The armory was silent.  It was his unspoken command that it be silent.  The lamps burned low, the solemn atmosphere one of rapt meditation.  

A blur of steel cut sharply through the twilight.  In the same motion he raised the weapon again and held it ready.  Another quick turn, the sword unerringly following its appointed path, his loose golden ponytail swirling over his shoulder, several unruly strands pulled free of their bonds.

Yes, all trace of his injuries had gone at last.  Even his stiff shoulder served him now.  It was no small thing to be crushed and thrown about by the winged Nazgûl like a sack of grain, but he had not died.

He had refused to die.

The sword was become an extension of himself, all else forgotten.  Again a precise turn and whirl brought his blade around in one stroke ere he turned sharply on his heel and brought it slashing back, striking three imagined foes in one fell moment.

“Perhaps you should try swimming instead, Thranduil.”

Ruined.  That smiling voice did not quite upset his poise, but his intense focus was destroyed.  He turned upon that beloved nuisance that was Lord Galadhmir, twice his brother by adoption and marriage.  Soon Thranduil laughed as well, for nothing so trivial as this could come between them.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked in a deliberate voice.

“Ever you seek to alleviate the strain of warfare with swordplay,” Galadhmir smiled.  “Perhaps you should try something less redundant?"

Now Thranduil laughed outright, like a roll of spring thunder in the mountains.  “You would like that, would you not?” he said, pulling the stay from his hair to let it fall thick and free about his shoulders.  “Very well.  Shall we make a day of it?  A long ride through the wood, then back here for a hot bath, a glass of wine, and a good book by the fireside.  All for therapeutic purposes, of course.”

Galadhmir returned his incredulous grin.  The day Thranduil was found absent without leave would shake Greenwood to its roots.  But still, the idea was enticing, and that glint in his eye did not at once dismiss the possibility.  The restoration of the forest had seemed to rejuvenate its lord as well, at least somewhat.  “I believe we could all use that kind of therapy right now,” he said.  “Surely this year of all years we may celebrate more often.”

“You would like to think so,” the King returned, reluctantly sobering a bit, sheathing his sword with one last gleam in the lamplight.  “But I fear I simply will not have the time.”

Galadhmir looked on him with something akin to pity.  “Do you want a respite, Thranduil?” he asked with genuine concern.  “Leave it to us for a while; if Linhir does not handle it, surely Anárion will.  Take a day for yourself.  I dare say you have earned it.  Honestly, when was the last time?”

Thranduil was quietly thoughtful for a few moments, sitting nonchalantly against the corner of the heavily built table that stood at the center of the room.  “I cannot recall,” he mused at last.  He did seem strongly tempted by the offer.

“Then I say you are relieved for the day,” Galadhmir decreed as he appeared at his side, his voice brooking no argument as his strong hands began to firmly knead the chronic tension out of Thranduil’s shoulders.  It was normally Noruvion the healer who would do it, but they all knew the routine well enough by now.

“Stop that,” Thranduil murmured, though he did not mean it, feeling himself slipping farther toward administrative oblivion.  Any more of this and he would be glad to make Galadhmir regent for the day.  “I said, stop, you snake in the grass!” 

“Silence,” Galadhmir insisted, continuing his fraternal attentions.  He had already had a good deal of practice during Thranduil’s past convalescence, and he could feel the great muscular crimps working themselves smooth again under his hands.  He had always insisted that Thranduil took upon himself entirely too much responsibility for his own good.  “You would insist upon working yourself to death if we were not here to stop you.  Promise me you will take your own precious time to breathe today. You know you want to.”

“I know no such thing,” Thranduil insisted, in vain it seemed, for by now Galadhmir had him in transports.  “A little lower, please?”

Galadhmir obliged, enjoying victory at last.  It seemed there was nothing in all the world, no violence nor force of will that could drag Thranduil from his throne under duress.  But really all he needed was a gentle push.  Not even Linhir, the master of the meticulous, had acquired that subtlety, a kindred talent and privilege Galadhmir shared now with only the prince.  Together over the years they had done what little they could to fill the void left by their queen.  Sometimes that could mean no more than smoothing an audience with a crass ambassador.  Other times it could mean lifting if but for a moment a nigh-crushing burden from their beloved king and kinsman, who gave his all and asked very little.  Thranduil suffered few to touch him so liberally, that in itself a sign of his highest favor. 

Thinking for one fleeting moment back to the days of their youth, when Beleg Cúthalion’s gangly young sister-son was befriended by Lord Oropher’s heir, Galadhmir wondered again at the twists of time that brought them here of all places.  Much had transpired in the last two ages of the world, for which poor Thranduil had often borne much of the brunt.  Now Galadhmir was determined that he would indulge in a well-earned reward, at least for one day.  It was not much, but every little bit was worthwhile.  His impossible war was won beyond all hope; what more could they ask of him?

But then the King sat bolt upright, keen eyes turned blindly toward the south.  All else was forgotten as he recognized that familiar point of light stirring at the edge of his awareness, seeming all the brighter now for the darkness of its absence.  In a moment Galadhmir was aware of it as well, and Thranduil rounded on him with a brilliant smile.

“He has returned!” he shouted joyfully, pulling his brother into a crushing embrace before dropping from the table and bounding away to the corridor.  “Come!  There is much to be done!”

Galadhmir sighed and followed resignedly.  Legolas, Legolas, he thought wryly, but not without a smile, your timing is atrocious.

There would be no rest for any of them now.

It was like a breath of fresh air.  Stability where before there had been only bleak exposure.  Vigilance in place of emptiness.  Light in place of darkness.  And all of it intimated his father, his touch, his presence.  This was home at last.

Legolas drew a deep and satisfied breath as they crossed a border Gimli could not see but felt all the same.  It was not like Lothlórien, where the passage across the guarded wards was an abrupt one – as Legolas had described it, an echo of Valinor on their earth.  Here Greenwood was still just that, a wood hardly different from any other in the last waning days of summer, but there was indeed a subtle change in the air, a greater vitality in the surrounds, and a strange feeling he knew not how to describe.  It was not as though they had passed into a different world, but merely into a song, silent and yet not quite unheard.  This wood answered indeed to a Lord; his reign was subtle, but unchallenged.

He knew they had passed into another realm, the one that had weathered the tempest and yet stood strong when all others faded.  He could feel it down to his toes.

All seemed to look brighter from here.  This stretch of the wood had not escaped the torch of the orcs, but it was quicker to heal, the living grace of growing things eager to fill the voids and soothe the wounds that were left.  The suffering was past.  Now was the time to renew and rebuild.

They continued north at an easy pacing trot, the wolf Arhuan lolling behind, all in considerably better spirits.  The muddy road had become firm again, and that in itself was enough to gladden anyone, though they were still a mess themselves.

Evening was drawing on when Arod's easy pace faltered suddenly, and Gimli heard a muffled clunk behind them as he clung to Legolas for balance.  The Elf, though momentarily startled, seemed to know what was afoot.  He slid at once to the ground, and retrieved something from the road a few paces back.

"What is it?" Gimli asked.

Legolas turned back to him, holding the answer of wrought steel plainly in his hand.  "He cast a shoe," he explained.  Doubtless the mud had contributed to that particular mishap.  "I know where it may be attended.  If indeed they are there still."  That last was spoken under his breath, the first twinge of apprehensive regret that seemed to have troubled him all that day.  In any case, Gimli was glad to hear a loose horseshoe would not slow them much.

Legolas insisted upon walking.  Gimli was of no mind to argue, for he was again willing to stretch his legs for a while.  He noticed frequent sidelong glances from Arhuan as they walked with Arod between them, the hound still not entirely comfortable with the Dwarf's presence among them, ducking his massive head to peer through the stallion’s legs.  He seemed to have taken Legolas' lecture to heart and made no menacing advances, but still he was a watchful silver shadow of suspicion. 

As darkness was falling Legolas turned from the road, leading the rest of his motley following behind him into the brush.  But that turned out to be a trail in its own right, and at last Gimli descried a silvan homestead nestled there among the dark trees.  It was small but not uncomfortably so, the quaint woodland dwelling he would have imagined of Wood-elves if ever he had given it a thought.

Legolas was glad to see something so familiar for a change.  Knowing the closer confines of their dominion like the palm of his hand, he had hoped to find this home spared the ravages of the war.  Legandir had hosted the prince and his fellows many times before when they were out on duty; his post was here in the south and Thranduil often inquired after him.

A dark Elf was busily gathering an armful of firewood when they emerged from the verdure, though he seemed to have already been listening for them.  Their kind were not easily taken at unawares, not after so many years of living life on the edge.

"Araglas!" Legolas hailed him from the trees.

Araglas beamed like a firefly, his apprehensions vanished.  "Ernil Legolas!" he cried, throwing his wood heedlessly back onto the pile to offer the comradely embrace Legolas was ready to receive.  "All summer we awaited you!  Why did you tarry so long?"

"We have many friends now in the South who must be attended," Legolas said in excuse, smiling down on his younger companion in arms.  "But come; is your father here?"

Legandir appeared in the doorway with his wife Nenuiel, drawn by the commotion, their faces mirroring their son's exuberance.

"My Lord Legolas!" Legandir welcomed him, holding himself to a graceful Sindarin bow before Legolas swept him into a warm silvan embrace, after the manner of their own kind.  "It is good to have you back among us!"

"There I must agree," Legolas said.  "There are many things to be seen in this world, but none so welcoming as the greenwood."  He turned his attentions then to the lady of the house, for she was not without her own warm welcome for him.

"You were sorely missed, my lord," Nenuiel assured him when he released her.

"Was I?"

"The father will always miss his son," she said simply, meeting his eyes with hers.  "And in that, our king was not alone.  It gladdens my heart to know his own shadow will soon be lifted."

Legolas did not mistake the gleam of bereavement in her eyes.  Alas that such were the ways of war, and the price of victory.  "And what has become of Arahael?" he asked softly, though he knew the answer. 

"No one is certain," Legandir confided grimly, Araglas gone silent beside him at the mention of his brother.  "We suspect he fell to the flames." 

War was an ugly thing.  It was at times like this that Legolas was glad his father did all in his power to prepare his forces to meet their deaths before throwing them into the fray, turning their hearts firmly toward the summons of Mandos and hope of a second dawn in lands undying, a reassurance brought to them by their Sindarin brethren of the West.  For the Nandor were Eldar as well, even if long sundered.

But then Legandir's face clouded again as he looked beyond Legolas and obviously caught sight of Gimli.  "A nogoth?" he asked in low-voiced elvish.  "What have you to do with him?"

"No more than I had to do with your sons," Legolas said then, perhaps more firmly than he had intended.  "Gimli son of Glóin has been my brother in arms through many dangers.  He is one of Mithrandir’s Fellowship, a Lord of Rohan, Elf-friend and a companion of King Elessar.  I deem he has earned his right to our hospitality, at least."

Legandir sighed tersely, unconvinced but unwilling to gainsay his lord.  "I would not receive him otherwise," he said sullenly.  "But I shall suffer it if such be your command.  Unless my memory fails me, is there not a law?"

"There is," Legolas affirmed regally, "but Gimli is no danger to you or your house."  There was indeed a law on the books bearing Thranduil's formidable signature, one that forbade the harboring of suspicious strangers.  Even so, it did not explicitly forbid Dwarves, and that mandate would have to be stretched considerably to apply in the given situation. 

There was no more to be said.  Legandir agreed to replace Arod's shoe that night and led Legolas around to the stable.  Gimli was to stay inside while Araglas attended the firewood, and it was not without an ill-contented glance that Legandir left them unsupervised. 

"Trust me," Legolas said, his tone suspended between reassurance and command.  "Your lady has no more to fear from Gimli than she would from me.  While in Greenwood, his honor is mine."

Such a pledge was still very little help for deep suspicions fostered over centuries.  But Prince Legolas’ honor was yet untarnished, and he would not put it at such risk without the utmost confidence in his chosen companion.  It was enough for the moment.

Inside, Gimli sat near the hearth while the elf-woman Nenuiel stirred a pot of something over the fire.  Not wishing to try the limits of their reluctant hospitality, he refrained from smoking.  In any case, the aromas of what would soon be dinner were enough for him, a kind of venison stew as he guessed.

Nenuiel herself never turned to stare at him, nor did she seem to take any particular notice of her unorthodox guest.  If her husband admitted him to their home, she would tolerate him.  But Gimli could feel her scrutinizing him with that keen sixth sense common to all mothers and matrons.  She was a dark and slender beauty, pale as white cream, though in her simple woodland garb she could not hold a candle to Lady Arwen.  Nor was it mere appearance that made this silvan wife different.  The Queen of Gondor was elegant and stately, fair and delicate even while embodying the enduring strength of her people, graceful as a doe.  Nenuiel, in spite of her slighter build, gave Gimli more the vivid impression of a she-bear, wary and unbound by courtly convention, ready to defend her den if given the provocation.  Gimli had always admired that in a woman, and for a moment reflected that it was strange he should recognize in an Elf the same dauntless fervor his own people admired in their daughters.  It was almost . . . oh, he hardly dared to think it, but she was almost Dwarvish in his eyes, strange enough though it was somehow comforting.  He was left to ponder that quandary until at last she spoke to him.

“How long have you followed the Lord Legolas?” she asked almost pleasantly, keeping a watchful eye on her cooking though all her attention was bent toward the stranger beside her.

“Since the war,” Gimli answered matter-of-factly, generously choosing not to make an issue of her choice of phrase. 

She smiled tolerantly.  “And what has occupied you since?  You tarried in Gondor with the Dúnadan King?”

“For a time.”  He rested his hands on the head of the ax he propped up before him for lack of a pipe to hold.  “We quit the city in the summer.  On our way we have seen Rohan, Fangorn, Lórien . . .”

“You have seen Lothlórien?”  The name of that sequestered land seemed to catch her interest.  “The realm of the Lord Celeborn and his Lady?”

“I have seen the Lady,” Gimli confirmed, gratified.  He indicated his cloak and brooch.  “These she gave to us.”

“Ah,” Nenuiel exclaimed, much of the shadow lifted from her.  “I wondered at first, but now I see that you are Elf-friend indeed.  Such a thing I have never heard tell of.”  She smiled, genuinely now.  “See that you become as Lord Legolas’ shadow as you go deeper amongst us, Gimli Elvellon!  By his command you are inviolate, but the waters shall be rough ere you win the regard of our lord the King.”

“So I have been told, my lady,” he said wryly, laughing behind his beard.  A foe in arms he understood, but war of wills was not something he looked forward to.  He would not admit it aloud, but by this time the very name of Thranduil was enough to spike his nerves.

“Araglas,” Nenuiel called as her son reappeared in their midst.  “You will set five places at table.  Never has an Elf-friend left my home hungry.”

Legolas returned shortly with Legandir.  He sent a smile Gimli’s way, but the latter wore no expression at all, pacified but still wary.

The meal Nenuiel set before them was more than welcome after the meager provision that had sustained them on the road.  The stew, bread and cheese was as good as a feast to Gimli, and he was quite content to leave the talking to others.  The wine was regrettably not the ale he craved, but he could only expect so much of the Elves.  The conversation, such as it was, revolved around the war as Mirkwood had known it, the woodland Nandor eager to give their prince the account of the battle in all detail.  And Legolas seemed willing to listen, asking questions for himself when he could get a word in edgewise.  It was of little interest to Gimli, even though Legolas maintained the exchange in the common tongue for his benefit.  His Elvish hosts seemed quite content to let him be, forgiving or paying no heed to his manners, though Legolas once glared daggers at him when he dared eat straight from his knife.

Afterward, the family excused themselves to tend their last duties before the evening waned further.  The horses needed brushing, the dogs feeding, and the like.  Legolas and Gimli found themselves alone again.

“So,” Legolas began from across the table laden with dirty dishes, “what think you of Greenwood, my friend?”

Gimli considered a moment, content with a full stomach for the first time in too long.  “Pleasant enough for now,” he said.  “But ask me again in a few days.”

Legolas nodded, his face lit with a hint of a smile.  Then he glanced critically over the mess on the table.  After a moment of consideration he turned to the shadows at the side of the room. 

“Come, my stout-hearted Dwarf,” he said as he stood and unfastened his vambraces.  “Go fetch some water.  We can have this clean in no time.”

Gimli was first poised to protest vehemently, for menial housework the last thing on his priorities.  At another time he might have objected to the impropriety of such tasks for a royal-born lord.  But Legolas had already thrust up his sleeves and begun stacking plates and bowls as though he had done it all his life, and Gimli could not in good conscience object to helping.

He went for the water.  It required five rounds from the well outside to fill the basin Legolas dragged out from the corner, boiling some over the fire to warm the rest.  Seated easily on the floor beside it, Legolas fell to it at once, scouring each plate and bowl and fork without showing the slightest reservation.  Each clean article he tossed to Gimli to dry, who then set them back in place on the table.  After a while Gimli could not help smiling as Legolas’ attitude rubbed off on him.  That Elf could make a game out of anything!

“Since when are you such a proficient drudge?” he asked with a laugh.

Legolas grinned back at him.  “It is tradition,” he said.  “Thranduil began it, lest his lords forget what work was, for he despises snobbery.  He was not always a King, you know.  Every year for six days we shed our rank and fall to housekeeping.  We can scrub a floor as well as anyone.  Indeed, my lord once received Gandalf in audience whilst on his knees in a corridor amid a sea of soap.”

Gimli snorted.  “And was Gandalf pleased with his dedication?”

“No; his inattention annoyed him to no end.  But I dare say my father enjoyed it.”

Nenuiel was aghast when she returned, though Legolas smiled as though she should not have been.  Gimli chuckled to himself as he ran his towel over a plate, convinced once again that Thranduil’s Elves must exist in a class all their own.