, quite rusty after the long break. I will get around to updating my other fanfics, though not having my material here with me on vacation is making that difficult. I always seem to be apologizing at every update, but I know that I must do that now (though I’m sure y’all are tired of hearing it) for keeping all of you waiting for so long. I really do miss writing, but doing the International Baccalaureate course for two years and being an active member of the LOTR Fanatics Plaza left me with virtually no writing time. Many heartfelt thanks to all who’ve continued reading.

If you enjoy this, I highly recommend ‘I Return’ by the lovely Coriel, which is an infinitely better written piece on the same theme of home-coming.

Dedicated to Samridhi, who fled the country before I could wish her goodbye and good-luck, and Thundera Tiger, an author I admire to this very day, who made me fall in love with the Legolas-Gimli duo.

To Follow an Elf Home
by Etharei

Prologue

I am called Gimli, and I am a Dwarf.

And though I suspect that my kinsmen will never let me hear the end of it if they should ever discover this artifact, I have finally surrendered to the cajoling of a certain Elf princeling in order to earn some peace and quiet.

Just so you know, Legolas, I still don’t understand the need for this activity, and I shall put it in written record that I think this is a waste of time. After all, who would ever read it? Who would even want to?

As I cannot be certain that you are familiar with my fair-haired companion here, I shall now clarify that he is Legolas son of Thranduil, one of the Nine Walkers who set out from Rivendell in the winter of the year 3018 of the Third Age of the Sun, on an urgent quest to save Middle-Earth from the forces of Darkness. I was also part of that desperate Fellowship. Our roles, sad to say, in the grand scheme of the War were quite minor, and therefore I shall leave the accounting thereof to the Shire-folk, whose hands are undoubtedly fairer and more suited to story-telling than mine. The Elf and I merely represented our respective races, in that last war before our fading.

I suppose you must wonder how a perfectly decent Dwarf and a mostly respectable Elf managed to overcome a couple of Ages’ worth of racial enmity whilst accomplishing a task that the White Wizard Gandalf himself described as “a fool’s hope”? It was the choice of Elrond that drew our fates together, Legolas and mine, and the War bonded us irrevocably to each other’s miserable company. The Hobbits, amongst their more important doings, played a vital role in the development of our friendship by keeping us from each other’s throats during the tumultuous first weeks of our acquaintance (usually by ensuring that we were at opposite ends of the walking-line). Gandalf acted as a not-too-happy medium, having known both of us from our youth and being capable of instill our fear of our fathers in us when we became unbearable. Aragorn was a comfort to Legolas even as Boromir and myself shared a practical approach to fate and an initial distrust of Elves.

Legolas, there really is no need to continuously be reading over my shoulder. No, as a matter of fact I do not believe that that lamp is really broken. I think I’ve gotten the hang of it now, and I’m willing to concede that this is not as arduous a task as I feared it would be. I trust everything I’ve penned so far has met with your approval? Note my use of the word ‘respectable’ and the lack of anything even vaguely pejorative? Now, will you please trust me enough to leave me to write in peace?

Elves. Woe betide him if he even thinks of crossing me over the next few days.

After fulfilling our mutual promises- and if I never see a talking Tree in my life again, it will be too soon- we set our eyes towards home. With considerable apprehension on both our parts, we tentatively journeyed Eastwards, to have a look in on the people we represented before the War.

  Chapter I: One Learns Something New Every Day

We were some leagues out of Fangorn when, on some fit of boredom, I committed an amusing and quite harmless prank upon my traveling companion, who I have always found to be- and still do- rather vain. Unfortunately, the Prince did not react at all well to my actions.

~*~

“For ‘ethereal beings of light and laughter’,” muttered Gimli under his breath, quoting from one of the many bards in Minas Tirith who had enthusiastically heaped praises upon the Firstborn. “You, my dear Prince, do not seem to have much in the way of a sense of humour.”

“If applying sap to my hair is your idea of humour,” Legolas retorted irritably, combing his long slender fingers through his even longer golden mane. “Then I fear that Dwarven jests are a bit too crude for my understanding. And stop addressing me with that title.”

“Your father is a King, correct? And your grandfather before him?” Gimli glared at a branch that had swung out of nowhere and would have hit him in the eye had he not instinctively brought up his thick shield. Arod, who followed the pair from a safe distance behind, gave a soft but unmistakable snicker. “That makes you a Prince. And I would have you know that it was actually the Hobbits who taught me that prank.”

“My grandfather was a Sindar prince who became King of Mirkwood by consent of the Silvan folk who dwelt in that forest from the First Age.” The Dwarf could not resist a small smirk at the most unElf-like grumble that emitted from Legolas the moment he realized that his efforts on removing the sap actually spread it through his hair even more. And as it hardened, it began exuding an unpleasant odour reminiscent of old cheese and moldy boots. “Trust Hobbits to misuse their knowledge of horticulture.”

“I’d appreciate it if you keep your Elvish politics to yourself; having one Elf following me around is bad enough, thank you.” Not unexpectedly, Gimli found that a thin vine had attached its thorns into his boots, and prevented him from walking further. Arod stopped and sniffed it curiously, then side-stepped the struggling Dwarf with a shake of his proud head. “If it makes you feel any better, I use the term ‘taught’ in the sense of ‘learning after having it inflicted upon me’.” He tried stamping upon it, but it was like stamping on one’s own shadow. “At least it’s on your head. I had to suffer through hours of it in my beard.”

The vine utterly refused to let him go. Gimli sighed. “If you let it dry, you’ll find that you can wash it off with water. I’m afraid you’ll have to live with the smell for a few days, but I could always puff pipe-weed smoke into your face to take your mind off it.”

The Dwarf nearly fell over when the vine suddenly released him mid-tug. “That really isn’t fair, you know,” he complained. “What chance does one Dwarf stand when an Elf’s turned the forest he’s in against him?”

Legolas wore an expression of utmost innocence. “I do not understand what you are talking about.” He looked away and lengthened his stride, but not before Gimli glimpsed a barely-suppressed grin. “I cannot help it if you are clumsy.”

~*~

To this day, the nature of the relationship between the Wood-Elves and their forest eludes me. But I have found comfort in my friend’s inability to comprehend the bond between a Dwarf and Arda. In any case, though the trees of Mirkwood were not as ‘awake’ as the ones in Fangorn under Treebeard’s care (I invite you to inquire from Meriadoc and Peregrin of the Shire, if you do not understand what I mean) but a shadow of it is there. A kindly Ent had informed me, during our traipse through his patch of wood, that present-day Eryn Lasgalen had been part of the Fangorn wood during the youth of the world, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

~*~

“Can you hear them, Gimli?” came the clear, silver voice. The Dwarf had to turn several times before spotting the Elf’s grinning face directly above him. “They are curious about you, you know. No Dwarf has ever passed through this area of the wood in their lifetimes.”

Memories of the ‘walk’ through Fangorn still fresh in his mind, Gimli gazed at the trees with a goodly measure of apprehension. They weren’t nearly as mobile as the ones tended by Treebeard, but he could sense their awareness, like a shadow over his back that flitted off before he could catch sight of it. At least their attention didn’t feel malevolent in any way, like some “dark patches”, as Treebeard had called them, in Fangorn. He instead sensed a gentle curiousity, a vague puzzlement at this new creature beneath their eaves. They did not seem to sense his axe, for which he was glad, as the flurry it caused in Fangorn led to his leaving it behind with Treebeard when he had to follow Legolas deep into the old wood. He had felt uncomfortably naked and vulnerable without it, but he refused to be cowed by a bunch of too-awake trees.

I have spent too much time with that Elf, he thought to himself. Now I’m imagining that trees are watching me.

“They do not fear me, though I bear an axe,” he said aloud. Seeing that they had stopped, Arod quietly began grazing.

“They cannot see the outside world, as Fangorn’s trees could. But they can feel that you are no Orc, and you mean them no harm.” With the innate grace of his race, Legolas soundlessly leapt onto another branch. “Listen closely, my friend. I would have you hear the voices of my wood. It may help if you close your eyes.”

Gimli gazed at the Elf with his uncertainty in his eyes, but Legolas only waited expectantly.

Feeling incredibly foolish yet finding himself unable to deny his friend, Gimli obligingly quietened his breathing, closed his eyes and strained his ears. “I do not know why you keep trying, Legolas,” he said gently. “Conversing with an Ent is a sufficiently wondrous experience for any Dwarf. In any case, I do not know what I’m listening for. All I hear is a breeze moving through the leaves.”

He could hear the smile in the Elf’s voice. “But there is no wind, Gimli. The air is as still as your Mountain.”

The Dwarf’s eyes flew open. Legolas beamed down at him from his perch. As the Elf had said, there was no wind, not even the slightest movement amongst the branches.

He could have rustled the leaves himself, the thought ran through his mind. But I do not think he will stoop so low just to prove a point. Even Arod had paused in his grazing to gaze thoughtfully at him.

“I can no longer hear it,” he said unsteadily.

But Legolas’ fair face brightened with an almost childish delight. “Did I not say that you only needed to listen?” he said gleefully. “And once you have heard them, their voices will stay with you all your life. You need only to open those thick ears of yours.”

Not knowing what else he to do, Gimli fell back on ancient Dwarven custom. He bowed low towards the trees, a hand on his heart. “Gimli son of Gloin, at your service.”

~*~

  Chapter II: Dwarven Serenades

I knew what lay ahead long before we saw the first wilted leaves. As usual, my companion gave the first warnings; nothing explicit, but the light in his eyes darkened, and there was a subtle nervousness during the night hours. By the time we sighted the charred ruins, it felt almost as if we were back at the Black Gates. It seemed also that winter was slower to leave where he who was once called the Necromancer had touched. Locked in our personal torments, I could almost taste the taint of Sauron in the land still, and I wondered if I had just dreamt our victory. That was his most wicked ability, to instill doubt in even the steadiest of hearts.

We sighted some Elves on guard. Or, more correctly, my Elven friend pointed out a place that looked like any other section of the shadowed wood, and I stared at it until my eyes watered, and eventually I would see that there was an Elf clad in brown and green stationed there. From what I could see of their faces, none looked particularly happy about landing this duty, but they were most vigilant, with eyes that seemed to track every moving shadow. I had half-expected the Prince to approach them, for surely they would recognize and welcome the son of their King, but instead an odd mood seized him, and he used all his skill (with considerable effort on my part) to let us pass undetected.

~*~

They were back astride the horse, but in his eagerness to be as far away from Dol Guldor as possible Gimli only uttered one half-hearted complaint. “Legolas,” Gimli said into the silence that had grown between them. Even Arod was subdued. “Is all well with you?”

His friend straightened. “Nay,” he replied simply, though his melodious voice sounded distant. “But there are some ills that can only be cured by time, or not at all.”

The Dwarf hesitated, then nodded. Though there were times when he would badger the Elf mercilessly about the state of his well-being- the only one who dared to do so, Aragorn had commented amusedly once, besides himself- the wounds they had each suffered during the War were unique and often personal. Even the Shire-folk, all of whom seem to be related in some manner to one another and had known each other since birth, kept some of their maladies to themselves. It was a wonder enough that the friendship between Elf and Dwarf had grown so that it seemed only natural that they would travel home together.

With that thought, he said, “It follows us home.”

~*~

There are wounds great and small, measured not necessarily by their size but by the extent to which they damage the person they inflict. I cannot recall who spoke these words to me, though I suspect that it was Frodo, in Minas Tirith during the after-days of the War. The Fellowship had done much talking together, then, for sharing our heart’s burdens seemed the only way to heal the wounds of the spirit. And we came to the realization that each of us had been marked by the war in at least one way, which cannot be undone.

If thou hearest the cry of gull on the shore,
Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.

I am no seer, and I will rather saw off my own head with a blunt axe than curse any word of the Lady; yet my heart warns me that those words will bring much grief to our friendship, and to one who should have returned to his beloved wood whole with all the ages of Middle-Earth before him.

~*~

Afterwards, Gimli berated himself for not anticipating it. But he was mulling over his own troubles, brought on by the touch of the darkness that still lingered over Dol Guldur, and Legolas had picked up Frodo’s ability to deposit his food onto the plates of distracted friends with no one the wiser. He then tried to persuade Gimli to give him the night’s watch, but the Dwarf would hear none of it, for the Elf had been keeping watch for the previous two nights. To his surprise, Arod threw in his support, earning a glare from the Elf. So Legolas light climbed onto the first branch of a low tree, and became as still as a log in a matter of seconds.

That should have alerted Gimli, but perhaps an echo of the Shadow’s malice still hung in the air, desperate to do what small amount of mischief it still could. Or he could have just been too weary of mind himself. They had found that they were easier to tire whilst they traveled in that tainted area of forest. Oblivious to his friend’s utter lack of movement, Gimli made himself comfortable between a pair of convenient buttresses jutting out from underneath Legolas’ tree and began chewing on the end of his pipe. The last of his leaf had ‘mysteriously’ disappeared in Fangorn. Arod also settled himself down for the night, and took nearly as little time as his master in falling asleep.

Gimli didn’t know what finally halted his musings and brought him to full wakefulness, but he suddenly froze, ears straining to hear through the night sounds of the forest and the crackling of their small fire.

Once he was relatively sure of what he was not hearing, he scrambled to his feet and grabbed the longest of the fallen branches they had gathered up for use as firewood. Balancing on a buttress, he prodded the figure curled up on the junction between the lowest branch and the trunk.

“Legolas!” he whispered urgently, wanting to shout but fearing to attract the attention of nocturnal predators. “Legolas, awake!”

But the body did not move, at least not at first. Then the limbs began to jerk violently as Legolas’ too-slow breathing- which is what Gimli had noticed- grew fast and shallow. To the Dwarf’s horror, the Elf suddenly rolled sharply to one side, right off the branch!

Instinct took over then, and the next thing Gimli was aware of was being half-buried under a full order of distressed Elf.

Thankfully Elves were nearly as light as they looked, so Gimli was able to extricate himself without too much trouble and turn his friend over on his back. Legolas had become still once more, and blank open eyes reflected the patch of stars peeking through the dark canopy. The Dwarf checked his friend for any injuries and found none, though Gimli himself discovered that his left wrist became painful if he turned it too far.

“Gimli?” Legolas finally whispered. The Dwarf was immediately by his side, but those glorious eyes were distant and unfocused. “Gimli… I can hear it… I am home, and it follows me…” Lost for words, Gimli could only clasp his friend’s hand tightly. A small part of him still felt uncomfortable making such physical contact, especially with someone not his kin, but it belonged to the Dwarf that Gloin had envisioned his son to be, not the Dwarf Gimli had become.

“Legolas,” he said uncertainly, touching the face that put to mind finely chiseled marble. “Legolas, I am here. Remember the trees, the rivers, the white deer, the wood that you loved? You promised me that you would show me them, remember? And if you could convince a Dwarf to talk to trees, you can overcome this.” Under his breath, he muttered, “Ai, if only Aragorn were with us!”

For the first time in days, the fair face broke into a smile, and Gimli’s heart ached at the sadness in it. “Nay, Aragorn does not know much more than you, and I daresay he is of better use where he is.” The eyes were focusing now, filling with Legolas. The brows furrowed. “Tell me I did not fall off a tree?”

Gimli’s laughter was perchance a little forced, but it rang through the darkened wood and brought a genuine smile to the Elf’s lips. “If you command it, my Prince: you did not fall off a tree.”

“That is a comfort to know,” Legolas said, then his face became weary, and Gimli thought that his friend now looked like all the years he claimed to have seen. “It struck because I did not expect it to, this close to home and so far from… so far. I shall not underestimate it again.”

Gimli longed to ask once more what it was, this mysterious ailment, this Sea-longing that was claiming his friend even as they thought all their toils to be over. But no one appeared to know, for all who had been struck by it in the way that Legolas had had surrendered and gone over the Sea. That was telling in itself, and in his heart Gimli understood that some day his friend would have to make that fateful journey.

“Not yet,” Legolas softly said, reading his thoughts. “Never, if I could bear it.” He then sighed and closed his eyes. “Thank you, Gimli. Through you I can hear Arda, all the work of Aulë and Yavanna, and I can almost forget the Song of the Sea…”

Seeing his friend weary before his time stoked a deep, fierce flame within the heart of the Dwarf. He longed to grieve for a parting that he already feared, and he was angered by the injustice of fate, for not allowing his friend to enjoy the new world he had helped to create. He fought back the grief, and the mention of songs brought forth a memory from years ago, when a certain infamous Hobbit had visited Erebor. He had been fascinated with Bilbo’s stories, much to his father’s consternation, but Gloin himself was very fond of the old Hobbit, and Bilbo obviously loved telling his tales to any willing ear. 

As if to call Legolas back, whose eyes were beginning to lose their focus again, he launched into a song that had engraved itself into his memory by the sheer number of times he had heard it.

“Down the swift dark stream you go
Back to lands you once did know!
Leave the halls and caverns deep,
Leave the northern mountains steep
Where the forest wide and dim
Stoops in shadow grey and grim!”

What Gimli had not been prepared for was the burst of laughter, a sound of pure, child-like joy, that came from the Elf even before he’d finished the first verse. He froze, feeling his face grow hot and wondering if his beard would catch fire out of sheer embarrassment. But Legolas’ laughter was not mocking at all, and after re-starting his heart Gimli even managed a few chuckles.

“You are more precious than all the gold and jewels that has ever passed through both our fathers’ halls,” the Elf declared as he sat up, actual tears leaking from his eyes, which now sparkled with mirth. “Never have I heard it sung better by Elf, Man, or Wizard. Though Hobbits are quite close,” he added with a grin, guessing rightly from whom Gimli had learned the song. “Come, I have been the one singing through the Quest and our travels, and here is a Dwarven minstrel right under my nose!” To make matters worse, Arod- who undoubtedly had been awaked by the fall of his master- came closer to the pair and settled his head in Legolas’ lap. But after much coaxing and the threat of a song composed especially for him, Gimli grudgingly continued.

“Float beyond the world of trees
Out into the whispering breeze…”

~*~

Elf, if I have to serenade Morgoth himself to gain you one heart-beat without the weight of the Sea-longing, you know I would.

Note: The song featured here is the one sung by the Mirkwood Elves in the chapter entitled “Barrels Out of Bond” in The Hobbit, as they release the not-so-empty barrels into the River.

Author’s Note: Here I took some liberty with Legolas’ age, putting his time of birth after T.A. 1000.

To those who have read this over at FF.Net, I have made some small alterations to the chapter because the overall tone of the narration was worrying me. If anyone has any concern about my depiction of Eryn Lasgalen, please don't hesitate to tell me about it.

And for the purposes of the story, I've set this at early spring, about four months after the parting at Isengard. Legolas was obviously very reluctant to go home ;-)

Chapter III: The Green, Green Grass of Home

“When maybe a thousand years had passed, and the first shadow had fallen on Greenwood the Great…”
- Appendices, ROTK

In the light of a clear, fresh spring day, Gimli could see why Mirkwood's name of old had been Greenwood the Great. Everywhere he turned, his eyes encountered such a splendid display of green that the early spring world began to blur.

The awakening forest displayed the colour of green in a breath-taking range of hues and shades, so rich and full of life that every other colour was muted. Moss-green carpeted the ground beneath drops of emerald delicately attached to slender branches; the bright lime of some leaves providing a stark contrast against the teal showers from its neighbour. So striking was the brilliance of the greenery that Gimli had a wild fancy that the colour itself was alive. He made to share this thought with his Elven companion, then paused.

So overwhelmed had he been that the Dwarf had not observed Legolas' reaction to returning to his home wood. Legolas' sky-blue eyes were wide in child-like wonder, and his face was lost in an expression between a rapturous smile and shocked gaping. For the briefest moment, Gimli saw what a young Legolas must have looked like, as the prince stood there drinking in the sight of the forest like an abstaining Man gulped down his first ale in years. Unheeded, Arod was doing his own exploration, tentatively munching on a few select leaves.

"It looks very different from when I traveled through with my father on our way to Rivendell," Gimli commented dryly, hiding a smile. There were occasions where beards were quite useful.

Legolas blinked, and the image of an awe-filled Elfling faded into a solemn, sad being whose heart was as old as his body appeared young. "Aye," he breathed. "It was like this before the shadow came." A slender hand reached out slowly to lightly touch the tip of a bud. "I never knew, never imagined it being truly what the songs declared."

His words and expression were odd, but Gimli responded to the sadness in his friend’s voice and clapped a comforting hand on the Elf's slight shoulders. "Welcome home, Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen."

~*~

Earlier I spoke of wounds, but I was to learn now that the Sea-longing is the closest to the surface and the hardest to hide, but was by no means the only one, nor the most grievous. For the ensuing conversation alone would I heartily wish that the Ring had never been made.

~*~

Gimli could sense that Legolas was troubled. It was difficult to believe that just a year before he barely had a civil word to say to the Elf. Now he could discern the reclusive creature’s moods better than any other mortal, surpassing even Aragorn’s skill.

“My friend, what ails you?” he asked gently.

The Elf did not give any outward sign that he’d heard, but after many trials Gimli had eventually discovered that patience got him further with Legolas than pressure. So he busied himself with re-adjusting the strap that held his throwing axes to his pack, even as they slowly made their way through the forest. Ever since crossing that unseen barrier between the flowering life of Greenwood of old and the almost wintry desolation that still plagued the woods too far from the dwellings of the Wood-Elves to be nurtured by their power, the pair had journeyed on foot, allowing Arod to wander as he would, though he kept them always in sight.

True to his instincts, the Elf spoke up after a long moment. “I think I am beginning to understand Frodo.”

Though his reply wasn’t at all reassuring to the Dwarf. “What do you mean?”

Legolas gestured at the forest around him. “All of this! It is Greenwood restored, as I’ve always dreamed and hoped it would be one day, free from the Shadow. And yet…”

“Not home for you,” Gimli finished for him, remembering long talks with Frodo about his beloved Shire. He had hoped to cheer the Hobbit up by discussing his peaceful home, but it only made Frodo more melancholic. He hoped that returning to the Shire would disprove his friend’s fears, though he knew that Frodo would probably never completely heal.

And now, looking at the Elf more closely, he thought he could see the same melancholy growing in his friend’s eyes. His heart fell at the thought of Legolas suffering more grief on top of his sea-longing.

“I was born after the Shadow fell on Greenwood,” Legolas continued. “I never knew the wood as it had been before, though the trees and minstrels always sang about its living beauty.”

“Legolas…” Gimli began, but he could not think of what to say to console his friend.  For a long while, the two of them strolled on in companionable silence, the breeze dancing around them like the singing of trees. It was a fine day.

“But if gentle Frodo, a Hobbit out of the Shire, can accept it, then so shall I,” Thranduil’s son finally said, though the sadness in his eyes remained for days.

~*~

I do not know what inspired me to build such a close friendship with the Elf. We had been antagonistic towards each other since the day we first met in the halls of the Last Homely House. Thranduil's son had inherited his father's distrust of the Dwarves, and I was all too aware of my own father's imprisonment in the dungeons of Mirkwood.

But somewhere between Moria and Lothlorien, something changed.

~*~

Gimli shuddered involountarily at the memory of their stroll through fallen Khazad-dûm. It was those dark-filled hours that made it occur to him that Legolas was quite a singular Elf. Where even the Lord Celeborn, accounted a wise Elf-lord of the White Council, had pointed the finger of blame at the Dwarves for the evil that came out of Khazad-dum, Legolas had never spoken a single word of blame. For sure, he had no lack of insults aimed at Gimli's person, but Moria and the Dwarven Race in general received no critical word after that journey through darkness. Gandalf's apparent downfall had made their pointless bickering seem quite childish, especially in the face of the Hobbits’ grief. Then, even as Moria was where Legolas' animosity towards him melted, Lothlorien healed his hostility towards Legolas.

He had often wondered what had passed through the heart and mind of the Elf during their time in Khazad-dûm. He had found out from Aragorn that Legolas disliked caves immensely, so that journey must have taken all the determination and strength of will the Elf possessed. Though it was not until the Golden Wood that he'd admitted friendship with the Elf, Gimli could recognise courage when he saw it, and in Moria the Elf had earned a great deal of respect from the Dwarf. He was still puzzled, however, at how such terror could have made Legolas more friendly towards him.

That is why I shall never understand Elves. Gimli smiled. He remembered still the perpetual cloud of puzzlement that had taken up residence over his head during the fledgling days of their friendship. Several months on, puzzlement had evolved into resigned acceptance as his unpredictable friend continued to reveal daily the bewildering layers of his personality. It was entirely possible, Gimli concluded, that he was friends with one of the most complex individuals alive on Middle Earth, yet goes to great pains to hide it.

~*~

Once in Minas Tirith, an inquisitive Peregrin Took inquired, “I almost forgot to ask- why don’t Elves and Dwarves get along?” This had earned a confused look from Legolas and myself, but in the midst of our jumbled explanations it occurred to us that a lot of the traditional reasons our Races detested each other was based more on myth and misunderstandings than actual facts and events. So, in tribute to our beloved Shire-folk, I have made up my mind to learn as much about the Firstborn as any Dwarf can. An impossible under-taking, on the whole, but perhaps before my life’s end I shall succeed in unlocking at least one particular Elf.

Yes, Legolas, I know that you will be the first one to read this after I finish, and I know that you understood my heart’s desire long before I did.

~*~

The huts and houses upon the ground or amongst the strong branches of the mighty trees looked deceptively simple, but Gimli could see that simplicity was part of their art. The homes were strong and sturdy, open enough to let a great deal of wind and sunshine in, yet enclosed sufficiently for privacy and protection.

He wasn't sure where the city started, or even if it could be termed thus. At one point the space between the trees suddenly became greater, and the trees themselves grew taller and possessing greater girth than the ones that dominated most of the wood. It was... different, from the other realms Gimli had visited, but pleasantly so. In Rivendell, the homes were more clustered together; in Caras Galadhon, there were very few dwellings on ground level.

"What you see is a fusion of the Sindar and Silvan cultures," Legolas explained as they circled the perimeter of the residential areas. "The palace is a shadow of Menegroth and the might of Elu Thingol, whilst the realm for the most part takes after the nature of the Silvan, who love the free woods best."

Gimli nodded. It was beyond him how they'd managed to get so far without being spotted by a single Elf, considering how noisy he knew he was being and how keen Elven hearing was. Surely it was not by Legolas’ skill alone, though his companion did have a remarkable ability for stealth.

They made their way towards the heart of the Elven realm in much the same way as they had crossed the expanse of Mirkwood. Gimli spotted a few Elves in the distance a number of times, but they never came close enough to one that the Elf could sight or hear them. Eventually Gimli thought he could hear the quiet roar of a river, and Legolas told him to stay put whilst he scouted ahead.

After a while, the Elf returned to fetch him with a smile. He followed his friend apprehensively. They came to a fallen tree that overlooked one side of the largest of the Mountains of Mirkwood, and Legolas pointed at where a bridge ran across the river. A gasp escaped the Dwarf when he laid eyes on the infamous ‘magic’ gates of Mirkwood.

It was a strong wall of stone over twelve feet high. The surface of the wall was beautifully carved into life-like patterns of vines and plants beneath a sky of flowers. Gimli felt his jaw drop. He fought a rising desire to run to it, to pass the delicate blend of metal and stone beneath his fingers.

“I wanted to see your face when I showed you this, for even your father has not seen our wondrous Gate in the full light of day.” Gimli could hear the smile in Legolas’ voice. “It was made a long time ago.”

“A very long time ago,” the Dwarf said, his voice trembling slightly in awe. “Such art has been lost to my kin since the fall of Moria. Mithril, for sure, from the quality of the light reflecting off that half-bloom near the top, but I think I recognise the workmanship... I have read accounts of the making... the most wondrous part is where the stone and rock have been blended to make something new… like a metal that remembers being stone, or stone that has a heart of metal. Only the King and those of his line can open the gates, correct?”

“Aye. The Dwarves who made this took the secret with them, but I will try to show you the old records from the earliest days of the kingdom. I daresay that the 'magic' is not so different from that of another pair of Gates that we have encountered.”

The pair shared a wry smile, and Gimli felt like doing a merry little caper right there and then. "An Elf after my own heart, you are." For some reason the comment made Legolas' smile even brighter. The Elf turned for a moment to look behind them, addressing Arod in fluid Elvish, who answered with a derisive snort, then gentle fingers touched his shoulder.

"Come, don your Lorien cloak, and we shall pass through it together."

Author’s Notes: This is possibly the most difficult chapter I have ever tackled, mostly because it can go so many different ways, and is one of the defining points in the story. I think I’ve written about six different versions of the throne room scene, and I owe this depiction of Thranduil to Coriel, who bravely read a draft a year ago and changed my perception of the King of Mirkwood. Many thanks, sweets, and also to Lady Aranel, for that initial feedback.

Thank you to elliska67 and Sulriel of the SoA group for helping me with some particularly tricky phrasing.

Dreamflower, I pray that you and your family remain safe, and thank you for letting me use the titles from ‘A New Reckoning’.

Chapter IV: The Prince and his Dwarf

“In a great cave some miles within the edge of Mirkwood on its eastern side there lived this time their greatest king..”
- Flies and Spiders, The Hobbit

Despite the title that proclaimed my friend as the son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood in all the official records, one would never be able to differentiate him from other Elves at  first sigh. Perhaps a very observant mortal would note a quiet dignity in his carriage, or the promise of strength in his keen eyes, but otherwise he was indistinguishable, fair as the rest of his Fair Folk, but nothing remarkable.

Through the Quest and the ensuing journey, I had come to know this Wood-Elf from besieged Mirkwood. In defense of those he holds dear, he can become a fell warrior, whose fierce gaze can strike fear into the hearts of foes swifter than any Dwarven battle-cry; but oft times he is what a certain Gamgee once described as “light-hearted and merry at the slightest provocation, with a laugh as sweet as a drop of sunlight”. I have seen him in grief, not just after Gandalf’s fall in Khazad-dum but in the wake of every battle, mourning even the black bloodstains. Even before the sea-longing, he suffered spells of reclusive silence, and we let him be.

I thought it was merely his nature. Whereas some figures- Aragorn, to name one- had been destined from birth to claim his heritage; others- and I would know- were not meant to follow in their father’s footsteps. Legolas had never shown any inclination to assume command, nor had I ever witnessed any of that power and charisma that the Elf-lords I encountered in Rivendell and Lorien emanated.  He is the youngest son of Thranduil, and had confessed to being uncomfortable with being addressed with the title ‘Prince’. He is a carefree creature, ever in love with the green and growing world, with no desire for power or wealth.

Perhaps that is why Elrond chose him, above the great lords of his own household. And as thankful as I am to have met him, I wish now that he had been allowed to preserve his unique innocence.

~*~

There were no guards outside the Gate, and Legolas and Gimli crossed the bridge unchallenged. But Legolas pointed out two hidden slits in the stone, and explained that there would be guards within who could see- and, if necessary, shoot- all who approached the Gate. He then whispered something in his native tongue, and the ancient structure swung outwards slowly with barely a creak, for such was the stone-work of the Dwarves that their mechanisms functioned well long after the secret of their building had been lost.

Stationed within were four guards with tall spears, on either side of the entrance. They appeared, at first, surprised that the Gate had opened, then glared suspiciously at the pair and lowered their weapons to bar their way. But three of them recognized Legolas, and their eyes widened in surprise, but they bid their remaining comrade to raise his weapon. Legolas silently nodded his thanks, and strode determinedly onwards, Gimli scurrying in his wake. As they passed, the Dwarf saw one Elven expression- a member of the three who had identified his companion- turn from shock to bitter anger. Suddenly it dawned on him fully that he was entering a wholly Elven dwelling, and doubtless there would be Elves here burdened with the old prejudices against his Race.

As they moved swiftly down the winding passageways, Gimli was puzzled to detect a growing fear in his friend, instead of the relief and elation he had expected. Whatever emotions accosted him from within, however, the Elf led them confidently down the various hallways leading to the heart of Thranduil’s seat of power. Even Gimli was impressed by the size and complexity of the labyrinth of passages carved into the Mountain. He wondered, though, if Legolas had deliberately chosen a less-used route, for they encountered only a dozen Elves along the way, all of whose attention was drawn more to a Dwarf passing through their halls. From the distinctly suspicious and sometimes hostile looks they cast his way, Gimli surmised that perhaps they thought him some prisoner or caught trespasser.

Despite being on the verge of jogging in order to keep up with the longer strides of his companion, Gimli still managed to spare some attention on the architecture of Thranduil’s threshold. Along the outer passages the walls were mostly bare and plain, but the further in they traveled the more detailed the decorations on the stone walls became. There were even carvings on the ceiling; solid rock patiently chiseled and shaped to create a realistic grey canopy overhead. Precious gems that reflected the torchlight along the walls were used in the gaps between the carved stone leaves, so that one could believe that he was gazing up at the night sky through the branches of the forest. Rich tapestries depicted hunts in the forest, the white dear reminding Gimli of his father and Bilbo’s stories.

Now that he was inside an underground structure, Gimli felt a sudden pang for home, such as he had not felt since he had left the Lonely Mountain to journey to Rivendell with his father. Home was calling him, now only a matter of leagues away.

So engrossed was he in his sudden spate of homesickness that he bumped lightly into Legolas- and risked being pierced in the eye with one end of his Lorien-made bow- when the Elf stopped in front of a particularly grand set of double-doors. The two guards posted on either side of the door scrutinized them, but they did not seem surprised to see them. Doubtless word had gotten ahead from the guards at the Gate, and they were expected.

“I apologise on behalf of my people for not giving you a warmer welcome, Gimli,” Legolas suddenly spoke, his voice quiet as his eyes stared at the door. Once again Gimli wondered at his friend’s anxiety.

“It has hardly been a year filled with warm welcomes, Legolas,” Gimli replied, resisting the urge to reach up and pat the Elf comfortingly on the shoulder. “We have gone through worse. Whatever business transpires here, let it be done with.” For the Dwarf was beginning to suspect that there was more to the situation than he had been made aware of. He thought back to Legolas’ insistence that they wait for spring before setting home, and his discomfort at being addressed with what should be his rightful title.

Legolas nodded. Seeming to interpret this for a signal, the two Guards stepped forwards and pushed the large doors open.

On a dais at the end of the large hall within, Gimli saw first the tall figure seated on a chair of carven wood, his right hand gripping a carven staff of oak. On his head rested a crown of woodland flowers, for it was spring. As the doors opened further, Gimli saw that the throne room was filled with Elves, and a hush fell as all eyes turned towards them. Like before, he seemed to draw more attention than his Elven counter-part, and he sensed that quite a number of the gazes carried some measure of hostility. On the other hand, Thranduil, he noted, had eyes only for his son.

Together Elf and Dwarf strode down the throne room, a great hall will pillars hewn out of the living stone, over a viridian cloth that marked a straight path from the doors to the dais upon which the King sat.  As they approached Thranduil, Gimli’s first impression of the King was that he hardly bore any resemblance to Legolas. He was of a more solid build, whereas Legolas was light and lithe of limb. His eyes were a light blue tinged with grey, and his features spoke more of stone and structures and treasure. For Thranduil was a true Sindar prince, taking after his father Oropher before him; so Legolas must have inherited his mother’s features, with a greater love for the open sky and free woods than any material wealth. Had not Legolas once mentioned that his mother is Silvan?

And so it was that Gimli began to understand a little of the conflict that had plagued his friend all his long life.

After a long heavy silence, in which all that could be heard were their footsteps erratic, the two achieved the foot of the dais. Legolas gazed at his father still sitting on his simple throne, then knelt on one knee on the first step, gesturing for Gimli to do likewise.

“Hail, Thranduil son of Oropher, King of Eryn Lasgalen-” for that was the name the Thranduil had given Mirkwood after the dissolution of the Shadow that darkened it.  “- I bring with me this day a Dwarf from the Lonely Mountain, one Gimli son of Gloin, whose father was once brought into this very hall. ‘Ere aught else happens I would ask that he be granted safe passage through your realm, He intends neither harm nor harbours any ill-will towards the people and the wood, and I vouch for his honour.”

This started a wave of whispering amongst the assembled Elves, but it was silenced by a steely glare from Thranduil that reminded Gimli strongly of his Elven friend. Returning his eyes to Legolas, Thranduil’s expression was strangely sad. “Your request I hereby grant, though on account of his father, whom you mentioned, I would have given Master Gimli safe passage and much hospitality nonetheless. But Legolas-“

“Lord Thranduil.” A loud voice interrupted, and a fair-haired Elf stood from where a line of three Elves were seated along the wall adjacent to the throne. Gimli was surprised that he had not noticed them before, and turned his head to see another three Elves seated along the opposite wall. From their attire and positions he deduced that they must act as advisors for Thranduil. “I believe that your son has rightly assessed his situation in this kingdom. You may recall that I have brought the matter before you several times during the length of his absence.”

The look that Thranduil leveled the Elf was so vehement that Gimli was surprised that the Elf was not struck dead by it. “You do not need to be questioning my memory next, Counselor Dînimlad. But can a father not have a moment to rejoice at seeing his son safely home?”

Dînimlad’s smile was lacking in mirth. “But here, my Lord, you stand as King, and before you kneels a warrior who could be charged with mutiny and cowardice, and a subject who has committed treason. See, he does not deny it.”

It was fortunate for the advisor that Legolas had earlier asked Gimli to stow away all of his weapons, for he had the greatest urge at that moment to fling one of his throwing-axes at the Elf. Legolas, instead of defending himself from the accusations, instead turned to Gimli with a sharp whispered, “No!”

This earned a confused glance from Thranduil, but the King’s attention was focused on his advisor. “Dînimlad, I am sure you can recall my stance on the matter, especially considering the circumstances and eventual outcome? It is my judgment that Legolas left his duty to his people in order to taking up a greater and heavier responsibility, to all the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth, at the behest of Lord Elrond of Rivendell. In that task he succeeded, and thus brought much honour to our people and my House.” The proud words caused Legolas to look upon his father with great wonder and surprise, and Gimli was taken aback to see the threat of tears in his friend’s eyes.

“Be that as it may, Thranduil, you know the laws of our land. The fact that he is your son only compounds the severity of his offense.”

In his efforts to prevent himself from cutting in and meddling where he had no business, Gimli distracted himself by looking hard at Dînimlad. There was something very familiar about the Elf, as if he had seen him somewhere before. Perhaps he had journeyed to the Lonely Mountain at one time? He knew that his father often dealt with Thranduil’s advisors in minor matters of trade.

“The Captain of Arms has pardoned him for abandoning his post without leave. I forgive him for disobeying me. These charges are petty in the light of what he has achieved to earn them.” At this point Thranduil had gone to his feet.

“Petty? Would you, my Lord, use that word if you thought your son’s presence here could have averted much of the evil and damage that was inflicted upon our people? Long have you boasted of his prowess with the bow, yet he was not here when his people needed him most! You of all, Thranduil, should understand this grief! On behalf of all who suffered from his absence in the war, I name him a coward!”

An image of the guard at the Gate flashed through Gimli’s mind, and he realized that perhaps it was not only he who was unwelcome in Eryn Lasgalen. But I am stranger, he thought, and Legolas is an Elf returning home. Beside him, the object of his thoughts looked helpless and sad; his slender shoulders seemed to slumped as he watching the exchange. Gimli’s honest eyes saw his friend’s sorrow at bringing conflict to his very home, and a deeper guilt brought to the surface by Dînimlad’s words. But the counselor’s next words indicated that in his spiteful mood he had mistaken the expression for fear and vulnerability,

“Look at him, all of you! He is but a child! Do really believe, Thranduil, that he was thinking of duty when he went on a fool’s errand with Mithrandir and his witless halflings-“

But as much patience as dealing so often with an Elf had given him, Gimli was still a Dwarf, and for all their faults the children of Aulë were fiercely protective of those they considered kin and friends. “You shall address his Majesty as King Thranduil, Master Dînimlad,” Gimli thundered, his voice like a low ominous rumble that warned of an impending avalanche. “And you will ask for pardon for calling Gandalf a fool. I name you now a greater fool, for thinking Legolas a child.” He stamped towards the enraged Elf. Slender fingers brushing his back might have been Legolas reaching out belatedly to restrain him, but the wrath of a Dwarf was as dreadful and inescapable as a rockslide.

“Legolas of the Nine Walkers!” he bellowed, his voice bouncing off the walls. “Legolas of the Three Hunters! Warrior of Helm’s Deep! Warrior of the Pelennor! Warrior of the Morannon! Lord of Ithilien!” That last was a bit of quick improvisation; he almost winced at almost feeling sharp gaze boring through the back of his skull. “Nazgûl’s Bane!” He looked meaningfully at Thranduil. “Once more the House of Oropher stood before the Black Gates of Mordor to challenge Sauron.” The corner of the Elf-king’s lips nearly formed a small proud smile, and he nodded. Gimli turned his attention back to the advisor. “How dare you speak of him as if he were not standing before you!” he ended, wagging a finger at Dînimlad.

The advisor appeared to be so livid that Gimli subconsciously braced himself for an attack. “You insolent naugrim! I will not listen to a traitor’s pet argue on his be-“

“That is enough.”

At the voice of command, all the eyes in the room automatically swung back to Thranduil. But the Elvenking had not spoken, and instead stood staring at his youngest son, who had moved to stand behind Gimli.

The Dwarf forgot his ire as he looked upon the Elf that had accompanied him through all the perils of the Quest. It was as if Legolas had shed an outer guise, finally revealing the true form that he had kept hidden all this time. Gimli now realized that his friend actually stood taller than his father, and his eyes had deepened to the blue of the deep Sea that they both had come to dread. His glance openly carried the weight of his years on Middle-Earth, and though the count was less than that of most of the Elves present, Gimli knew that Legolas felt the passage of time far more keenly than others of his kind, and it marked him with much sorrow. Yet the sorrow, in turn, belied a hidden wisdom worthy of one of the Wise.  In body he still resembled a young Man in the prime of his youth, but with his great heritage now openly worn. His ageless countenance was noble and stern, and proud was his bearing without arrogance. Thus in that hour it seemed to Gimli that Legolas the Wood-Elf removed his humble mask to reveal beneath an Elf-lord out of the Eldar Days. For though Legolas was only the youngest son of Thranduil, in his veins ran still the blood of the ancient House of Elwë, once the High King of all the Sindar.

Such was his unwillingness before to lay claim to this heritage that it was only then, in order to defend a Dwarf he had come to befriend, that he finally allowed himself to grow to the full measure of his strength and power.

“Gimli of the Nine Walkers,” his gentle voice resonated through the hall, and coupled with his familiar tones was an underlying power that the Dwarf had never heard before. “Gimli of the Three Hunters. Warrior of Helm’s Deep. Warrior of the Pelennor. Warrior of the Morannon. Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond.” Eyes twinkling, he laid a deceptively slender hand on the Dwarf’s shoulder. “Lockbearer. Never before have I stood with a brother-at-arms more faithful and fierce. Douse now your ire, mellon nin, lest you provoke these good Elves further.” His expression hardened, and he walked towards Dînimlad, who for the first time looked uncertain.

“You may besmirch my name as much as you wish, Counselor. But utter any word against my kin or friends, and I shall remove what pity I have left for thee.” In a quieter, but no less deadly voice that only those near the dais could have heard, Legolas added, “Remember that your grievance lies with me, and me alone.”

It was at that moment that Gimli remembered where he had seen the Counselor before. As if sensing the sudden change of his mood, Legolas returned to his side. “It is over, Gimli. Forgive him,” the Elf’s voice, soft once more, drifted down to his ears, though his lips did not appear to be moving. “He cannot let go of his anger and envy; for that I have only pity for him.”

Perhaps Thranduil had picked up his words, for his expression changed from disbelieving wonder to a confused frown. But he strode forth and clasped his son’s shoulder. “Legolas my youngest son has returned to us beyond hope,” he announced to the throne hall. “Our laws were written to ensure our protection from the Shadow in the time of Mirkwood. But now the darkness has passed, and if it took a slight breaking of that law to bring about Eryn Lasgalen, free as in the days of Greenwood, I give my pardon full willing. We have witnessed Counselor Dînimlad’s objections. Do any others oppose my judgement?”

A number of scattered hands rose into the air, and Gimli saw a shadow cross his friend’s fair face. But it seemed that a greater majority supported Thranduil, or else did not dare speak against him, and in the records it was stated that Legolas son of Thranduil was pardoned for his abandonment of duty and disobedience of the King’s orders, with only a minor contention against the sentence.

~*~

Legolas finally explained the situation to me later on, when we were alone in his chambers. As the bedrooms of the children of Thranduil had been ordered according to birth, the one after Legolas’ was a guestroom, and was naturally the one I was assigned.

It seems that Legolas had been sent to Rivendell because he was the ranking officer at the event of Gollum’s escape, and thus had the responsibility of reporting it to Lord Elrond. He had been ordered by Thranduil to finish this task as quickly as possible and return home to take up a command post, as the Elves of Mirkwood believed that the forces at Dol Guldur were growing stronger and preparing for an offensive against them. However, when Lord Elrond privately asked him if he was interested in representing the Elves in the Quest, he had accepted without asking leave of the Captain of Arms or his king, or even informing them of it, as the law required. As a son of the King he held the highest rank amongst the Mirkwood party that had journeyed to Rivendell, and thus none could gainsay his decision, though he kept it secret for as long as he could in case they tarried in Imladris long enough for a messenger to travel to and fro his home. Fortunately for the Fellowship, they departed long before the missive from Thranduil could arrive.

I suggested then that we should send Lord Elrond a small gift for leaving him to handle Thranduil’s response.

None can doubt that Legolas’ involvement in the Quest had been invaluable. But in the aftermath of war those who had suffered often seek a way to cast blame on others for their pain. The Elves earn their wisdom through their long years, but sometimes wisdom causes self-doubt, and with the tendency of the First-born to cling to the unchanging past, they easily become plagued with might-have-beens.

I doubt that Legolas will ever forgive himself for what he did in Rivendell. That is his way, to wish that he could rid the world of darkness and grief even beyond the scope of the Valar. He knows that his part in the Quest, whilst small, was necessary for its eventual success, yet in his heart he himself believes that he betrayed his people.

Perhaps that is what the Ring preyed upon in the shadows of his mind, and the thorn has imbedded itself too deeply into core of his very being. If this is so, then fear there will be no cure for him in Middle-Earth, even in the woods from whence he came.

~*~

“This audience is dismissed for the day.” Thrandui’s words caused the main doors to be opened, and the Elves filed out of the Hall, most talking in hushed whispers between small groups of twos and threes. The King turned to face Legolas, and for a long silent moment they stood gazing at each other, father and son. Legolas’ face had settled into that inscrutable mask Gimli had come to know well, appearing when the Elf wished to appear distant and detached; whilst Thranduil’s piercing eyes seemed to be attempting to see through it. Gimli stood quietly to one side of his friend, fighting the urge to fidget.

Now that he had time to process events, he felt a stab of annoyance that Legolas had withheld information from him. Again. Surely his friend had not expected Gimli to condemn him? At least the Dwarf would have been better prepared. Though he admitted that Legolas might have hoped that his deeds in the south would clear his name. Now he understood why his friend had been reluctant to reveal himself to any of his people before learning his father’s judgment.

The incident by itself was minor enough that Gimli could have shrugged it off. But it was only the latest in a series of small revelations which mounted up to one unavoidable fact: Legolas still did not trust him. In battle he trusted the Dwarf to guard his back, and he allowed Gimli to see his vulnerability when afflicted by the Sea-Longing because he had no other choice. Yet the Dwarf felt that, given the choice, Legolas would choose to keep information from him, especially when it concerned private matters.

Gimli understood that the Elf was not comfortable with being known too well by another, but it still stung that the Elf did not consider him worthy of his complete and unconditional trust, though he was not sure why the Elf’s trust had become so important to him.

That is what friendship entails, is it not? his mind asked. Trust.

Deciding that thinking too much on this at the moment would only fuel his anger, the Dwarf turned his attention to examining Thranduil as intently as the Elvenking was examining Legolas. Thranduil’s initial treatment of Gloin had given Gimli the impression that the Elf would be arrogant and suspicious, even though Gloin himself always spoke well of him. Gimli’s experience with Elves was still very limited, and Thranduil had had centuries to school his features so as not to betray his thoughts. But if Legolas was any reference, the Dwarf knew that his friend’s sire would be as equally complex as his son. Yet he detected a deep sorrow beneath the controlled exterior, and felt a pang in his heart at the thought of more grief awaiting his friend.

As If he finally gleaned something from his perusal of Legolas’ visage, Thranduil’s eyes softened, and some of the sadness that Gimli had sensed came to the surface. “You have much to tell me, my little one.” Gimli raised a bushy eyebrow whilst Legolas stiffened, but Thranduil appeared not notice their reactions. “But now, ‘ere you hear it from others, there is are some things you must know.” He faltered then, and glanced uncertainly at Gimli.

The Dwarf was more than willing to give them some time alone, but Legolas forestalled his departure by shaking his head and saying, “If he does not hear it, I shall tell him later. Better he stays and learns it also. I had not warned him of what might occur here, yet he spoke in my defense when I could not. I fear I have not been as forthcoming as I should be, and now I must make amends.” At the last statement he bowed his head towards the Dwarf. Gimli was pleasantly surprised by his words, and what burgeoning irritation he felt towards his friend faded.

Thranduil blinked, but said nothing, though something indefinable came to his eyes. With a gesture, he bade them to follow him through a back door of the throne room.

* underlined text has been copied from Barrels out of Bond, The Hobbit.

I know I’m taking some liberties with Legolas’ origins here, but seeing as Thranduil is a Sindar Elf, I hope that it’s not too large an assumption to make that they were related to Thingol in at least some distant way.

Author’s Note: I’m afraid I have made a mistake of gargantuan proportions, which I have very discreetly corrected. I considered having Arod being eaten by a Huorn to explain his absence in this story, but realized that that would be doing the story a disservice. So if you look back now you would see that he has been there all along, silly me for not mentioning him *sweats and grins innocently*. I hope you will forgive me for this little boo-boo, I’m truly sorry for the oversight.

Chapter V: A Casualty of War

‘It is said that the skill of Dwarves is in their hands rather than in their tongues’ she said; ‘Yet that is not true of Gimli.’
– Lothlorien, Book II

It is a belief amongst our people that the best way to judge a Dwarf is to meet with his family, for in them one sees what the Dwarf in question had once been, and what they could have been, and from this piece together what the Dwarf is and what they could become. A lot can be learned from just examining an individual's family, though of course we are not quite as obsessed as Hobbits seem to be about the whole business. Still, friendships are considerably less difficult if they have the good will of the families of both parties. Unfortunately this particular friendship is attempting to bridge two Races with a long history of mutual distrust and hostility.

I suppose one could say that Legolas and I have a long road ahead of us.

~*~

The merrily burning fireplace provided just enough light for keen eyes to make out a lone figure seated at a far darkened corner of the Hall. Thranduil did not follow them past the door, though his gaze trailed them like a wary hunter’s. A distinct hush fell over the room and a number of heads riveted to look at the odd pair, but the Dwarf had a feeling that all his companion cared about was that one person hidden from their own eyes. Legolas and Gimli approached the chair slowly, and in the midst of his own apprehension Gimli still managed to notice his companion’s trembling hands and the way Legolas’ gaze was fixed on the obscured Elf.

“Nasseryn was blinded during the final assault,” was all the King had said to them during the short journey from the throne room. Legolas had missed a step, and his fair face froze in an icy mask he wore when he was most in pain. At that moment the Dwarf had a sudden deep desire to give the Elvenking a thorough shaking and say, Can you not see that the accusation of betrayal from his own people has hurt him? Why do you worsen his suffering? Strangely, Thranduil seemed to be ignoring him, and might have forced the Dwarf into jogging after them had Legolas not refused to lengthen his stride any further than he knew the Dwarf could comfortably walk. Putting the King at the back of his mind as an obstacle to be faced later- a prospect that sent another tickle of nervousness through him- Gimli put his full attention on determining how he could make a good first impression on this new Elf.

“Legolas!” the shadow exclaimed, straightening up enough that a humanoid form could at least be discerned from the varying shades of shadow. It appeared that the person was wearing a thick robe of heavy cloth, with a deep hood drawn over their head. Gimli was taken aback by the voice, or more specifically, its pitch. It was then that he realized that the Captain of all the armed forces of Mirkwood was, in fact, female.  “So the tidings are true this time! There was no way to be sure, and I could not come myself… I never believed that you were lost to us, not for a single moment, no matter what the whispers said.”

Looking like he had been bodily struck, Legolas’ usual grace finally left him and he fell to his knees in front of the figure, reaching out tentatively to grasp her half-hidden hands. “Nasseryn, dearest sister, I-“

“I forbid you to claim any responsibility for what has befallen me,” she cut him off sharply. From her words and tone of voice Gimli deemed that she had a direct and honest nature akin to his own, and found himself already warming to her. “Enough people have been doing so that I wonder if I had even been present at the event. Nay, I for one am relieved you were not here to witness those dark times, though if the stories I hear are even half true your ordeal was not much better.”

Silence descended on their little corner, settling like a thick smoke saturated with unspoken thoughts. Uncomfortable with such subtle communications and feeling, moreover, like an intruder in what should have been a personal reunion, the Dwarf pondered how he could make his escape politely, despite the gaze of the King he could still feel upon his back. Finally it was Legolas who broke the tension. “At least the whispers will not trouble your sleep any longer.”

A pale hand emerged from the shadow cast by the overlarge chair that Nasseryn sat on, and in the golden firelight Gimli saw the irregular ridges on the palm that marked her as a skilled and seasoned warrior, probably one with a preference for blades. “At last you admit to sharing that little family secret. We all wondered, you know; even Ada.” From her intonation, the Dwarf realized that that must be Elven word for father. Ada. “I fear I have seen enough in my life for my mind to conjure up nightmares to last an Age of the Sun, but there is a comfort in knowing that however horrifying they are, from hereon they will be my mind’s creations, nothing more.” The hands, accustomed as they were to weapons, reached out uncertainly to cup Legolas’ jaw.

Then he saw the hooded head turn directly towards him. “I heard unfamiliar footsteps next to yours, muindor.” Was that the word for brother? “Too heavy for Elf or Hobbit, the strides too short for a Man. Despite their rarity within these halls I would have named a Dwarf from the treadings alone. But it is because of the novelty of the event that word of you far preceded your actual arrival, Master Dwarf. Ai, forgive my lack of manners, we have not been introduced and already I make you suffer the result of the hours of idleness brought about by my present condition.”

Regaining a little of his grace and calm, Legolas got to his feet and gestured for Gimli to step closer to the chair. “Nasseryn, this is Gimli son of Gloin of neighbouring Erebor, who has been my faithful friend and companion through many dangers. Gimli, this is Nasseryn, my sister and Captain of the forces of Mirkwood.”

“Former Captain,” she gently reminded him, though Gimli detected a trace of bitterness in her voice. “But everyone is insisting I stay on in an ‘advisory’ capacity. I am suspecting that it is a plot to drive me to madness by way of long-winded reports.” But Gimli felt, rather than heard, the unspoken words: I am kept busy, so that I do not despair.

But he obligingly chuckled at her light tone, and took her hand in his. “Gimli son of Gloin, at your service and your family’s, my Lady.” Her hands, so uncertain with Legolas whom she had known of old, were more confident in exploring Gimli’s visage, for he was a stranger. She trailed her fingers over his rich beard, tickled his nose with their feather-touch, and lingered over his deep-set eyes.  She unconsciously moved further into the light, though the hood was deep enough that Gimli could only make out a trace outline of her face.

Just then he became aware of another Elf’s presence, and turned to see a slight figure bearing a harp speaking quietly with Legolas. From the prince’s demeanor this newcomer was an old friend. Legolas introduced him to Gimli as Boronlach, a famed bard of the realm. The Dwarf performed the usual courtesies, and the two Elves excused themselves to join a small gathering of Elves in the adjacent corner, near the fire. Gimli’s eyes swept over the Elves that greeted his friend, and some of the tension left him when all he saw was heartfelt welcome and joy.

“He has changed much since he left, though I doubt those who had not known him well before will notice.” Nasseryn commented, no doubt deducing the recipient of Gimli’s attention. “And something ails him, one of those ills that cannot be healed in Middle-Earth, I fear, and his spirit carries the weight of his quiet suffering.” And there, as before, Gimli felt rather than heard the unspoken question: What is wrong with him?

Beginning to feel rather exasperated at all these subtleties where sensible Dwarves would simply voice the question, the son of Gloin reminded himself that directness was not the way of those who have eternity to untangle the riddles that they weave for each other. Mindful of what could be read from not only his words but his very tone, Gimli put much thought in his reply, for reply he must, if not for the sake of courtesy than out of respect for his friend’s kin’s right to know of his wellbeing. On one hand he was relieved that someone had noticed Legolas’ troubled spirit, but on the other he harboured a reluctance shared by the remainder of the Fellowship to disclose details of their ordeal to others outside their intimate circle. He settled with: “I believe this is a matter which must come from him, if he will reveal it to any who do not already know, my Lady. But I will say that your fears are likely correct, and so ask that you not pressure him to speak until he is ready.”

He felt her sightless gaze on him, her awareness probing at his, and wondered if her eyes were as blue as her father and brother’s. “Now I wish for a moment of sight to make sure that you are a Dwarf for true. I would never have imagined such a friendship- though I myself bear no ill will towards you and your people, Master Gimli- but in hindsight it is not so surprising, knowing Legolas as I do.”

“Then I appreciate your tolerance and understanding, my Lady.” Now that she had brought it up, however, Gimli once again felt the prickling along his spine and shoulder blades, and knew that despite having turned back to what they had originally been doing, the Elves were still watching him suspiciously, though from what he could see none gave more than a momentary glance. Not wanting to appear discomfited in the face of their understandable perusal, Gimli sought for a way to occupy his mind. Seeing her settle back into her chair and her shadows, he suddenly heard himself asking, “Why do you hide, my Lady? Surely all know of your injury.”

She froze, and the Dwarf realized that he might have offended her. Many who had been maimed after battle often grew to hate their disabilities, hiding them if possible. At the thought, the pale, drawn face of a certain Baggins of the Shire took form in his mind.

“Injury. The way you say it makes it seem like a cut or a graze, something that can be bandaged and will eventually heal if it is not damaged further.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “But there is naught on this Middle-Earth now that can heal this injury, Master Gimli, or so I am told.” The bitterness rode her voice plainly now, and made it stronger. It reminded him somewhat of Aragorn, and the son of Gloin could imagine such a voice barking out commands in the midst of a bloody battlefield, and be obeyed in the instant. “Thus I have been forsaken, discreetly avoided because they see in me what could befall them. As if shunning it will save them from that fate.” Even as she finished that last statement she appeared surprised to be revealing so much to a relative stranger.

“Forgive me, my Lady, I did not mean to bring you pain.”

“No, no, it is not you,” she waved her hand dismissively. “You, at least, deign to speak to me, and what fear I feel in you is from being found disagreeable by an Elf whose opinions Legolas holds dear.” She smiled slightly. “It convinces me that your intentions are good, and that you value your friendship with my brother highly.” She paused, her head cocked to one side in thought, and when she spoke again her voice held a measure of respect. “It is strange. Within an hour of meeting me you have voiced the question that my family has been dancing around since the final battle, yet I find that I am not offended but relieved that the question has been put forth.”

“I hide, Master Gimli, because I cannot bear the discomfort of others when they are able to see my face.” The smile returned, this time resembling that of Legolas’ when he conspired with Gimli about some mischief. “I also hide from the unfortunate warriors who have been given the task of informing me about our forces. When I sit here like this, they do not bother me, thinking I am in a foul mood. It is fortunate that I was temperamental even before the blinding; now I can unleash my anger without worry of the consequence.”

“They are trying to help you, you know.”

Tension left her in a heartfelt sigh. “I know. I let them treat me like an invalid, suffer through those accursed reports that remind me daily of what I can no longer do and now someone else is doing for me, because it convinces those who care for me that they are doing something, that they are helping me.”

“But they only hurt you.” Gimli gazed into the hood, finally understanding. “Will you show me your face, my Lady?”

Nasseryn seemed startled, then laughed, a real burst of sound. “My own father does not dare ask it of me, yet again I find myself taking no offense. I sense no deceit or malice in you, Master Gimli, despite the tales of Dwarven treachery that are droned into every Elfling’s ears. Most grow up to judge your race for themselves, but a few take those early warnings to heart, and view everything that is not Elven with suspicion. Aye, I feel also their glances at us now, but the War has not been long ended, especially in the accounting of the Firstborn, and you must forgive them their wariness of strangers.”

Gimli couldn’t help but smile, so much did she remind him of her brother. “You do not have to stall, my Lady. It was a request made in a moment of foolishness; you do not have to grant it.”

She laughed again, a trifle nervously, her hands rising to grip her hood. “It must be the time you’ve spent with my brother, to read me so well. Nay, I am willing to, I only needed a moment to steady myself.” With a shaky breath, she pulled back the thick cloth and leaned forwards to place her face into the half-light.

What drew Gimli’s attention first was, of course, the band of black cloth tied securely over Nasseryn’s eyes. Then his gaze was drawn to a smooth, straight scar that ran from a thumb’s width of the bottom of her right eye, running diagonally over the upper half of her face, disappearing under the cloth, splitting her left eyebrow and continuing on to a point a thumb’s width above her left ear. If it had been inflicted during the final battles, then it should have healed by now, but the colour of the scar indicated that there was something in the wound that prevented even the amazing regenerative powers of the Firstborn from healing it as quickly as it should have.

“The weapon was tainted, and its poison entered your eyes,” he whispered. He instinctively reached out a hand, but hesitated short of touching the section of scar on her forehead. It was still tender and pink.

“Aye,” Nasseryn replied quietly. “It was wrought by the Shadow, and my brother said afterwards that it disappeared into dust after he killed the one who wielded it. For a long time the wound would not heal, and had to be drained daily.” She reached out and guided his hand to the scar. As Gimli gently traced it, he considered the rest of her face. There was no mistaking that she was related to Thranduil, though there was a little of Legolas- and thus, their mother- in her features also. She had the fairness of her race, yet nowhere near the splendour of Galadriel and Arwen.

“As fair as any of the Firstborn, but your true beauty lies not in your physical body. I deem that you are at your fairest in the midst of battle, with your sword in one hand and a battle-horn in the other, looking over the bodies of your foes. In those moments, I believe that you are fairer than nearly all the females of your race in their gowns and soft shoes,” he told her as the words came to him, and knew that she could hear the truth in them, and would not be offended. “Even with the… injury.”

Her smile to him brightened up her face. He mentally revised his words, for he realized that without the shadow of despair on her she reminded one of a vein of mithril as it is suddenly revealed by torch-light to an unsuspecting miner.

“Your words touch me more than the false flattery given to me by courtiers seeking a favourable glance from my father,” she said to him. “I wish now that we had met before my blinding.”

Gimli shook his head. “No offense to you, my Lady, but I think that you would not have spared me a glance had we met when you were whole. The most you would have done would be to interrogate me, yet once you are confident of my good-will you would not have given me another thought.”

She frowned at him, though he sensed it was more out of thoughtfulness than displeasure. “Are you saying that I am as prejudiced as some of those fools in my father’s court?”

“Nay, my Lady, you know I do not. But from what I can read of you your heart has been wholly given to protecting your family and this realm, and I think that what grieves you most about the blinding is that it prohibits you from doing so to the extent you have become used to. Beyond this duty, you do not see a need to learn more about others beyond their motives and intentions towards you and your own.”

“You must be a Wizard in disguise, for you cannot know me so well after having just met me!”

“As far as I remember I have been a humble Dwarf my whole life. Undoubtedly you, in turn, have learned much of me without my knowing, but are more courteous about revealing it. Yet I have spent considerable time with the greatest of that order in Middle-Earth, and lately have had to entertain my own thoughts more often than my axe. As have you, I deem.”

She shook her head, her smile blooming fully. “Often I have heard that Dwarves will speak their mind first and worry of the consequences after, yet I find such directness a pleasing change after the intrigues and politics of my race. Somehow you ease my heart after many days of darkness, Master Gimli.” Her head shifted to address someone behind Gimli. “Did you become gifted with foresight, tôr, and brought this healer with you to bring me out of despair?”

Legolas’ voice so close behind him nearly made the Dwarf jump. “I have not such wisdom, though perchance he does, for it was he who followed me despite my attempts to lose him in the forest.” Gimli saw that his friend’s face was merrier now, less strained, and as he looked upon his sister without her hood the joy seeped further into his eyes. Though never covering it completely, ever since they beheld the gulls. Sensing his gaze, Legolas gave Gimli a grateful smile.

“Clearly you did not try too hard, for he is here, and appears to be in one piece. Be warned, however; I may try to steal him from you.”

Legolas’ laugh was light and heartfelt. “I see I have a contender for your affections now.”

“I think I can spare regard enough for the two of you.”

“It is fortunate that there is little enough of Gimli to make much of a difference to my share.”

“Watch your mouth, Elfling.”

Legolas was grinning when he leaned forward and touched his sister’s face. “I do not see why you needed the hood, thêl. You are as lovely as always.”

“It surprises me that in this matter, I must judge that Gimli was more eloquent in his praise.”

“I can believe that, though I did not expect him to reveal his poetic self so soon upon your acquaintance.”

“Before meeting him, I did not know that Dwarves could be poetic.”

“If it will comfort you, Lord Celeborn the Wise did not think so either.”

Nasseryn raised an eyebrow. “You have much to tell me, then. Ada informed us of the departure of the Fellowship, then we received word of your passing through Lothlorien, and even here we sensed the fall of Sauron, for the shadow that heartened our enemies and instilled doubt in our most experienced warriors lifted, though the fighting itself did not.””

“It is a long tale, and our part in it was small compared to the periannath whom we guarded.”

“You must tell me it, then, but not tonight. For even without sight I know that you are wearied from travel. Go to your rest, neth tôr, now that you are home there is no hurry for speech.”

“I shall, thêl. But first I must fetch our horse, who I had instructed to wait just beyond the bridge.”

Gimli gave a gruff harrumph. “It will serve that nuisance of a beast if he gets devoured by the night-creatures.”

Legolas chuckled at this and shook his head, but Nasseryn frowned. “If what remains of the fell creatures of the dark wood can venture so close to our palace without raising an alarm, then I shall give our brother a sound beating.”

“Forgive Gimli his jest, thêl, he and Arod have a somewhat… lively history. And our warriors are as watchful as ever; we did not encounter a single spider or blood bat on our journey through the wood. Edendor is a very capable Captain.”

“I know; I myself chose him as my successor, though Ada was keen on Derinsul taking the post, as if the Heir does not have enough to do.” She placed her hands on the armrests of the chair and stood up slowly. “I think I shall come with you for some air, if you can suffer a blind hindrance.”

He gently took her arm and covered her smaller hand with his. “In all my life you have never been a hindrance, muinthel; you are too old to start now.” He turned to Gimli. “Will you excuse us, my friend?”

“Of course,” Gimli replied, despite suddenly feeling apprehensive about being left alone in a nest of Elves. But he could not begrudge his friend some time alone with his sister. He watched them leave, Nasseryn automatically pulling up her hood with one hand whilst the other seemed to be clutching on to Legolas for dear life. Gimli noticed that the other Elves in the room were casting surreptitious glances at Nasseryn as they passed. In their eyes he saw pity, with a hint of fear, and knew that Nasseryn could sense it. It irked him, knowing how a true warrior would abhor pity, but he was a mere guest in their King’s hall. So focused on them was the Dwarf that he did not notice said King until Thranduil was almost before him.

“That is the first I have heard my eldest daughter laugh since her sight was taken from her,” he said quietly, his gaze also fixed on the two as they disappeared out the door. “For that alone I would offer you a chest of gold from my treasure room for when you depart.”

Gimli inclined his head, though he was inwardly puzzled at the sudden warmth in Thranduil’s demeanor, marked contrast from his cold indifference of before. “My thanks, Lord King, but I have all the gold I could ever desire,” he replied, patting a small pouch nestled in an inner pocket of his under-tunic.

This earned him a most surprised look from Thranduil. “A Dwarf refusing gold? And I thought I had seen all that could be seen in these later days. I fear I might start treating you as I would a Hobbit.”

The comment made Gimli smile. “Then you honour me beyond my worth, your Majesty.”

Once again those intense eyes bore into him, and Gimli had the feeling that he was not turning out to be what Thranduil had expected. “Will you at least accept my hospitality? I have readied a room for your use next to Legolas’, and will take you there presently if you have no further business to attend to.”

Gimli bowed low. “Your hospitality I shall gladly accept, with many thanks. But you need not trouble yourself on my account, Lord; just give me directions, or instruct a servant to lead me.”

“It is no trouble, for that is the way to my chambers also.”

The Dwarf nodded, then thought of something. “There is something you might provide me with, your Majesty, if there is any within your keeping.”

Thranduil frowned. “Something you wish over gold? What is it?”

“Actually, I would take a good tanker of ale and hearty meal over any amount of gold. But I was wondering if you have any pipe-weed. Your son has managed to dispose of even my emergency stash. He has never taken a liking to the smell.”

The King’s ringing laughter drew a few startled eyes from the handful of Elves remaining in the hall, and it occurred to Gimli then that Thranduil was, well, young. Certainly he had seen a handful of generations of Dwarves, many more of Men, but of all the Elven rulers Gimli had met, the King of Eryn Lasgalen seemed to be the youngest. He held that unmistakable aura of power, but where Lord Elrond and Lord Celeborn carried a measure of solemnity and wisdom beyond the grasp of mortals, King Thranduil thrummed with life and vigour, displaying a quicksilver change of mood. The Dwarf remembered Nasseryn claiming to have a temperamental nature, and felt sure that she must have inherited that from her father.

“And here I thought it was some rare jewel. Few Elves enjoy the scent of burning leaves, but we do have a small store for our visiting Dale-men, and over the years Aragorn and Mithrandir have taken to leaving small amounts for when they visit. But your words have reminded me that I have much to be desired as a host, for I have not even fed you yet! As you will not take gold, I must heap as much ale and food on you as you can take. Tomorrow night there shall be a feast to mark my son’s safe return, and you shall be a guest of honour.”

“My thanks again, Lord King.”

“Tell me, Gimli, how long do you think you shall be staying within my halls?”

“A few weeks, perhaps as long as a month if that is acceptable to you, my Lord.”

“You may stay for as long as you wish, Master Dwarf, and on the morrow I shall give you what news has come to us from Erebor.”

“Then I say you are gracious host indeed, my King.”

After their little exchange Gimli felt slightly more comfortable around Thranduil, though seeing how suddenly the Elvenking’s behaviour had changed, he was quite sure that he was not beyond suspicion yet. And there was still the matter of the rest of the Kingdom.

But it was Thranduil’s question that sent a tendril of worry through Gimli. He missed his home and his people, but somehow he had not really considered the fact that he would be leaving Legolas behind when he continued on. His heart grew heavy once more, though he kept his face cheerful as Thranduil led the way to his room, where Legolas would later call through the adjoining wooden door and invite Gimli to see his own chambers. His mind told him that his friend would be safe amongst family and the woods he grew up in, and may eventually find healing there, but his heart suspected that, as Nasseryn had divined, there was no healing for Legolas, not even here, and leaving him alone would only worsen the grip of the Sea-longing.

He thought of the brilliant hallways of the Lonely Mountain, the glorious waterfalls and streams of the River, the constant hammering that echoed throughout the carved passages that always seemed to him like the heartbeat of Arda itself.

And he thought also of giant trees able to bear the weight of many telain, and Time itself, it seemed. He thought of the gentle sighing of leaves and the singing of a cool river that bore the name of an Elf-maiden long lost to obscurity. And in the centre was an ageless face framed by tresses that captured the very heart of the Sun.

So intent had Gimli been on aiding his friend that he had managed to forget his own heart’s wound. But memory brought pain and sadness, and he knew that he, too, would never be healed in all his days on Middle-Earth.

telain – plural for talan 

I will only translate a few Sindarin words used in this story, because it’s hardly fair for the reader to understand everything that’s being said when Gimli can’t, right? *winks*

My heartfelt thanks to my new betas Gwynnynd and Nivoreka, without whom this chapter surely would not have appeared at all. Any remaining errors are mine alone.

Chapter VI: Elven tempers, Dwarven patience

Together the Elf and the Dwarf entered Minas Tirith, and folk that saw them pass marvelled to see such companions, for Legolas was fair of face beyond the measure of Men, and he sang an elven-song in a clear voice as he walked about in the morning; but Gimli stalked beside him, stroking his beard and staring about him.
- The Last Debate

At times I wonder if Elves show unearthly patience when around mortals because we have come to expect that of them, and Dwarves allow their anger free rein because everyone knows that Dwarves are such impulsive beings. It is equally possible that the two Races have chosen their opposing ends along the line of temperamant simply to be contrary to one another. After all, the grandeur that is Khazad-dûm could hardly have been wrought by impatient hands, and anyone who assumes that Elven patience is boundless has not witnessed a travel-stained Elf faced with the prospect of a bath.

~*~

The bed was soft and warm and infinitely more comfortable than the rocks and tree roots he had been lying on for the past several months. He was quite content to be asleep, and felt rather vexed that someone was equally intent on rousing him.

“Legolas, ‘s not even dawn yet,” he grumbled as he buried his head under his pillow and instinctively shuffled away from the finger that was prodding him incessantly on the ribs. “Leave me in peace, or I shall tell Frodo on you.”

“Ah, but not before I give this overlong beard of yours a good trim.”

He swept an arm towards the voice’s general direction, and  heard a merry laugh as he felt Legolas’ weight leave the mattress. “You would not dare. I would-“ he halted his words to entertain a huge yawn. “- do worse than put sap on your hair.” Unfortunately, his efforts to fend off the Elf brought him even closer to full wakefulness, which undoubtedly had been Legolas’ intention.

“You are even poorer at insults in the morning, Master Sluggard.”

Without opening his eyes, Gimli could just see that slender hand reaching over to tug on his beard. Usually he would growl and pull himself to his feet at this point, but a comfortable night’s sleep made returning to wakefulness a lot swifter. So instead he lay quietly, giving off the impression of having sunk back into slumber once more, and waited for the Elf.

When he felt the insolent fist close around a handful of his beard, he quickly jerked back. He winced slightly at the pull on his prized treasure, but Dwarven beards were strong out of necessity, considering the number of things they can get caught on, and the unexpected the movement threw Legolas off-balance. With speed most Elves did not expect of Dwarves, Gimli swung one leg in a wide arc out of the bed, and kicked Legolas’ legs out from under him.

Legolas fell with a surprised cry, but maintained his grip on Gimli’s beard. Not exactly stable himself, the Dwarf attempted for a moment to gain his footing and stand, but Legolas’ momentum carried them both down to land in a tangled heap on the floor.

“Oof!”

“Aaah!

“Gimli, did you swallow a statue in your sleep? I did not think you’d be this heavy without your armour!”

“You should have thought of that before you pulled me down, then!”

“You kicked me!”

“And you’re pulling out my beard!”

“I wasn’t, but I will now!”

“By Durin! Why you-“

“Ai, let go of my hair!”

“Legolas?”

Gimli heard Legolas’ door open, then footsteps heading their way. The steps were so quiet that the Dwarf knew he wouldn’t have heard them if he hadn’t had one ear pressed against the floor. Legolas was still clutching onto his beard even though his arm was at an awkward backwards angle, and one long leg managed to curl around and pin Gimli against Legolas’ back. The Dwarf lay on the other leg, and his hand tightly gripped Legolas’ mane. From his rather uncomfortable position, he could just about see out of the corner of one eye that the adjoining door between his and Legolas’ rooms was half-open. A moment later a pair of light shoes came into view. Gimli attempted to shift his head to get a better view of the newcomer, but found it held fast by Legolas’ uncompromising grip on his beard. 

“Edendor!”

Gimli stared at the hand on his beard, wondering if he could bite it. Such behaviour would have been considered improper and barbaric in a formal Dwarven fight, but Legolas had compromised the code of conduct when he laid a hand on the beard. Though, to be fair, he supposed Legolas could not have known this. Still, the Elf seemed to guess his intentions- though how he did so when he was unable to see Gimli was beyond the Dwarf’s ability to explain- and an ankle pressed down painfully against the bottom of his spine. “Your arrival is quite timely,” Legolas continued, presumably speaking to the newcomer. “For I seem to have been taken hostage by a Dwarf.”

Gimli snorted, and nearly sneezed from the strands of golden hair drawn to his nose. “I would claim that you attacked my innocent beard first.”

“I will release the beard if you let go of my hair.”

Legolas paused for a moment, and said, “Deal.”

When they managed to climb back onto their feet, Legolas grinned sheepishly at the new Elf, who looked a little wide around the eyes. “Edendor, this is Gimli son of Gloin. Gimli, this my brother Edendor.”

Gimli bowed respectfully. “Gimli son of Gloin, at your service and your family’s.”

Edendor looked at him blankly for a moment, then replied with, “Edendor son of Thranduil, at yours,” in a voice that hinted of rote and practice. His eyes stayed on Gimli for a while, before travelling back to Legolas. “Word came to the outpost of your return, so I came as quickly as I could.”

A smiling Legolas stepped towards him and drew him into a heartfelt embrace. “Thank you, brother, though I suspect your first sight of me was not what you had envisioned when you rode in this morning.” He glanced fondly at Gimli. “Yet today I will concede that the initial provocation was mine, for I wittingly attempted to wake Master Sluggard by assaulting his beard. But come now, will you break fast with us?”

“I will, for that was the reason I sought you,” Edendor answered with a smile of his own, seeming to be put at ease by his brother’s familiar manner. Now that the initial look of surprise had faded, Gimli could see that this sibling of Legolas’ appeared to be a male version of Nasseryn, though with a little less of Thranduil. In some aspects he seemed more delicate than his sister, for the lines of his face were more like to Legolas, and he was not as solidly built. Not as confident as Nasseryn, either, thought Gimli, or else having had to prove himself far too often of late.

“In such a case,” the Dwarf interjected smoothly, “I shall now take my leave.” How he was supposed to find the kitchens by himself was something he could figure out later. Perhaps he could ask for food to be sent to his room?

Guilt flashed through Edendor’s eyes. “Nay! I did not mean to exclude you, Master Dwarf. Indeed, I must confess to being as curious about you as nearly every other Elf in this palace. I would be honoured to speak with you further. That is, if you did not wish to dine alone this morn?”

“He does not,” Legolas cut in, his eyes twinkling brightly as he regarded Gimli. “He was simply being too courteous for his own good, and would have attempted to find his way to the eating-hall by himself once we departed.”

Despite feeling that Edendor was still not very comfortable around him, the Dwarf knew better than most that there was no gainsaying his friend when Legolas had set his mind on something, and he quickly changed out of his night-clothes and followed the two Elves out.

The realisation that he might not always have his friend to guide him about incited Gimli to take notice of his surroundings and the paths they took. The section with the sleeping-chambers of the King’s family had wide corridors and low ceilings, and was brightly illuminated by torches and fine candles placed at regular intervals. A pair of guards stationed at the entrance to the section smartly saluted Edendor and Legolas as they passed. They entered a narrower passage that wound like a snake and occasionally branched off to other sections.

Seeing Gimli’s wondering expression, Edendor smiled and explained, “Most of the private chambers are located in this part of the Mountain, so it warrants extra protection. Along with irregular guard patrols, King Oropher had this passage-way built. The narrow space and frequent turns will slow an attacking force, giving the people in the chambers time to escape through a separate secret route known only to the King and Heir. If you wish to return to your room without Legolas, I would advise asking one of the guards to escort you through this passage.”

Eventually the passage dipped down slightly, and they emerged into a more spacious, straight corridor that bustled with activity. It seemed that most of the Elves had the morning meal in their minds also, for the general direction of the flow was a large set of double-doors, less ornate but not unlike the ones before the throne room. Though neither Edendor nor Legolas wore anything different from the garb of the other Elves, at the first sight of them the crowd gave way and let them pass with respectful nods. Gimli quickly trailed after them, perhaps walking a little closer to Legolas than normal due to a sudden image of the crowd closing in after his friend and parting them.

It was clear that even the King’s family was not entitled to any different fare than the rest of the inhabitants of the palace, though the servers were distinctly polite. On his plate Gimli found four slices of freshly baked bread with honey and clotted cream, two sausages, a pile of baked beans, a variety of roasted nuts, slices of apple and two boiled eggs. As he shoveled the food into his mouth, his eyes wandered over to Legolas. His friend seemed quite relaxed, the fair face merry and shapely eyes bright. Unusually so.

The Dwarf waited until Edendor was approached by another Elf, then leaned to one side and whispered, “How much sleep did you get last night?”

An elegant eyebrow rose. “Enough, thank you.”

“Ah.” Gimli’s took a noisy mouthful of beans. “None, then,” he said over the chewing. At that point Edendor finished his brief conversation and turned back to face them.

“What think you of Eryn Lasgalen, Master Gimli?” he asked politely, starting on his own meal.

Gimli replied warily around a mouthful of bread. “I am afraid that my Dwarven eyes cannot appreciate fully the beauty of your forest, but I deem it the equal of Rivendell and Lorien.”

Edendor looked surprised at this. “That is grand praise indeed.” He looked at his brother. “You have journeyed into the Golden Wood?”

Legolas nodded. “Aye, though in the bosom of winter and being pursued by a horde of Orcs out of Moria.”

“Moria!” Edendor’s voice rose, and a slight flush came to his light complexion when a number of nearby eyes turned their way. “Ai, forgive me, the King has requested that none question either of you until the welcoming feast tonight, in which you are expected to give a thorough recounting of this Quest. And I see that the tale will be long indeed, and full of many wonders.” It was clear from the eager look in his eyes, however, that he hoped to hear a little more.

Legolas only smiled. “In such a case, I shall not spoil your anticipation. I am sure that you have your own tidings to tell; Nasseryn informed us last night that you are now the Captain of our forces!”

At the prompting, Edendor launched into an excited though rather long-winded account of the battles under the eaves of Mirkwood and the assaults against Lorien. Ever the warrior, Gimli did his best to follow the Elf’s speech, and thought he got a fair idea of the general course of events and the tactics employed by both Elven forces. He got lost a little, though, when Edendor began speaking of individual warriors- probably acquaintances of Legolas. And he was further distracted when he came upon an uneaten sausage on his plate after he could have sworn that he had finished his two. He checked that Edendor was thoroughly engrossed in his story-telling, and cast an eye over the plate next to his. Sure enough, there was only one sausage lying between the bread and the beans. He glared at Legolas, but the Elf appeared to be avidly focused on his brother.

Two spoonfuls of beans and a slice of bread followed ‘ere Edendor finished talking. Gimli found it quite frustrating that, no matter how closely he watched his plate and his friend’s hands, he never caught how the extra food was being transplanted. Still, he had no choice but to eat it, and he had to admit that his stomach was glad for the extra fare. He wondered if he was gaining a Hobbit’s appetite, which was a truly horrifying thought. He had a warrior’s soul, and it cringed at the being reminded of Bombur, who relied on other Dwarves for the simple task of moving around.

This was all trivial, of course, compared to his renewed concern for Legolas, whose appetite had clearly not returned. It was with some satisfaction that he watched his friend finish the remaining food on his plate. Though depleted a little, it was still considerably more than the Dwarf had been able to convince him to eat ever since Rohan, where he had also been watched by the rest of the Fellowship. Strangely enough, Gimli remembered that it was Frodo who proved most effective at getting food into the Elf. As far as the Dwarf was concerned, no one could go against that solemn, wide-eyed Look that a truly resolute Frodo was able to bestow.

Once they were done, Edendor extended an invitation for them to visit the training grounds. “You have been sorely missed, tôr, especially on the archery range. Some are still skeptical about the news of your return, and seeing you alive and whole will put all doubts to rest.”

Gimli was aware of the gazes on them as they departed from the eating-hall, but felt a little less unnerved by being the centre of such age-heavy attention than the day before. I must get used to it, I suppose, he mentally told himself, if I expect to be staying here awhile. Ignoring the urge to glance over his shoulder, he concentrated on the figure of Edendor walking in front of him.

As he had observed earlier, Legolas’ brother did seem quite uncertain of himself. He is definitely flighty, whatever Legolas may say. He could see where Nasseryn’s doubts about Edendor’s capabilities as Captain came from. But experience told him that Edendor might be as confident in a battle as he was unconfident outside of one; for Gimli himself found battle and his axes a great deal simpler than the more obscure bloodless conflicts prevalent through normal life.

They returned to the busy main corridor, and followed a small group of armed Elves down a plain side-passage. They passed large iron-bound doors which Legolas pointed out as the armoury. The scent of metal and leather pervaded the passage, and Gimli felt the easing of a tension he hadn’t been aware of having. Eventually they came out into the open air, though Gimli was tempted to enter the forge situated just before the opening in the rock. Once again he felt a strange stirring for the familiarity of home, though the thought of actually going home made him a strangely uneasy.

The first training area they came upon was a clearing that had a series of circles drawn into the ground. Several contained two or four Elves dueling against each other with long white blades similar to the ones Legolas had borne in the Quest. The current fight in the first circle they came upon must have been in session for a while, for Gimli could see signs of weariness upon the sparring Elves. Several eyes flickered towards them, but to their credit there was scarcely a pause as the slender blades continued to whirl like leaves in a wind-storm and clash against each other with a sharp metallic rap. But when the somber-looking Elf observing that circle noticed the new-comers and cried out, “Legolas!” all activity in the area halted.

Gimli managed to put some distance between himself and Legolas before the Elf was surrounded by a crowd of warriors, some of whom had not bothered to put down their weapons and were waving them about over the heads of their fellows. In any mortal race that would have been an invitation for disaster, but the Dwarf had to acknowledge the high probability that these warriors had been handling their blades far longer than he had been alive.

As far as he could tell, they assaulted their newly-returned prince with questions, but the speech was all in their tongue, and the lilting voices so overlapped each other that he could only pick out his friend’s name every now and then. Gimli felt movement behind him, and saw that Edendor had come to stand by him with an amused expression. “He is very popular amongst our forces,” the Captain said, somewhat unnecessarily. “His skill is legendary amongst our archers, but he is a master with the knives also.”

Once the initial flurry subsided, Legolas’ voice could be heard in the midst of the throng, and Gimli caught his name. The outermost Elves turned to regard Gimli with a mixture of astonishment and curiosity, and the group reluctantly parted to allow Legolas to walk towards the Dwarf. He placed a familiar hand on Gimli’s shoulder and said in Westron, “My brethren in arms, this is Gimli son of Gloin out of Erebor, who has guarded my back this many months.”

Sensing an unspoken prompt, Gimli bowed low. “Gimli son of Gloin, at your service.”

There was a moment of silence, then the one who had been observing the first circle said, “Forgive us our surprise, Master Gimli; we had word of your presence, but the news out of the palace has not always been the most reliable in the past.”

“It is of no matter. You have given us a better reception than… than that we received yester-eve.”

The Elf’s face darkened slightly. “Ah. It is courteous of you to not mention him, but we have all heard of Dinimlad’s cause.” He looked at Legolas. “Know that none of the warriors can believe such accusations, my Lord. Upon their return the ones who escorted you to Imladris told us of what took place there, and all are in agreement that you committed no betrayal in accepting Lord Elrond’s charge. Indeed, many feel honoured that it was one of our own, and not an Elf of Imladris or one of the Galadhrim, that was chosen to represent our race.”

Legolas’ eyes widened, and Gimli could see that his friend felt quite touched by this show of support. “Then you have my heartfelt thanks.”

The Elf nodded, and seemed to realize that the other Elves were still staring curiously at Gimli. “The break is over, everyone back to their training! And Master Gimli is a guest, not something to be gawked at!”

Everyone gradually returned to their circles, or whatever activity they had been engaged in before the interruption, though looks continued to be cast Gimli’s way. As usual, nothing explicit or obvious, yet he could feel their attention weighing down on him. Yet he felt that it was of a different quality than the one he had been subjected to within the palace. Curious. The Elf who had spoken with them seemed to be in no hurry to follow his own directions, however, and stayed with them as they strolled down the yard.

Feeling obliged to comment on the practices that were taking place, Gimli said, “Your warriors are very skilled, Master-“

“Hethunan, a Sergeant of one of the companies. And I am pleased that you think so. It is our week off of regular patrol, so in between guard-duty in the palace we come out into the grounds to practice.”

Silence returned, in which Gimli heard a quiet conversation starting between Legolas and Edendor behind them. “Am I correct in assuming that your preferred weapon would be the axe, after the manner of your people?” the Elf sergeant suddenly inquired.

“Aye, though all of mine are in my pack, which lies in the guest-room your King has kindly granted to my use,” Gimli replied. “Outside of home, I usually do not travel without at least one of the smaller axes on my person, but I did not wish to cause offence in your King’s palace by walking about armed.”

“You will not; times have been so dangerous and uncertain of late that even the courtiers have taken to wearing daggers, though I do not see how they can expect to wield such weapons in those heavy robes.” Gimli was startled at the thinly disguised contempt in the sergeant’s voice. “If you ever feel the need to practice your weapons, the training grounds are at your disposal. The main supervisor is not here today, for his son is expecting a child and required help in making adjustments to his home. But I shall speak to him, and to our smiths in case you need to have your weapons sharpened.”

“Thank you,” Gimli said with genuine gratitude. “I do fear my axe has been collecting dust and rust for the last half-year.”

Just then a voice called out, “Legolas, will you spar with us?” Two Elves waved from a circle at the end of the row.

“I will, if you do not mind Gimli joining us!” answered Legolas, with a cheerfulness that sounded feigned to the Dwarf’s ears. Gimli jumped and cast a bewildered look at him.

The Elf who had made the offer looked very surprised indeed, but his companion guffawed. “A Naugrim? Very well, little leaf, bring your pet. The sport will be a refreshing change.”

He had not spoken loudly, yet it seemed every ear in the grounds had heard his words, and once again all activity stopped. The faces that now openly looked their way held disbelieving shock. Hethunan directed a searing glare at the offensive Elf, who stopped snickering and flushed slightly. Keeping his eyes on the Elf, he said to Gimli, “Please pay him no heed. It seems that war has become such a part of our nature that there are those who seek to prolong it after the true Enemy has been defeated.”

“You were always over-rash, Maluvor,” said Legolas in that emotionless, quiet voice that Gimli had come to identify as the Elf at his most dangerous. “As Master Gimli is my guest, your words have insulted my person also.”

The Elf’s face was flushed. “I have stood against the dark beasts and shadowless terrors of Dol Guldur whilst you were keeping company with a Dwarf! Ú-ostion rûth lín!” He took a step towards Legolas which might have been intended to seem menacing, but reminded Gimli of an impetuous child. He stood by his friend, gazing calmly at the irate Elf. He saw Legolas’ hand curl into a fist, bright eyes narrowing. Most of the other Elves were far wiser, and had backed away from them. A few were glancing with confusion between himself and Legolas, and it occurred to Gimli that his friend had been quicker to lose his temper than he, who was supposed to be the impulsive Dwarf. Perhaps the Elf’s influence was rubbing off on him.

Maluvor ranted on, and it was strange that their ugly meanings could not fully diminish the beauty of the Elves’ lyrical language. At first Gimli simply stared, unbothered- mostly due to not understanding the words, though the Elf’s face and tone were expressive enough- but he eventually became troubled not by Maluvor’s tirade but the darkening of Legolas’ face. There were few things that a Dwarf held dearer than his honour, yet somehow he wasn’t really affected by Maluvor’s insults; indeed, the period of courtesy towards him from the Wood-Elves had lasted far longer than even his optimism had predicted. Out of respect for Thranduil’s kindness and hospitality, he would have been willing to do nothing more than glare at the offensive Elf and walk away. Maybe a few choice insults, mostly in his own native tongue, would be involved at strategic points. But he had a feeling that Maluvor was actually more intent on accosting Legolas’ honour rather than his. And that he could not abide.

“Sergeant Hethunan, have you an axe that I may use?” he asked the Elf, who seemed unable to tear his gaze away from the two Elves. If they didn’t, perhaps he could run to his room and fetch his before Legolas could finish the fight.

“Our people do not really use such heavy weapons,” replied Hethunan with a thoughtful frown, at the same time in which Edendor said, “There are a few in the armoury.” Guessing the reason behind Gimli’s question, the Captain sent an Elf to fetch them.

“My thanks,” said Gimli graciously, though he had forgotten all about Edendor. “But how come you by them, if your people do not use axes?”

To this Edendor answered, “We train our warriors for every eventuality that may occur in a battle, and it is not uncommon for an archer to run out of arrows or a swordsman to lose his blade. In such events, we use what weapons we can lay our hands on, and usually these are the weapons of our fallen enemies. I myself was forced to wield an axe when my sword became caught in an Orc’s ribs during the battle of Dagorlad.” This revelation evoked a raised eyebrow from Hethunan.

A particularly vehement exclamation from Maluvor caused Edendor’s expression to change from thoughtful to bordering on anger so quickly that Gimli was strongly reminded of Thranduil. “You do not need to accept his challenge, Master Gimli. You are a guest of the King, and are not required to defend your honour.” His voice became quieter. “And, if you will forgive me for saying so, Maluvor’s anger is not truly aimed at you. He has been envious of my brother since Legolas proved more skilled than he with the knives.”

“Aye,” Hethunan agreed. “Ever has he found reason to besmirch the young lord’s honour, though for his part Legolas has always treated him with understanding and courtesy. It is a surprise that he is publicly standing up against Maluvor, but I am sure many of the warriors feel that it is about time. It is heartening to see that Legolas’ temper is not boundless, after all.”

Gimli was a bit surprised at this, remembering the rather rocky beginnings of their friendship. Though, looking in hindsight, perhaps he had been a little too aggressive in his campaign against the Elf. And that thought made him wonder if, just as Legolas had imparted some of his calm patience into the fiery Dwarf, Gimli had not bestowed a little of his brashness into the normally sweet-tempered Elf.

Just at that moment a pile of axes arrived, borne by the Elf that Edendor had charged with the task earlier. How any being can walk gracefully whilst carrying a stack of weapons higher than himself must be one of the Valar’s mysteries, thought Gimli with a small measure of resignation. He was surprised to see that they were real combat axes, not the lighter versions his people used for training. But Elves had countless centuries to hone their abilities, and likely had become skilled enough to avoid receiving or inflicting serious injury. Scanning the training ground again, he saw that the few Elves that had decided to continue their training regardless of the commotion did indeed use real knives.

He carefully examined each axe, finally settling on a medium-sized battle-axe with a similar weight to the one that he used the most. Holding the weapon in his hand calmed him immediately. His hands recognized it as of real dwarf-make, and it was almost as if he could feel Arda solidifying beneath his feet. For a moment all the noises around him muted, and he could feel the rock beneath the soil, the bones grown by he the Elves named Aulë, upon which Yavanna had placed the nourishing soil that was the flesh of the world. And looming over them was the Mountain; the stone remembered his people, and their respectful tappings as they brought out the beauty within it.

He heard his name, and found himself gazing at a very familiar pair of eyes.

“Are you sure, Gimli?” Legolas quietly asked, already holding his white knife. For an answer, Gimli reached up with his right arm and gripped the Elf’s left shoulder. Legolas smiled, and did the same towards Gimli. The Dwarf caught a few mystified expressions from the watching crowd, but between members of the Fellowship such gestures had come to signify encouragement in the face of battle and symbolized their very unique brotherhood that spanned the gaps of race and culture.

Maluvor’s intended sparring partner now stood with him, both Elves with knives held at the ready. But apparently the training circle that Maluvor had been ready to use was too small for a two-on-two match, so they removed to a bigger circle at the centre of the grounds. Legolas had quickly changed into grey sparring garments identical to what the other Elves were wearing, and Hethunan quickly altered one to fit Gimli. The Dwarf had insisted he wear it over his clothes. Of the four, he was wearing the most layers, but he still felt as if he was about to walk into battle naked. Which, in a very real sense, he was.

The concept of the sparring circle was not new to Gimli. His people used a variation of it for the same purpose- a circle within a square. But Dwarves wore armour whilst sparring with real weapons. This was mostly due to the heaviness of the axes and the manner with which they were wielded. Furthermore, the Dwarves did not have the centuries that the Elves did to perfect their techniques. For a moment, Gimli was tempted to ask if someone could fetch his armour from his room. But he was sure that Maluvor would only see this as a sign of weakness, and the last thing he wanted to do was undermine Legolas’ position.

By this point the watching crowd had grown; it now included several archers with their quivers still strapped onto their backs, a couple of palace guards, and even a handful of servants.

“Remember, this is a sparring session,” said Edendor with a hint of steel in his voice, though his eyes flickered nervously between the three Elves and lone Dwarf. “The objective is to cause your enemy to leave the circle-“

“We are not first-year trainees, Thranduilion,” Maluvor cut in. “I daresay even the naugrim knows the rules.”

Gimli’s ground his teeth, but was saved from having to reply by Edendor, whose hand seemed to be clutching at his belt with unnecessary force. “The side that draws first blood forfeits the match,” he finished, stepping out of the circle.

The Dwarf belatedly wished that he’d questioned Legolas about these rules earlier. He assured himself that they probably did not differ too greatly from Dwarven sparring rules. He only wished that he could find out those differences before having to go against fully trained warriors. Sighing, he took his customary place next to Legolas, his heart beating faster as he secured his grip on the axe. As the Elves had two knives each, Hethunan had insisted that Gimli carry a second weapon. He had picked a smaller axe, shaped more like a throwing-axe with a stouter handle, and recognized it as Elven-make. Truth be told, it was far too curvy and, well, pretty, for a self-respecting Dwarf to be seen wielding in a proper battle, but both the craftsman and the warrior in him agreed that despite its deceptively light weight it was as effective as any Dwarven axe.

It was a little difficult to focus on their opponents with a crowd of spectators around the circle, but Gimli the warrior acknowledged Maluvor and his partner as hostile, and his training and experience took over. A tiny portion of his mind still wondered that he could fight comfortably alongside an Elf, but having seen how deadly Legolas was in battle, he knew that he would pick the Elf to guard his back over many of his kinsmen.

There was no outward signal, but suddenly all four of them within the circle tensed. Maluvor’s eyes were trained on Legolas, so it was no surprise to Gimli that it was his partner who went after him. For a few seconds, nothing happened, simply both sides weighing and examining the other for any weaknesses. Unfortunately, Gimli’s mind was still quite muddled, making him unable to concentrate. A tendril of fear attempted to nibble the back of Gimli’s consciousness, solemnly informing him that for all the Orc necks that he’d hewn, this was really the first time he’d gone against an Elf. Oh, he and Legolas had sparred on occasion- with him losing more than twice as many matches than he won- but that was no guarantee he could hold his own against an Elf he’d known for only a matter of minutes. To confound matters, he was not supposed to draw blood. In Dwarven sparring matches, all fighters wore armour. He knew how to pull back on his blows, but not against opponents with scarcely any protection.

Suddenly his opponent launched himself across the circle towards Gimli, at the same time as Maluvor flew forwards towards Legolas. Gimli hadn’t even seen him move, and was saved by the sunlight glinting off the naked blade as it descended on him. The Dwarf raised his axe just in time to block the knife with the wooden shaft. The force behind the blow caught him by surprise, though, and he automatically stepped backwards. The second blade missed slicing his stomach open by half the width of his thumb.

A cold fear surged through his belly. He met his opponent’s eyes, and found a burning fire behind the exterior of cold indifference. Was this another Elf with a prejudice? Winning the match by forfeit was all very well, but not if first blood drawn was from a mortal wound. A part of him said, Surely he would not dare to try and kill me in front of all these people? To which another part answered, Prejudice listens not to reason. And if that fire is fueled by vengeance, than I am in greater danger still.

Hiss. After enduring the deathly cold of Caradhras, escaping from Durin's Bane, entering a Wood no Dwarf has ever ventured into before, chasing Orcs continually for three days, braving the Dead out of love for a Man and an Elf, standing before the Black Gates of Mordor... it seemed a bit inappropriate that he would die here. Hiss.

At that point something in Gimli’s mind seemed to decide that his conscious self was quite incapable of keeping him alive, and was in fact preventing him from concentrating. Having always been few in number, the Dwarves had evolved to be quite a hardy race. Their history was rife with conflict. In some tribes, it was said, Dwarves would be trained from childhood to fight. But the lines who held Durin as a Father tended towards the making and shaping of treasures, probably from their shared history with the Elves. Or had that been what had drawn the Elves to them? Most of Gimli’s kin were smiths or miners or builders. Yet he had always been more drawn to the ways of war and the thrill of battle. He had bested most of the elders in the Lonely Mountain, except for a few like Balin, despite his years. And in the face of a foe his mind had accepted as unconquerable, something akin to that desperate hardiness possessed by Hobbits pushed aside his doubt-ridden consciousness and merged with his trained muscles.

Hiss. That nearly took his ear off! Hiss.

At first he barely managed to defend himself, and was aware of being slowly pushed towards the circle’s line. The tip of a blade would pass so close to him that he was sure he could see body hair flying off in its wake. The very air whistled with the passage of the lightning-swift metal. The Elf seemed to be the wind itself, making Gimli feel like a sluggish rock.

Hiss. The blades danced, yet never touching him, though up to the moment of contact he was sure they would. Hiss.

Then, unbelievably, he began anticipating the Elf’s movements. A calm emptiness enveloped him, wherein he noticed that his lack of height put him at an advantage in this particular case. The Elf was light and nimble, seeming to be made more out of air than muscle and sinew, yet Gimli was like an immovable rock. Parries became blows, blocks ended with a strong forward push straight into the Elf. 

It took a while to register, but inch by painful inch his opponent gave way. He even managed to sneak a few glances at Legolas, and saw that his friend was mostly staying on the defensive. Unfortunately this slight break in his concentration brought a knife far too close to his beard, so he resolved to keep his eyes solely on his opponent.

He found that the Elf was quite unused to having to constantly defend his lower body. He realized that there were a number of things he could do with this information, but which involved bodily contact, and he wasn’t sure if that was allowed. And despite his perseverance, even against his own expectations, Gimli knew that he couldn’t keep fighting in this manner for long. His arms had been swinging axes for as long as he could lift them, but it took more energy to control his blows and manipulate the weapon so that the sharp blade didn’t come into contact with flesh than to simply swing the weapon and allow its own weight to deal the damage. Fortunately the Elf’s agility meant that he just had to slow the weapon down enough for his opponent to get out of its path. However, such a strategy would only lock them in stalemate, at best, until even the legendary Dwarven stamina failed him and cause him to make a mistake. He needed to do something unexpected, but he did not dare to unless as a last resort because he didn’t know about the dragon-cursed rules!

Ironically, it was his opponent who resolved the matter by unceremoniously delivering a powerful side-kick at his stomach. It caught him by surprise, but he was already moving to swing his axe in downward anti-clockwise sweep, so his half-turned body only received a glancing blow.

Gasping, he took several steps back. The Elf looked pleased to see him retreat. The Dwarf gulped down air, then came forwards again, feinting a vertical swing of the axe. One knife came up to deflect the blow slightly as the Elf easily danced out of the way. Unfortunately for him, Gimli had been counting on such a move, and one leg promptly swung out to kick the Elf’s moving legs from under him. The startled Elf was on his back for a second, and Gimli’s first instinct was to bring down his axe and eliminate the threat. Fortunately his more rational components swooped in at that point, and reminded him that they were supposed to be sparring. If he injured the Elf, it would be his word against the Elf’s that his opponent had been trying to kill him. And as hospitable as Thranduil had so far been, the Dwarf had no illusions about whom the King would listen to.

To his credit, after that moment of vulnerability the Elf had jumped back up to his feet, and the hatred in his eyes was now plain to see. Gimli the Thinking Dwarf retreated and handed the reins over to Gimli the Warrior. In the face of the Elf’s fiercest onslaught yet, he could only defend himself. He did not have to control the axe as much, but expended the energy into moving the weapon fast enough to block the much lighter knives. His muscles burned with exhaustion, and several times a white blade just missed his fingers as it slid off the wooden shaft.

Before long he found himself once again near the line of the circle. Beyond his opponent, he caught sight of Maluvor circling Legolas in frustration, whilst the latter didn’t look to have a hair out of place, and only gazed patiently at Maluvor. But that match didn’t look likely to end any time soon, and the Dwarf knew that he could only last for a few more minutes.

Without warning, his opponent rushed him, knives flashing. He swung his axe, and parried them… then felt cold steel bite into his flesh. His eyes widened a fraction. Acting purely on an instinct to prevent further damage, his left hand gripped the Elf’s clothing, and threw himself to the ground, a little to one side, putting the Elf off-balance. Carrying on the momentum, Gimli’s left arm and both legs heaved the Elf up and threw him over. The Elf went sprawling outside the circle.

“That was a dishonorable move!” Maluvor’s voice shouted. Gimli unsteadily got to his feet. He saw that Legolas, his back to the line, was looking at him, first in concern, then in horror.

“Dishonorable! You speak of dishonor-” Legolas began.

But movement behind his friend had caught Gimli’s eye, and he shouted, “Legolas!”

Not soon enough. Gimli let out a breathless but heartfelt oath. For Maluvor had taken advantage of the prince’s distraction and dashed forwards with a mighty kick. It should have thrown Legolas from the circle. Gimli tensed, waiting for the Elf to land on the other side of the line. Yet somehow, even with less than a hand span between his body and the line, Legolas managed to change the angle of his body and arched his back. One hand came down on the line itself, and for a moment the Elf seemed to hang suspended in the air, supported by that one arm. Then he made a cartwheel, landing entirely within the circle.

If Gimli had thought his opponent fierce, what Legolas launched next was worthy of a Balrog. All he saw was a blur of limbs and knives, punctuated by the occasional rap of steel. A stunned Maluvor held up for a few seconds, then suddenly found himself on his back outside the circle, looking up at an enraged prince of Mirkwood.

The Dwarf only had a few heartbeats to enjoy the sight, however, for suddenly a roar sounded from behind him. Feeling slightly sluggish, he was only beginning to turn when a flash of gold passed over his field of vision, and he felt himself being pushed down to the ground.

Coughing a little, Gimli rolled his head to one side to see what was happening. Legolas was in a crouching position, one hand gently pressing Gimli down. He stood between the Dwarf and the Elf Gimli had been fighting earlier, who was now holding his knife to Legolas’ throat. Gimli stiffened at seeing his friend in danger, but Legolas’ hand refused to let him up.

“Go on, Dúathfel,” Legolas said quietly. “Commit the sin that you despise our Noldorin brethren for.” Gone was the cool, distant prince that he had been but an hour before. Wisps of hair had escaped his braids, and a flame shone in his eyes to rival that in Dúathfel’s. His voice held that note of power that he had displayed in his father’s throne room. Gimli knew he was not the only one whose gaze was transfixed on the warrior prince. Even though Legolas was crouching protectively over the Dwarf, there was no doubt in Gimli’s mind as to which was of the greater stature.

There was the sound of movement from the spectators, though Gimli’s sight was blocked by Legolas’ body. “Nay, Edendor,” said Legolas, rising slowly to his feet whilst maintaining eye contact with Dúathfel. The knife fell to the ground with a soft clatter. Dúathfel tried to look away, but seemed unable to tear his gaze from Legolas’. “Dúathfel, I would have you explain to Master Gimli why you sought to kill him.”

The Elf’s began to whisper something indiscernible. Legolas said sharply, “In the Common Tongue, and louder, so all may hear you.”

Dúathfel’s eyes flashed with the old fire, but were swiftly dampened by something they saw in Legolas’ eyes. “My father died in the Battle of Five Armies, my Lord.”

It explained everything. Gimli opened his mouth to speak, but released a gasp of pain instead as a wave of pain stabbed through him. He looked down and saw that a large patch of blood had appeared on the sparring garments. He wondered how he had managed to forget his wound. “Legolas,” he quietly called his friend.

Hearing his tone, Legolas quickly turned to look at Gimli, crouching once more to examine the Dwarf. Over his shoulder, he barked, “Hethunan, Dúathfel has assaulted a guest of the King. Please take him to the cellars and set a guard to watch him until the King can address this matter.” With deft fingers Legolas carefully lifted the cloth, and gently probed the wound over Gimli’s hip. After a moment he breathed a sigh of relief. “I do not think anything vital has been damaged. You are fortunate, my friend; a little higher and you would be on a water diet for days. I think the blade went as far as the hipbone. But I am no healer, and this must be properly seen to. Come, I will take you to a healer.”

Gimli sensed his friend bracing to lift him, and the image of being borne like a helpless invalid was enough to spur him into attempting to stand. Legolas sighed, but aided him onto his feet. The pain magnified, making him a little nauseous and light-headed. He ignored the watching Elves, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other, but any weight on his injured side brought on a wave of agony that stole the breath from him. Nevertheless, he made it out of the training grounds more or less on his own power, with Legolas walking on the injured side and taking most of his weight.

But once inside the underground passage they had gone through earlier, the knee of his good leg buckled. Strong slender arms caught him and gently bore him up, and the very last thing he saw before a mixture of exhaustion and pain rolled the cloak of darkness over him was a pair of blue, blue eyes, between which dangled three strands of hair the colour of gold.

My sincere apologies for the lateness of this chapter, but December has been quite busy with all the Christmas preparations. This was further hampered by little technical difficulties such as my misspelling Gwynnynd's e-mail and having the draft bounce back to me every day for a week, and Nivoreka having an uncooperative computer *pokes* Thus, I'm very grateful that they still managed to give good feedback! Any remaining mistakes are mine.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

~*~

Chapter VII: A Pleasant Conversation

‘A plague on Dwarves and their stiff necks!’ said Legolas
- Lothlórien

For Gimli, there was always a delay between the initial return to consciousness and opening his eyes to see where the world had landed him this time. He usually used these moments to assess whether or not it was wise to return to the waking world at that point, or if it might be more conducive to his continued existence to pretend inertness for a little while longer.

This time, he felt quite warm and secure, and insofar as his mortal senses could detect he was not in any immediate danger, unless it came from what had sent him into the darkness in the first place. Considering that, he did register a strange subdued ache in his middle regions, and having experienced this in the past he recognized it as pain being numbed by medicine.

He tentatively opened one eye and was met with stark whiteness. This worried him for a moment, until his eyes refocused and he could see the little threads of linen neatly interwoven to make a sheet. He opened the other eye and was met with a far more welcome sight sitting with an amused smile by the side of his bed.

“It seems that Middle-Earth’s most charming Dwarf has deigned to grace us with his presence once more,” said the familiar voice of Nasseryn. “How do you feel?”

“I think my mattress is trying to eat me alive,” he said, wincing as the effort of speaking grated his dry throat and his voice came out sounding like he had been swallowing sand.

Nasseryn’s smile grew broader. “I have always thought that they were too soft. You would think that, since most of the people who come to the healing wing are warriors, they would take into consideration that we are not used to surfaces softer than the ground. On the other hand, if you would forgive me saying so, you are somewhat heavier than us.”

“Aye, and proud of it,” grumbled Gimli as he tried to shift position. But the sheets kept slipping from his grip, and no matter what he did, the shifting softness always returned him to being flat on his back. His efforts seemed to amuse Nasseryn even further, who could hear his movements all too well in the quiet room, and she gave an ill-disguised chuckle when he fell back with a frustrated growl.

“I do not know if it is just by clever design or if the healers have cast some device on the beds, but it keeps you to the position the healers believe to benefit you most.” Thranduil’s eldest daughter slowly reached out, and carefully felt around the bedside table until her hand encountered a goblet. She handed it to him, and helped him prop himself up as he gratefully drank the cool water. “It also prevents a patient from leaving before the healers wish them to, but my brothers and I take pride in having managed to do so on numerous occasions.”

“Is there any chance you would divulge the secret to a humble Dwarf?” Feeling considerably better, Gimli settled back and turned his attention to the thick bandage around his lower torso.

“My apologies, but it is something that a patient must learn for himself, if he is determined enough,” replied Nasseryn with a wry smile.

“If you could hand me my axe, I believe I can demonstrate my determination.” Gimli gingerly lifted the edge of the bandage, and caught the glimpse the wound. It had been stitched close, and didn’t look quite as large or threatening now as he remembered it to be. “Speaking of your brothers, where is Legolas?” He kept his tone casual, despite a slight irrepressible feeling of concern that his friend hadn’t been the one to greet him when he awoke.

I think it was at this point that I began to suspect the true depth of my dependence on my Elven friend. Because of that mysterious Sea-longing that he had yet to inform his family about, I knew that he needed me; if not my assistance in keeping it from said family until he had mustered his courage, then at the very least the comfort in having someone nearby who had already seen him in the helpless state the affliction could leave him in.

I will write anything I wish to, thank you very much. Who is holding the quill here?

Don’t wave that knife at me, or I shall write of that time you poured ice-cold water onto Gandalf.

One dark winter night as we passed through the deserted country of Hollin, a certain keen-sighted Elf made the assumption that the bearded person smoking his pipe in the shadow of a boulder was his Dwarven nemesis…

That’s better, see what you can achieve if you ask politely? As I was saying- I mean writing, I was aware of how Legolas benefited from our friendship. But when I realized that the first thing I look for upon opening my eyes is my Elven companion, I was forced to admit that I would miss the pale-haired princeling when the time of my stay at Eryn Lasgalen came to an end.

Nasseryn seemed to guess his thoughts, however, and smiled gently. “He has gone to make sure that Dúathfel receives sufficient punishment for his dishonourable actions. I am sure that he will return once the hearing before the King is over.” Gimli tensed involuntarily, his face darkening. She couldn’t see him, but she seemed to sense it nonetheless. “Is aught the matter?”

After a few moments, Gimli forced himself to relax. “Nay,” he answered, though she didn’t look convinced. Some remnant of her time as Captain must have risen on her marred face, for Gimli found himself explaining, “It is just… amongst my people, a Dwarf who has been wronged is required to face the one who wronged him, especially if the honour of either one is at stake.”

The Elf frowned. “But what of times when one or the other is killed, or injured, as is in your case?”

“In the case of death, a member of the immediate family takes the Dwarf’s place. As for injury, the trial before the ruler is postponed until the Dwarf is healed, or at least capable of being present. “

Nasseryn nodded. “For Elves, all that is required is a representative of either party, though the accused has the right to demand the presence of the accuser. But even Dúathfel does not refute the charges against him, and Legolas did not wish to trouble you with something he sees as a crime towards him.” Her face grew troubled. “I am sorry if we insulted you, but we did not think of what your own customs…”

Gimli sighed, and was about to wave his hand dismissively when he remembered that the Elf wouldn’t see it. “It is no large matter; in any case, these are Elven lands, so Elven custom should prevail.” It still irked him, if only a little, that they had not bothered to at least consider Dwarven custom. He was sure he had told Legolas about such matters in Minas Tirith, but he couldn’t blame his friend for forgetting small details in the current circumstances. And, as Nasseryn said, Legolas saw it as a crime towards himself rather than Gimli.

And what am I, a helpless bystander?

The object of his thoughts chose that moment to make his appearance. Legolas’ expression was stormy, but his eyes held a satisfied look. His first glance was towards Gimli, and he smiled with relief, presumably at seeing Gimli conscious once more. The Dwarf returned his smile, and- not wanting to his friend to see the worried expression still worn by his sister- said, “Good timing, my friend. Your sister has hinted that there is a way to escape the clutches of this accursed mattress without outside help, but refuses to reveal the secret. Typical, and here I was thinking her to be a sensible Elf! Perhaps your stony heart is easier to chisel?”

Legolas laughed. “You, who claim that my neck is stiffer than yours? If it is any comfort, it took me nigh three hundred years to work it out.” His face turned more sober, though a merry twinkle remained in his eyes. “You will be pleased to know that Dúathfel will be doing cellar duty for quite a long time. Mayhap there he will be reminded that even the mighty Elves could not prevent twelve Dwarves and one Hobbit from escaping our power. And the healers tell me that the wound is long but relatively shallow, and does not affect anything important, and you should be able to attend the feast if you promise not to exert yourself.”

Gimli blinked. “Feast? What feast?”

Thranduil’s youngest son raised an elegant eyebrow meaningfully, a gesture he surely must have acquired from the King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. Or maybe said King’s wife, who had probably absorbed it from her father, the champion of the resulting expression. “The welcome feast, of course.”

Many, many thanks to Gwynnynd for being such an excellent and helpful beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

~*~

Chapter VIII: Telling a Better Tale

“My heart speaks clearly at last: the fate of the Bearer is in my hands no longer. The Company has played its part.”
- Aragorn, The Departure of Boromir

“You are braver than many Elves I know, Master Gimli, to follow a Wood-Elf into the very heart of his home; even more so, with the Elf’s father being Thranduil.”

Gimli blinked and looked at the Elf addressing him. He seemed familiar, and Gimli hurriedly raked through his memory- which was still convinced that all Elves more or less looked the same- until he identified the speaker as the friend Legolas had introduced to him the night he had met Nasseryn. Proof came that his brain had abandoned control of his body in when he automatically got out of his seat and bowed to the Elf, nearly falling over when the wound on his hip felt like he had taken a mallet to it. Fortunately the Elf saw his distress and, whilst bowing in reply, gracefully took Gimli’s arm and helped him back onto his cushioned chair.

Face flushing more from the embarrassment than the pain, Gimli murmured, “I thank you for your kind words, but I fear it was more a matter of convenience that brought me on this road.” Once he had caught his breath, he added a belated, “Gimli son of Gloin, at your service.”

The Elf smiled. “Boronlach son of Ereblach, at yours and your family’s. We met last evening in the Resting Hall.”

“I remember.” Gimli rubbed his hip, where the heavy bandages made a lump on the side of his formal leggings. “Legolas said you were a bard?”

Boronlach inclined his head. “I am, though I do feel that Legolas thinks too highly of my skill. We have been friends since he was but a young Elfling.” A tinkling bell sounded from somewhere. “The King will be entering soon. I shall take my leave of you now, Master Gimli, though I am sure we will speak again later.”

The bard bowed and left to return to his table, the nearest one on Gimli’s left.  The Dwarf shifted atop his cushions, wondering why formal garments tended to be too thick and stiff for comfortable wear. He had been surprised when he found out that he was allowed to carry one of his smaller throwing axes, but now he saw that most of the Elves bore a knife on their person. Normally he would have had the axe hanging from his belt, but with his hip wound he had had to hold the axe in his hand, though now it hung discreetly from the tall back of his chair, within easy reach of his right arm.

Once again, he felt like he had been put on display for all of Elvendom to see. Legolas had explained that usually the children of the King would be seated along his left, according to the order of birth, but tonight their positions as guests of honour superseded this protocol. Legolas now sat to the right of the currently empty oversized chair at the centre of the long table, with Gimli next to him. Opposite them were Thranduil’s other children, beginning with Derinsul, the eldest son and Heir to the King. Next was Edendor, followed by a heavily pregnant female Elf, a male Elf that was very clearly her husband, and two other male Elves whose names Gimli didn’t catch. Further down the table on that end and on Gimli’s right were advisors of varying importance. Their table was upon a low dais, which had the advantage of providing a good view of the room around them along with the disadvantage of being visible to every eye in the room. 

Being a Dwarf, Gimli had seen his own share of beautiful structures- the virgin caverns of Aglarond being at the top of the list, at the moment- yet this one impressed even him. The King’s feast hall gave off a sense of formality similar to that exuded by the throne room, but with substantially more fanciful ornamentation. The walls were covered with exquisite and elaborate carvings, depicting scenes from wild hunts and glorious battles with a liberal use of the usual vine and leaf motifs. A few worn tapestries hung further up the walls, and Gimli’s sharp eyes noted that they had been placed well above the normal range of manually-propelled food and drink. It was the same in Dwarven feasting and drinking halls, where beer had as much chance of ending up on the walls as in someone’s stomach (sometimes going by the latter before the former). Such a precaution in an Elven dwelling suggested that either Elves had their rowdier moments, too, or simply did not wish to rearrange the décor for more careless (and here Gimli’s mind inserted the word mortal) visitors.

As interesting as the scenery was, however, Gimli was far from feeling at ease in his raised seat of honour. Dwarven pride and Legolas’ presence at his side were all that kept him from fiddling with strands of his beard, which was his habit when he was particularly nervous. Having met a friendly sister and brother, and a father-King who was at least not openly hostile, Gimli had begun to hope that Legolas’ family, at least, would accept their friendship and help him towards mending the rift between their Races. Yet the eldest sibling and Thranduil’s heir, Derinsul, had abruptly dashed this hope. Without saying a word, Derinsul had made it clear to Gimli that he was another Elf who did not welcome Gimli’s presence in Eryn Lasgalen. But he had been very warm and concerned when he greeted his brother, and had grudgingly inclined his head towards Gimli after Legolas pointedly glared at him, so the Dwarf did not wish to think too badly of him. He did wish Nasseryn had been able to attend, however. He found the Elf’s presence calming, her inner strength reminding him of the Lady. But he had seen the fear in her face when he inquired if she was coming to the feast, and, not wanting to distress her, did not press the issue.

The bell released a single, ominous note, and the large double doors at one end of the room opened. Thranduil strode inside in all his Kingly glory. His appearance brought silence to the room, and all eyes were fixed on him. Gimli moved to stand, but Legolas laid a hand on his shoulder, and Gimli saw that no one else in the room stood either. Settling back down, he seized the opportunity to examine Thranduil anew. Thranduil looked like a wild, warrior-king of old, reminding Gimli of the stories he had heard of his people when they had not yet perfected the art of delving into mountain-rock, and spent as much time out on the open ground as in their caves. There was something… young and vibrant about the King of Eryn Lasgalen, and even from a distance Gimli could sense a raw energy that seemed barely restrained by kingly façade. His hair was bound in a simple but tight ponytail, and he wore a fresh circlet made of the twined stalks of woodland flowers. His tunic and leggings resembled that worn by his warriors, though the fabric was of better quality.

The Elvenking approached the main table at a steady pace, his expression proud and regal, yet lacking that sternness possessed by Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel. Once he was seated, the conversations began anew throughout the hall. Nearly all of it was in the Elven tongue, so despite the volume and interweaving of words, the noise retained that language’s loveliness and harmony. This annoyed Gimli, for in his opinion a din should sound like a din, not a multi-part musical composition!

“Dear Gimli, you have that look upon your face again,” said a grinning Legolas. “I suspect it stems from lack of sustenance. Pray, eat before your frown sets fire to your beard!”

Gimli was about to counter the cheeky remark when the aroma of dinner hit his nose. So far he had been nibbling on nuts and dried vegetables from small pottery bowls that had been placed at intervals along the table. He had been annoyed to learn that the meat would not be served until the King arrived, but when he saw the roasted boars hanging on spits and platters holding large slices of roast venison borne in by the sudden stream of servants, he wondered if the custom had been put into place so that there would be something left for the King to eat when he got there.

He attacked the varied dishes with Dwarvish gusto. The fare was delicious, as expected, and was not too dissimilar from the feasts found in Dwarven halls. It consisted more of meat and root vegetables and bread than the fruits and fish and elaborate, delicately seasoned concoctions that had been more prominent in Rivendell and Lórien. The wine was also more potent, and Gimli remembered Legolas telling him about the Dorwinion wine that came from vineyards cultivated especially for his father. Though no substitute for good old-fashioned mead, the Dwarf felt quite at home as he drank liberal amounts of the potent wine.

The hall was arranged so that, though every table had plates of everything, only the centre table had the whole roast boar on the actual table. Smaller tables were set up around the diners, on which were placed more roasts and extra helpings of the dishes, so that any Elf whose table had run out of a certain food could walk up to these smaller stations with their plates and get the desired dish. Gimli saw that even Thranduil followed this procedure, when the King himself got up to refill their table’s plate of venison after most of the slices had disappeared onto the Dwarf’s plate. For some reason he followed Thranduil with his gaze, and felt a little sweat bead of apprehension when he saw how efficiently the King worked the oversized cutting knife on the deer carcass.

The volume of conversation had lessened slightly during the start of the meal, but gradually rose again as the Elves sated their hunger. Gimli kept a discreet eye on Legolas, expecting the Elf to engage in as much conversation as he could with their neighbours to save himself from having too eat too much, but despite his lack of appetite earlier that day, he ate no less than the other Elves around him. Which was, of course, still considerably less than the amount Gimli was busily shovelling down (and therefore not enough, in his opinion) but Dwarves took appetite as a symptom of health, so Gimli decided to hold out hope that being back in the woods of his home was doing Legolas some good.

Eventually the meat dishes were cleared away and replaced by fruits and sweetmeats and sticky desserts. At this point Legolas began to look a little anxious, and did not even comment when Gimli popped what looked like a small, brown pebble into his mouth and spent the next few minutes attempting to separate his jaws when the innocuous dessert turned out to be a particularly vicious piece of confection that stuck his jaws together. In the midst of his efforts, Thranduil began coughing.

Once the coughing had subsided, the King explained to the advisor who had pounded on his back that a bit of wine had gone down the wrong way. Out of sheer habit, Gimli frowned suspiciously at Thranduil. He then looked abashed, remembering who Thranduil was, but the King only gave him an innocent smile that looked so much like Legolas’ that the Dwarf was certain where his friend had gotten the expression from.

Legolas’ anxiety was finally explained when an anonymous, yet suspiciously clear, voice rose from a nearby table to be heard by nearly the whole room. It had been uttered in the Silvan tongue, but later Legolas paraphrased it as: “… aye, it is certainly to welcome his son home, but has Thranduil not been delaying just so that we can hear it from Legolas in his own words?” As if it were a signal, Thranduil looked at Legolas with a question in his eyes. After a moment of hesitation, his son answered with a reluctant nod.

Thranduil stood and immediately the din in the hall lessened to the point that Gimli was worried that everyone had heard the small ‘pop’ as his jaws finally come apart. “We have heard many tidings, and thrice as much gossip.” At the last word, he aimed a glare at a particular section of the room. Gimli craned his neck and thought that he could see Dinimlad seated at one of the tables there. “I call upon my son, Legolas, who stood before the Black Gates of Mordor,” Gimli could see the formal, restrained fatherly pride on the King’s face- which meant that he was probably bursting with it, “to tell us of how the War was won.”

There was something odd with the phrasing, and the son of Gloin pondered it until he realised that Thranduil was subtly reminding the Elves of Mirkwood that the War of the Ring had been won in the South.  For despite their great victory and abolishment of Dol Guldur, the real war had been fought before Mordor.

Gimli’s brows furrowed anxiously as Legolas began his tale. Yet the Elf began not in Rivendell and the Council of Elrond, but in a little green land further west, where the rolling hills were dotted with smoking chimneys and round doors in front of snug hobbit-holes. And even though the histories would probably record the Quest as having begun in Rivendell, Gimli was assured then that the youngest son of Thranduil had not forgotten how and by whom the real War had been fought.

As I am sure I have mentioned before, certain distinguished persons of the Hobbit persuasion are far more suited to telling that great tale than I. So if you really wish to know of it, kindly pester Misters Baggins, Gamgee, Brandybuck or Took.

Though if you wish to know of some highly amusing anecdotes and approximately one hundred ways to provoke an Elf, I suppose I can be of some assistance.

“Finally the Ring was destroyed by the fires that made it, and the Dark Tower was thrown down.”

During the first week of their journey, Gimli, his head still filled with some very foolish notions concerning Elves that his father had planted there, had wondered if Legolas possessed some form of sorcery in his voice. It was a nice enough voice and definitely lovelier than any mortal’s when raised in song, but compared to other Elves it was not particularly remarkable. Yet at times something else would arise, something with a strange moving power that the Dwarf never thought mere words and notes could possess, and the listener could almost envision the tale as it was told. That was the case now, though for him it was more remembrance than imagination, and it was only the ensuing utter silence that brought Gimli out of his reverie.

The legibility of this chapter is due largely to the work of my wonderful beta Gwynnynd. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

Chapter IX: Unseen Battles

  “And Elves, sir! Elves here and Elves there! Some like kings, terrible and splendid; and some as merry as children.”
- Sam, Many Meetings

Gimli had never before heard such a silence.

Scanning the faces, he saw that every one held different variations and degrees of surprise. Some added a frown, which suggested disbelief. Gauging the responses of the Elves, he became aware of a subtle seating arrangement within the room.

Those seated at the right of the hall bore their weapons visibly, and upon closer inspection, Gimli saw that many of them had faint discolorations on their skin that could be healing wounds or fading scars. The word ‘warriors’ flashed through the Dwarf’s mind, and now that he was focused on them, he could detect a sense of physical strength emanating from them. These Elves gazed at Legolas with a mingling of pride and admiration.

On the other hand, the Elves on the left side of the hall looked… the first word that came to Gimli’s mind was ‘clean’. Everyone wore the simple short-sleeved tunic and form-fitting leggings that seemed to be the usual warrior’s garb, but the clothing on these Elves seemed thicker, more comfortable, with little discreet touches like brooches or necklaces that would be impractical for a warrior to wear. Most of the looks of disbelief, and even a few of disdain, came from this section.

I must confess that before the Quest, I found Elven faces to be inscrutable, at least to the eyes of mortals. Even Legolas seemed rather distant and cold at my first impression. Yet I have come to realise that Elves are simply unreadable to those who are not used to Elven faces. I believe it is only because I have grown very attuned to one specific Elf that I find myself able to read others, though only to a limited extent, by using my royal companion as a measuring-stick. If I had spent the last year in the company of many Elves, I daresay I would have continued being ignorant of their minute physical expressions.

We were the dual loners of the Fellowship. When a Dwarf is on his own amongst four Hobbits and two Men- saving the presence of Gandalf, who is another matter entirely and, in any case, had been informally adopted by the Hobbits as their somewhat oversized elder- and the only possible companion is supposed to be an arch-enemy, it is not surprising that Legolas and I paid a lot of attention to each other.

Albeit in order to make sure that he wasn’t sneaking a rock into my bag.

Gimli was not surprised when the first whispers started in the second section. And then the questioning began.

Knowing neither Sindarin nor Silvan, Gimli understood little of what was being said, though at times he would hear the names of people or places and privately come up with a fair deduction. Mindful that the King was sitting at the table, all the questions seemed to be polite and proper. A few were coupled with a meaningful glance towards Gimli, but Legolas answered them with his usual grace. The name of Galadriel floated out of the silver stream of Elvish, and the astonished expressions on most of the Elves in the room caused Gimli to hide a smile in his beard.

Remembering the Sea-longing, Gimli had been worried that any mention or reference to the Sea would ignite that strange addiction in his friend once more, but Legolas had not stumbled once during his recounting of the Quest and the War, so Gimli gained hope that the Sea had relaxed her hold on the Wood-Elf. Once, the Dwarf thought he caught a subtle tightening of his friend’s features in response to a question posed in a decidedly haughty tone of voice by an Elf on the left section of the hall, but otherwise Legolas was every inch the diplomat.

The questioning- Gimli considered it to be more like a public interrogation- continued on for a good hour or so, during which the Dwarf even resumed eating, though always with an eye on his friend. Eventually no more questions were put forth. Legolas turned to his father, who nodded his permission, before seating himself once more.

After this, some of the Elves in the room stood and retreated through a door in the far corner. After a few moments they reappeared, bearing instruments, and began to play as they moved about the room, weaving deftly between the tables. Gimli saw that Legolas’ friend Boronlach was amongst them, skilfully playing a set of windpipes. During this, Elves began visiting other tables, or standing in groups near the wall.

The advisor on Gimli’s right said something to Legolas. Glancing at Gimli, Legolas replied in Westron, “My thanks, Master Ferant, but I would appreciate it if you spoke in Westron. Otherwise, I fear Gimli will think our folk discourteous.”

Ferant blinked, then looked at Gimli. “I must apologise, Master Dwarf. I was merely complimenting Legolas on how well he told your tale. I was not aware that he had such a skill with words.”

“My son does seem to have a number of hidden talents,” interjected a voice from the head of the table. All three turned to look at Thranduil, who was smiling and yet seemed to be scrutinizing Legolas.

“He is a continuing surprise for me, your Majesty,” Gimli spoke, seeing that his friend was discomfited by his father’s perusal.

Thranduil murmured something that Gimli had not the ears to hear, but it made Legolas frown slightly.

“So you are returning to your father’s mines, Master Gimli?” inquired the pregnant female Elf sitting across from them at the table.

“I am, at least for a time,” the Dwarf replied, looking towards Legolas and blinking three times in rapid succession. It was a system they had developed in Minas Tirith, for Gimli often found himself facing a noble or a courtier whose name he could not remember, and would need a prompting from his Elven friend, who had both a far better memory and training in such things. An amused Pippin had commented that it made him look as if he were batting his eyelashes at Legolas, which had sent Aragorn and Faramir into such a fit of laughter that neither could speak for the rest of the meat course.

Seeing the signal, Legolas whispered, “My sister, Selvedhil, younger than Nasseryn, married to Rustoth, who sits beside her.”

“Lady Selvedhil” Gimli nodded his thanks to his friend. “But I have promised King Elessar a new Great Gate,” he continued, “so I plan to bring a group of kinsmen to Minas Tirith within a year, if the King under the Mountain gives his blessing. I daresay it will turn into a race between your son and myself, on which of our promises can be fulfilled first.”

“What is this, Legolas?” asked Thranduil, turning his attention to his son with a frown.

Legolas fair complexion took on a distinct flush, and glared at Gimli. Too late the Dwarf realised that his friend might not have had the opportunity to inform his father about their intended return south. “I promised Aragorn a few gardens for his stone City,” Legolas admitted. “With your permission, my King and father, I wish to return to Minas Tirith with a few of our people.”

“But you have just come home!” protested Derinsul. “Much work needs to be done here. Steel and fire have damaged a good portion of the wood, and there are still a few spider nests near the Mountains.”

“Peace, brother,” replied Legolas. “I will abide here for a little while, and help where I can. But as Gondor suffered the brunt of Sauron’s attacks, I thought it fair that we aid them in restoring their City to its former glory.”

“Surely the race of Men can take care of their own?” Derinsul persisted. “They breed like rodents and build without care for the damage they inflict; in a few years they will have rebuilt all their cities and restored their population.” He took a drink from his goblet, unaware or perhaps uncaring of the startled looks he was receiving from everyone nearby. “Or have you forgotten where your loyalty lies?”

After a shocked silence, Legolas recovered with a shake of his head. “I know you hold no love for Aragorn, Derinsul –“

“If I had wanted to hear further questioning of Legolas’ loyalty, Derinsul,” Thranduil interjected in a stern voice that held the beginnings of anger. “I would have invited Dînimlad to the table.”

The Heir of Mirkwood wilted under the King’s glare. “My apologies, father,” said the chagrined Elf. “And I had not intended to repeat the Counsellor’s charges, little brother, but I was overcome at the news that you would be leaving us once more, so soon after your return.”

“I will always be your younger brother, Derinsul, but I am no longer a child,” said Legolas quietly. Derinsul nodded, but it seemed to Gimli that the Elf had not really listened to what Legolas had said, only heard the forgiving tone in his brother’s voice. He saw his fair-haired friend clench a fist under the table.

The other counsellors sharing the high table continued to question Legolas, but Gimli listened with only half an ear. The mention of home reminded him that he had yet to receive any news concerning Erebor. He waited for Thranduil to finish a short conversation with a passing Elf, then asked, “King Thranduil? What say the tidings from Dale and the Lonely Mountain?”

“Thank you for reminding me, Master Gimli; I had forgotten that I had promised to give you news.” The King took a sip of wine from his goblet as Gimli replied that it was no trouble, then began, “Due to the War, Erebor was ill-prepared for winter. The food stores held out, but there was an outbreak of illness in Dale. It may have spread even into the Mountain, but your kinsmen seldom ventured out during the cold spell. We sent a few healers that could be spared to help the Men of Dale. But repairs have begun in earnest, now that spring has come. If the reports I have been receiving are reliable, then your people are fast builders indeed! They came down as the ice thawed, and already nearly all the families whose homes were destroyed during the battles have a roof over their heads.”

Gimli felt a swell of pride for his people. “The art of building is ingrained in every Dwarf, your Majesty. During the days of the Fathers, it was not uncommon for one tribe to wage war on their neighbour, whether for wealth or space. The outcome hinged on which side could delve faster, reinforce quicker, or understood the weaknesses and strengths of rock better.”

“Your people waged war upon one another?” Thranduil looked surprised. “I have never come across any record of it.”

“Such things take place mostly below ground, your Majesty, with rock beneath our feet and over our heads, and the darkness as our wind. We keep our own records, but such things are mainly remembered in songs and lore passed from father to son, mother to daughter. As for war amongst ourselves,” Gimli shrugged, “It is the way of mortals, my Lord. My people are not as prolific- to use your son’s term- as Men, yet Men can abide in open spaces, whereas we are limited to our kingdoms of stone, and there are only so many habitable mountains in the world.”

Thranduil nodded, his eyes grave and occupied with some thought. “The way of mortals, indeed. Yet, even the Elves fall prey to it.” He was silent for a moment; then a passing Elf said something to him, and they lapsed into a discussion that required a lot of hand gestures from the nameless Elf.

“Would you tell me of some of these battles in the dark one day, Master Gimli?” asked a familiar voice. The Dwarf turned and saw that Boronlach was hovering behind his chair. He was playing a pena¹ as if it was as easy and instinctive as breathing.

Gimli inclined his head. “If you wish to hear any, Master Boronlach. Though only a few have been rendered in the Common Tongue; the oldest are in our secret tongue, which I will not speak here.”

“Any at all will be welcome,” said the bard. “I daresay I could use a new song or two. Even the visiting representatives from Dale know our traditional songs, so often have they heard them.”

A guffaw came from Derinsul, followed by something in the Elven tongue. As he could not grasp the individual words, Gimli could hear the note of contempt in his voice very clearly. Every head within listening range- as they were Elves, the area was larger than Gimli would have expected- turned to look at Derinsul. Legolas broke off in the middle of answering another question from Ferant, and his face turned a promising tint of red as he gazed in shock at his brother.

Forestalling what was looking to be a kin-strangling at the very least, Gimli said loudly, “If you wish to insult me, Master Derinsul, at least have the dignity to do so in the open, and in a language I can understand.”

“Well said, Master Gimli,” Thranduil said in a voice that could rival the cries of the Nazgûl, spearing his eldest son with a fierce glare. “Derinsul, I will speak with you privately. Now. Master Gimli, please forgive my Heir for his behaviour. I can assure you that he will not be so discourteous again.” Gimli nodded, and Thranduil stood, followed by a sullen Derinsul.

“Legolas,” Edendor spoke up. “Seeing as Master Gimli is injured and should rest for a few days, I took the liberty of assigning you briefly on the forest patrols. You leave at dawn tomorrow, with some reinforcements. The border patrols have been most anxious to see you alive and well, so it would hearten them if you took some time to visit them also.”

The Wood-Elf blinked, a faint frown creasing his brow. “Very well, but-“ he cut off. His troubled look intensified, and he turned to Gimli. “I suppose our warriors do need to see me, but I would not have you think I am abandoning you, my friend. And I did promise to show you my home.”

Gimli waved a hand dismissively. “Nay, your brother is right, I will likely heal faster if I rest for a few days. You can show me this tree-infested place when you return.” The words left his mouth before he remembered that there were other ears listening, who would not be used to their light banter and affectionate insults. There were a handful of frowns and looks of displeasure, but Legolas’ ensuing chuckle- much louder than usual, which meant that he’d caught the slip as well- made it clear that Gimli’s words had been spoken in jest.

The conversations began anew, and Boronlach made it clear to Gimli that he was serious about learning a Dwarvish song. Fortunately, before the bard could manage to press the him into reciting one, a line of servants entered, and began clearing the tables. He felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to look at Legolas.

“They will be pushing the tables to the side soon, to begin the dancing,” his friend said quietly.

“Do you wish to remain, or leave?” Gimli asked, detecting a strained note in Legolas’ voice.

His friend gazed out at the milling Elves, but something in his face suggested that he was not really seeing them. Then someone from another table called out his name, doubtless to answer another query. Legolas dipped his head a little, and touched the lobe of his left ear with his little finger.

Gimli sighed. He discreetly shuffled, as if he were making himself comfortable. One of the cushions raising him from the chair slipped and fell to the floor, followed by the Dwarf, who groaned more loudly than the slight ache from his hip wound- which had been numbed by the Elven medicine applied to it prior to the feast- warranted.

Having fallen and “still feeling fatigued from their journey”, Gimli soon excused himself for bed. Legolas very graciously volunteered to escort him.

~*~

It felt quite nice, sitting in the quiet, on a comfortable bench in a deserted hallway of Thranduil’s cave stronghold.

It had been a while since they had properly talked. Oh, they conversed all the time, but Gimli had discovered that it was another thing both Elves and Dwarves had in common- that they could exchange words for an interminable length of time without once saying anything at all.

He began to see why Legolas favoured quietness. He thought of the dinner hall. All that noise, all that speech, yet everything as insubstantial as the air upon which words take wing.

“He may be your Captain,” he ventured. “But as your brother, should he not have asked for your opinion before he assigned you to a patrol?”

“Even as Captain, he should have asked,” Legolas answered, his fingers unconsciously playing with the hem of his tunic. “But I never cared before. Even Nasseryn eventually gave up asking, because I never voiced any preferences, or objections. I always let them decide where to place me, or when I should take my leave. It never mattered before. I should not be insulted now.” He looked down. “But I am.”

They fell quiet again.

“Has the Sea-longing returned, Legolas?” Gimli asked quietly.

Legolas sighed. “You do not understand, dearest Gimli.” Those familiar eyes roamed restlessly over the arching rock wall. “The call of the Sea is but a whisper in my mind, like an enticing song that has no end. I can bear it, for all the years of your life and more. Nay, what troubles me is something closer, dearer, and so all the more paining. It is the soil on which the tree of my life has been growing.”

The Dwarf blinked. “My friend, I fear I have not become so used to your riddle-words as to be able to understand what you have just said.”

Legolas was quiet for a long while, and Gimli thought that his friend had withdrawn back into himself, and would give him no further information. But then the elf said, “It is a terrible thing for a son to return home and find that he has become wiser than his elders, and yet is forced to remain the youngest son.”

Gimli could not help it; it was an ingrained habit of his, when matters became too serious and sombre. “I have always said you are the wisest Elf on Middle-Earth!” he exclaimed. “I would think you almost a Dwarf, but for your height and smooth chin.”

His friend sighed. “It is not a matter for jest, my friend.” Though a small smile formed on his lips. “Elves mistake experience too easily for wisdom. I have wondered if that was why Mithrandir came to us in an old and withered body.” Gimli made a noise, and received an instinctive prod in the ribs from Legolas. “Mortals put much value on age, also, but at least there is a limit. It is why Elves are less easy to change, for they have long memories and longer lives, and listen better to one who has lived in the Age before, than one whom they can remember in his swaddling clothes.”

Legolas leaned back, resting against the cold wall. “You must not be too harsh on my father, Gimli. He has known only conflict since Menegroth was destroyed and his father moved the family here. He is our greatest king, and I say that not only because I am his son. He kept the darkness of Dol Guldur at bay for years without much aid from the outside. He grew harder when he lost my mother, and began hoarding his gems. Nasseryn thinks that he means to sail West one day and give them to her, or perhaps ransom her from the Halls of Waiting. It is madness, I know, but a controlled one, and given our plight here I am sure the Lords of the West themselves will forgive him for it.

“And I do not believe he holds any animosity towards Dwarves, save for that quarrel with Thorin Oakenshield, which was put to rest ‘ere the end. You have to understand, we are Sindar lords governing a Silvan realm. Whilst the land was besieged by the shadow, all followed Thranduil, for he was a great commander. But it seems that, with the Enemy gone, the different factions of the court and the realm have risen to the surface. So my father does the best he can, and tries not to upset any group more than another, but it is difficult. I daresay the warrior in him pines for the old foe at times.”

Gimli nodded thoughtfully. “I admire your father for all that he has accomplished.” Then he frowned. “I saw a little of the divisions in the feast hall. But how did you learn of the current situation?”

“My father explained it during Dinimlad’s trial. The divisions have always been there, but the security of our realm and people have afore taken priority over domestic squabbles. With the common enemy gone, it seems that they are using the energy they once spent on fighting the shadow on each other.” The prince gave a small shrug. “It is our way, perhaps, of realising that peace has returned. Doubtless in a few years things will calm down once more.”

“Then why are you troubled?” an increasingly confused Gimli asked. “What are a few years to an Elf?”

“Derinsul said those exact words to me, once,” Legolas commented, gazing at a memory only he could see. He shook his head. “I apologise, Gimli; I know I am not making it easier for you to understand me. But it was… disheartening, to return home from a war only to find myself in the midst of another conflict. It is not only this. I am home at last, but whilst I am glad for the return of the greenwood, it feels as if I do not belong here, in the sunlight and the free winds.”

Feeling quite helpless, the Dwarf could only pat his friend in what he hoped was a comforting manner. “I do not think any of our Fellowship can truly return to the light, my friend,” he said sadly. “The Ring left its mark on us all. I shudder to think of what Frodo has to endure even now.”

Legolas nodded, shuddering in truth. “It is a burden, Gimli, to know things that cannot be understood by one’s own kin.” He whispered with closed eyes, and he suddenly looked older, like an aged tree revealing for a moment the many rings within its trunk. “You understand a part of it, for you stood with me through the War; my kin here understand another part, by sharing my heritage and my deathless fate. Yet none but I can understand the whole.”

Thranduil’s youngest son bowed his head, his unbound hair falling forward like soft gold to curtain his youthful face. “I am alone, Gimli. In so many things, I stand alone in the dark.”  

To Be Continued...

¹ The pena is the bowed lute of Manipur. A description and a picture can be found in http://chandrakantha.com/articles/indian_music/pena.html. Many thanks to the ever-diligent Gwynnynd for teaching me that a viol is not the same as a violin *blush* and discovering an interesting alternative instrument from the classical norm.