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

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

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

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

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

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

Gimli blushed and muttered something safely unintelligible.

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

“I was afraid of that.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Legolas!” Haldir called then, returning from whatever errand had drawn him away.  “Come, both of you.  Arod has been picketed and provided for; now let us provide for ourselves!  You must be famished.”

Gimli knew he was, and Haldir’s invitation was a welcome one.  He was not particularly anxious to answer that last inquiry Legolas had thrown at him.  The Elf willingly let the subject close as he rose and turned to follow Haldir, but not without a knowing look back, a look that made it plain to Gimli that he considered his honor at stake in this regard.

Haldir led them toward the bustling center of the tent city.  “A hall will be built here later,” he explained.  “And many of us shall remove here to effect the recovery of the wood.  Much has been done to cleanse it already.  I dare say you would hardly know that mere months ago this was the darkest wood in Middle-earth.  It is said that even the Lord and the Lady will come to dwell here, to make it East Lórien indeed.  At least until . . .” but his voice faltered and he coughed before he could invoke a painful subject.

Gimli gave little heed as he trooped along behind.  A new air had gradually come over Legolas now, like a lord coming into his own.  His eyes were fixed on Amon Lanc itself, the citadel of Sauron thrown down from the summit where summer grass now grew.  Only disregarded blocks of evil-looking stone recalled its former master.

Haldir stopped as his companion did, allowing him a moment of peace to look upon that place that meant so much in so many different ways.

“I came here once,” Legolas said at last, “with my father in my youth before the dark days, when the trees which bore the halls of my grandfather still stood.  Before all was changed.” 

This Gimli could understand, even as he understood Thorin’s return to the Mountain.  The Halls upon Amon Lanc had been built by Thranduil’s father, Thranduil who was Legolas’ father, Legolas who would have now been the obvious heir to this site had not all gone differently.  This place was bound to his bloodline, even though they had now relinquished it.  And to imagine the halls of their own making perverted and turned against them – such would have been insufferable to any Dwarvish dynasty, the stuff of feuds to last generations.  In that light at last he understood the Elves and their war.  At last, for a moment, he understood Thranduil. 

But then Legolas laughed to himself, lightening the solemnity of the moment.  “To think that Grandfather Oropher abandoned these halls merely to remove himself from his cousins the Lord and Lady.  And now my father has freely given it to them.”

Haldir joined him in a wry laugh, but the statement held other implications for Gimli.  Legolas was akin to the Lady? 

Together they turned to where the evening meal was provided, silvan style with them all seated upon the sawn rings of fallen trees or casually upon the ground.  Royal etiquette was notably freer among the silvan Elves than it was among Men, the higher Elves, or even the Dwarves.  They honored Legolas as the prince he was, but neither he nor they thought anything of his being seated familiarly among them on a cutting of wood.  Did Celeborn fraternize with them as well?  Gimli found this strangely endearing about them, belying many fabled rumors of impassive Elvish arrogance, for they talked and laughed together as easily as if they had been brothers, though Legolas was of another wood, another kin, another world.  In that, Gimli found himself regretting the fierce territorial feeling of his own kin, but stopped himself. 

If they did not sight Erebor soon, Legolas would make an Elf of him yet!

They sat long into the evening, until the sunset had gone and the stars appeared overhead amid the ever-darkening sky.  Then at last they parted ways, some with other duties to fulfill, Haldir among them.

“Legolas,” he said, pulling him aside.  “Come.  There is yet one thing I am to show you ere you retire.  The Lord would be wroth with me indeed if I neglected this duty.”

Legolas followed him.  Gimli followed as well, for though he had not been expressly invited, he had not been forbidden either.  And his curiosity won the best of him.  Looking back he saw the place they had just left, and it struck him suddenly in the gloom as one of those eerie elf-rings one occasionally found in deep places of the forest.  For a moment he thought it incredible that he had taken part in one.  But then he had to hurry forward lest the grey tent-flap be closed against him.

Ducking inside, he came from a world of dark evening into a scene of soft lamplight, grass yet underfoot.  Legolas stood with Haldir at a table set in the center, and strewn about on it was a wonder to strike any Dwarf speechless.  It was as though stars had fallen from the sky and been gathered into the breathtaking assortment that lay before them now, glimmering with pricks of red, green, and blue, vivid accents amid the pale and radiant gleam scattered from many facets in the lamplight.

The sight of mithril always excited him.

“Not even the Abominable One could find it in his black heart to destroy these,” Haldir said.  “This has been set aside from the hoard found in his rat’s nest by the Lord Celeborn for you and Thranduil your father.”

Legolas had taken up one such trinket, a pendant of exquisite workmanship.  It shone vividly in the changing light as he turned it in his fingers as a cat looks curiously at a new plaything, its sapphire sparkle accentuating the glint of starlight in his eyes.  But then he set it down again amid the rest as though it held no influence over him whatever.  “You will tell the Lord Celeborn for me that he has our thanks, and that he really is too generous for his own good,” he smiled.  “I have no doubt my father will esteem his gifts highly.”

Gimli was aghast but indeed somewhat impressed by Legolas’ flippancy with the priceless treasures.  He knows nothing of greed, he thought, and found that strangely refreshing.  His father, however, is another matter.

But aside of all the assorted baubles and frippery, there was once piece in particular that caught even Legolas’ eye.  A large chain of mithril cunningly worked to resemble a length of vine to lie over a pair of noble shoulders.  Each dovetailed bunch of silver leaves was an artfully invisible link, their sharp edges gleaming in the light, a heraldic chain of office fit only for the greatest of lords.  The intricate leaves grew larger at the front, and in their unfurled center was set one magnificent teardrop ruby of uncommon size.

“That is the Sereguren,” Haldir explained in a subdued voice.  “Lord Celeborn remembered it, for it was crafted by the Mírdain of Eregion before the fall of that realm.  Now that it is recovered beyond hope, he deems its place to be with the Lords of Mirkwood, who, as he said, have earned it.”

Legolas ran his fingers lightly over the great red stone, and it seemed to Gimli’s wondering eyes that it glowed faintly beneath his touch.  “The Bleeding Heart,” he said, his face expressionless.  “It is apt, if nothing else.”

That night was a dark one, lit only by the glimmering stars.  Gimli lay abed in their own pavilion for what seemed like hours, but sleep did not come to him.  Legolas had not yet come, playing truant again somewhere among his own kind.  Surely he must sleep sometime, he thought to himself.  He knew the Elves could attend their world with only half a mind at times, finding rest of a sort without ever truly losing consciousness, but surely they would seek more restful sleep when circumstances would allow it.  

Reflecting back on their year together, he could remember only once that he had seen Legolas to truly sleep, careworn and at last exhausted.  It had taken a great deal to bring him to such a pass.  In the days after the Battle of Morannon when at last the thrill itself had dissipated, Legolas had slept off the wear and strain of the entire war, eyes closed, gratefully insensible to what moved around him for a few days.  Knowing the Elves – especially those of Mirkwood – to be a vigilant race, Gimli could understand how they seldom allowed themselves the luxury of real sleep, and then only briefly.  But still, it was hard to imagine how they bore the weight of their years without repose.  It was no wonder then that they grew world-weary!

He tossed and turned for a while longer, but soon gave it up.  The night was growing cooler with the approach of autumn, but it was not yet cold.  He stomped into his boots and pulled his belt about the waist of his tunic, heading out into the dark.

Somehow, he knew where to go.  Other lights glowed in the Elvish tents, but he turned to make his way up the starlit hill of Amon Lanc.  It was no casual climb, but a path had been worn in the side by foul feet unguessed, cleansed now by the light tread of Elves.  Soft music came to his ears as he climbed, confirming his intuition.

He found Legolas there at the summit, sitting on the young lawn of green grass and pale niphredil blooms, everything turned a shade of silver in the starlight.  The white of his raiment cast an ethereal glow against the darker blue beside it, his cloak pooled about him like frozen cream.  He sat idly strumming a lute, the sound strangely comforting, like a musical cat’s purr.

He looked up slightly and smiled as though his friend was not wholly unexpected, though he seemed to give only half attention.  “Gîl síla erin lû e-govaded vín, Gimli,” he greeted him in a pleasant but deliberate voice, so that Gimli wondered a moment if he were not indeed ‘asleep’.  “Even so must it have been in starlit Doriath before the Moon, years even my father does not remember.”

Gimli sat heavily across from him, attending the subtle music, for a moment unsure how to express his thoughts.  “You did not tell me you were of the Lady’s kin,” he said at last.

Legolas laughed then, the catnapping look leaving his eyes.  “So that is what troubles you!” as though Gimli had just answered an inquiry of his own.  “In the strictest sense, I am not,” he explained leisurely, his hand continuing to play almost of its own accord.  “You asked me already what I am.  Now I suppose you should like to know who.” 

Gimli did, but now was somehow reluctant to pry.

Legolas turned his eyes skyward for a moment, toward the same stars his people had long regarded.  “You will find many of us are akin somehow,” he said at last, his gaze falling back to his companion.  “You remember the tales of Elvenking Elu Thingol, father of Lúthien.  Elrond is of his line, as is Aragorn.  The Lady Galadriel is of Elu’s brother Olu, or Olwë, if you will.  I am of Elu’s brother Elmo.”  He paused before continuing, his music faltering momentarily as he gathered his thoughts.  “Elmo fathered Galadhon, who fathered Celeborn.  But Elmo had also a daughter, Elenien, who bore Oropher, who fathered Thranduil, who fathered me.  So my father is Celeborn’s first cousin, once removed, even as they are both cousins somewhat removed of Galadriel of Valinor.”

So simple an explanation for so many years.

Legolas heaved a sigh, his face passive, long-buried thoughts stirred again.  “Would I understand aught of your lineage if you told me?” he smiled, changing the subject.

“Well,” Gimli began, recalling the long-memorized names of his ancestors, pleased that Legolas had asked.  “I am Gimli, son of Glóin, second son of Gróin, second son of Farin, son of Borin, second son of Náin II, son of Óin, son of Glóin, son of Thorin I, son of Thrain I, son of Náin I, son of Durin VI, who was of Durin the Deathless in the First Age of this world.”

Legolas had attended dutifully to the litany, but the wry laughter that could be seen on his face said he had long ago been hopelessly lost, his confusion expressed eloquently by a sharp twang of a lute string.

“Forgive me if I do not follow,” he said lightly.  “I recognize that you are of royal blood even if but distantly, which is good, little though it matters to either of us.  It may prove a valuable asset in the eyes of certain others.”

The night passed quietly as they sat together beneath the stars, Legolas’ slow playing eventually assuming a distinct and gentle melody when they had ceased to speak.  The darkened trees rustled in the wind, their leaves poised to change their color again.  As Gimli dozed where he sat, Legolas wondered if all of Mirkwood would explode this year in the brilliant color that had once been the hallmark of Greenwood.  Red, gold, and saffron; bronze, cinnamon, and amber; red oak and blazing maple.  But perhaps that was too much to ask in one season.  Still, anything lighter than the gloom that had choked it for centuries would be an improvement.  They had preserved the autumn colors in their own realm, but gone were the days when he could climb the Greenwood Mountains and see an endless carpet of living flame stretch away to the horizons.  Someday, he would do that again, ere he left these shores behind him.

But for now he sat, unchallenged and sovereign, making music upon what had been the seat of Dol Guldur, the very root of all Mirkwood’s evil.  The implications were not lost upon him; indeed it was deliberate, and he allowed himself a smile.  Mordor had fallen in roaring ruin at his feet, but now this was his supreme and crowning moment of triumph.

That moment was a quiet one.

The next morning, they were ready to depart with the dawn.  Legolas was elvenlord no longer, but merely the affable woodland scout.  It was the persona Gimli found he preferred but feared he would see less and less often.

“Farewell, Legolas,” Haldir bade him before he mounted.  “Let it be no surprise if you see me someday beneath Ithilien’s boughs.”

“A welcome one, if surprise it be,” Legolas assured him.

“And farewell, Durin’s son, favored of Lórien!” Haldir turned to Gimli.  “If you go now to meet Thranduil, I wish you well.”

Legolas sneered in obvious disapproval of his tone, but all was in fun.

A fair silvan maiden was there among those who had gathered to see them off, and she dipped gracefully to the Prince of Greenwood, for so he had become in a matter of moments.  Still Gimli found it amazing just how completely Legolas could alter his bearing at will.  She gave into his hands a satchel of pale grey velvet, tied with a long white silken ribbon, this in addition to those provisions which Gimli was to carry and that obviously contained the mithril offering from Celeborn.

“Accept these, my prince, in memory of the Lord, and this in token of the Lady,” she said, indicating the ribbon.  “They send also their goodwill, and wish you both a safe and swift journey to your homelands.”

“And they have my thanks,” Legolas replied politely.

And so they left East Lórien behind them.  Their road took them now to the westernmost border of the wood, and from there due north.  Toward home.