The next day, Legolas was noticeably restless as they rode farther north, holding Arod to an easy trot when he obviously wanted to throw restraint to the wind and make a glad run for it.  But Arod seemed to have caught his enthusiasm, and soon the two of them together could no longer resist the call of the open road.

Gimli clung like a burr lest he lose his seat as the horse lowered his head and launched into a gallop.  He had become almost proficient at this kind of tag-along riding, though he would not have relished any of his kin seeing him at it.

The wood flew by upon either side, left to sway in the wind of their passage.  Arhuan was bounding through the brush beside them, seeming to challenge the horse to a race.  The thought that they were hurtling ever nearer to the inmost lair of the Elvenking was no comfort, but at the same time Gimli looked forward to the end of their journey, at least for a time.  He would never be truly comfortable until he returned to Erebor.  Unless, of course, he would be forced to defend Legolas at every turn.  He wondered now if the Elf would leave home again to accompany him to the mountain at once, or if he would follow later when passions had cooled somewhat.

But then Arod ground jarringly to a restless halt and the wood resounded with bright Sindarin laughter and greeting.  Left astride, Gimli in the momentary confusion saw Legolas dismount and immediately fall prey to four ecstatic Elves who seemed intent upon smothering him, all trace of pensive dignity gone with rollicking hugs all around.  It was a scene of glad indecorous chaos, a kaleidoscope of elven color.  Gimli assumed them to be other sons of the nobility.  He slid down to the ground, not wanting to be caught in an awkward place should the situation sour.

This went on for some time before one, a formidable character with fiery brown eyes, noticed him.  Immediately the clouds settled.  Jubilation faded in the face of ill-content.  It seemed that Legolas gave them the usual speech, though he confined it to their own Sindarin.  Some terse questions followed, and he rose to them with equal force.  Between sidelong glances at the Dwarf and at each other, it seemed none of them wished to quarrel and regretted that such should mar their reunion.  Legolas offered a few conciliatory words, and they all nodded reluctantly, perhaps agreeing to reserve their judgment, at least for the time being.

“Gimli,” Legolas called, turning back to him.  “Come, you had best become acquainted with these, for you will see them quite often.  This,” he said, indicating the tall blue-eyed one who seemed the most cocksure of the bunch, “is Luinar, son of Lord Linhir, the eldest among us.  Anorrín, son of Lord Anárion,” he continued, meaning Sharp Brown-eyes.  “My kinsman Calenmir, son of Lord Galadhmir.”  His manner clearly marked Calenmir a favorite, and indeed they looked so alike that Gimli could have taken them for brothers. 

“And this,” Legolas concluded with particular emphasis, turning to the slightest among them, the dark one with eyes of stormy blue-grey, “this is Duinen, son of Brilthor, a prince of the silvan Nandor.  Moreover, he is also the captain who arrested your father all those years ago.  Here is a feud we may end here and now.”

Gimli and Duinen regarded one another passively, frigidly, before the hint of a sportive grin tugged at one corner of the Elf's mouth as he recognized a worthy opponent.

“I bear no ill will of the incident if Gimli does not,” he said.  

“I perhaps more than you,” Gimli gruffed.  “But for now I shall forget it if you will.” 

Duinen nodded graciously, and the mood seemed to gratefully lighten.  Not much, but some.

“Duinen, what became of your hair?” Legolas asked then with some concern, as though he had not a chance to inquire earlier.  Indeed Duinen's hair of midnight black was shorter than that of the others.

“It caught fire,” Calenmir said, his eyes laughing.  Duinen turned and drove a fist into his arm.  “It was disturbing at the time, but by now it has grown out considerably.”

“Master Brilthor himself has almost made a full recovery,” Luinar offered.  “He tires easily still, but will not admit it.  Only the King's command can sit him down for any length of time anymore.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Legolas said.  “They told me somewhat of his plight while I was in Gondor.  It was not encouraging.”

“It would not have seemed so bleak if the King had sent anyone but Daerin,” Anorrín insisted.  “But no, he determined to appoint the gloomiest Elf in the realm.”

“He is not!  At least he is no gloomier than you.”

“I would have gone,” said Calenmir, as they all gathered their horses.  “But my mother would not hear of it.”

“A shame!” Legolas leapt astride Arod, swinging Gimli up behind him.  “I would have enjoyed your company there.”

“Now we may finally enjoy yours here,” said Luinar as they continued up the road together, an elusive tone creeping into his voice akin to resentful apprehension as he perhaps considered the dampening effect their ‘guest’ would have on the festivities.  “Your father has spared no expense to welcome you back.  He has worked us all like dogs since you crossed the border yesterday.”

Gimli rode a bit easier now.  Legolas' companions had not fully accepted him – not by a long road – but they tolerated him for the moment.  If they disregarded him it was because they did not want the likes of him to ruin their celebration.  

With such thoughts roiling through his mind, it seemed uncannily soon that they rode down the woodland promenade of great oak trees, glimpses of festive activity and color to be seen beyond the end.  The wood was scarred even here at Thranduil's doorstep, and he felt Legolas stiffen slightly at the sight of unfamiliar gaps in the verdure. 

Word had passed before them as though the very trees heralded their coming.  As they emerged from the trees and beheld the river with the great hill standing beyond, a glad cheer erupted from the enormous throng of woodland elves busily preparing the fields and forest for a royal celebration beneath the stars.  Taking the lead, as was his right, Legolas rode across the newly rebuilt bridge and spurred Arod up the incline toward the palace gates themselves.  Several voices faltered at the sight of the Dwarf, but even that was not entirely unexpected, for word had come to them of the favored nogoth in Gondor.  Still, none knew what to think of him, let alone how the King would receive him.  Despite their joy, an unmistakable tension settled over the field.

All six dismounted several paces from the gate, which stood open.  “Stay back a moment,” Legolas instructed Gimli in a low voice, and the Dwarf nodded.  Now was no time to question Legolas' misgivings.  He stayed back with Arod, only partially hidden.  He would sooner risk the company of Luinar and his crowd than face the Elvenking at once.  And indeed he had not long to wait.  Legolas quickly unfastened his quiver to be less encumbered, handing that with his bow to his cousin.  “Take good care of this.”

Ready as he would ever be, Legolas turned to face the palace gates where now there stood an Elf of epic proportions, his presence dominating the entire field like a change of light.  Gimli had felt the influence on the wood around, and knew in his heart of hearts that he looked upon its source, flanked by several others of his kind.  He wore no ostentatious crown laden with gems, no trailing robes of ermine or sable.  Indeed his dark tunic of soft evergreen was enough, embroidered with silver chains of leaves at the fitted cuffs and hem, a cloak of the same falling regally from his shoulders.  He was as tall as any Elvenlord, his cascade of thick golden hair bound in loose warrior's plaits, lending him a distinctly leonine appearance.  His was the sleek build of a predator, slender as were all his kind but extremely well built.  Gimli’s first thought was of the ageless dignity of the forest itself, the majesty of mountains, beautiful and formidable. 

So this was Legolas' father.

As had been said, Elvenking Thranduil was at once a strange combination of Celeborn and Galadriel.  He seemed more untamed than his kinsman the silver lord without the restraint of a lady beside him.  And though this Lord of Lasgalen seemed in many ways no less than the High Lords of Lórien and Rivendell, there was an air of tangible practicality about him that Gimli could indeed appreciate.  It was as though this Elvenlord straddled the threshold of the preternatural with one foot set firmly in the real world, one who was well acquainted with its roughshod ways, and who had bested many at their own games.  And simply for that, Gimli felt the first stirrings of grudging respect.  This Elf would not fell you with mythical powers or magic rings; rather he would strap you outright with his own two hands.

Legolas drew nearer, approaching with all the deference due a king from his prince, a formality Thranduil accepted without so much as batting an eye, cold and impassive.  The crowds looked on in anticipatory silence, and Gimli sought in vain for any sign of paternal affection.

Standing before him, Legolas offered a wan smile.  “I have returned, my lord.”

Only then did Gimli see the sparkle of a single tear as it fell at last from those unfathomable eyes, for the Elvenking was enthralled not by pride but by emotion, his composure held by one tenuous thread that held no longer.  

“Ai, Legolas!”  

Thranduil swept his son into a crushing embrace amid a joyous roar of Elven applause.  It was likely they both squeezed more than a few glad tears from one another, never mind the stains of war and travel.  Greenwood was restored, the reign of the Shadow was ended, their dark centuries of fortitude rewarded.  They needed no words, for none could ever have done justice to what passed between their hearts.  Together they had seen the sun set upon their lives twenty centuries ago, and now after their long and weary sojourn through Mirkwood’s endless night, the dawn they had dreamt of had come at last.

For what it was worth, the realm was whole again.

When at last they held each other apart and composed themselves, Thranduil looked searchingly into his son’s eyes, seeming to recognize and regret what he saw.  But still it was left unspoken by the tacit consent of both.  That time would come, but they could not bear to speak of it now.

But as if to confirm the truth that all good things must end, those eyes glanced over Legolas' shoulder and cooled considerably.  It seemed Thranduil had not been entirely unaware of Gimli's presence, but had willfully disregarded him until this point when he could avoid it no longer.  The aura about him suggested unspoken antipathy, suppressed disdain, and no small bit of instinctive disgust.  Those sentiments alone would not have induced him to open and undue hostility, but Gimli knew it was the glint of instinctive paternal jealousy that was tinder beside the fire.

“Father,” Legolas began, pulling away and notably abstaining from their own tongue, “this is my companion who has accompanied me from Gondor, Gimli son of Glóin of Erebor.”

Thranduil started at the name of Glóin; he had not forgotten him, nor was he unaware of the bad blood that festered still in the Mountain beneath the peaceful façade.  Gimli offered a profound Dwarvish bow in his own effort to placate the volatile Elvenking, who seemed poised to bristle defensively at the slightest provocation.  He had never imagined himself fearing the wrath of an Elf, but the last year had taught him much, and already he knew Thranduil was no one to be trifled with.  The battlelines were still drawn, and he had only to trespass upon them to earn swift and devastating retaliation.  He could feel Legolas’ anxiety even as his eyes were cast upon the ground, so pronounced was it.

When he again looked up, Gimli made the mistake of looking Thranduil squarely in the eye.  His breath hitched in his chest, for in that flash of a moment he felt he had been pierced to the heart.  It was a chill and hollow feeling, though it lasted but an instant.  If Galadriel read hearts with soft feline seduction, Thranduil struck with coiled serpentine precision, the effect leaving his victim somewhat stunned.

But the Elvenking seemed surprised.  He looked Gimli up and down in silence, at odds with himself, as a hunter foiled unexpectedly by his prey. 

If the truth had been known, Thranduil was at a jarring impasse with two of his strongest impulses.  Nogothrim were not to be trusted; the harsh lessons he had learned from his youth would not be effaced in one chance meeting.  They were skilled and were to be grudgingly respected as artisans and warriors.  But all were deserving of suspicion, for treachery and greed were their nature, and the thought of Legolas becoming so fond of one was disturbing.  But what in the holy name of the Valar was he to make of a Dwarf who stood unabashedly before him clad in elvish garb with the light of the Faithful in his eyes?  Never before had he seen such a figure of a Dwarf.  He could say nothing, for his sense of moral justice was so twined in knots he knew hardly what to think.

He heaved a terse sigh, and turned back to Legolas.  “We shall take this up later,” he said sullenly, at the moment too undecided in his own heart to make any kind of judgment at all, his courtesy suffering for it.  “This is hardly the time or the place.”  Legolas nodded resignedly and turned to lead his muddied horse away to the stables, Gimli following.  Thranduil watched them go, his hands curling unwittingly into fists at the unsettling vision of an armed dwarf following his son.  True, this Gimli seemed innocent enough, but the predatory precedents were difficult, nay, impossible to forget.

“Come, Linhir,” he summoned his seneschal as he turned back inside.  “And you, Galadhmir.  We have much to discuss.”

These two followed him through the corridors to the depths of his domain.  He was not without a keen twinge of regret that this should come between him and Legolas at a time like this.  After riding the terrifying waves of the war, there was nothing he wanted more than to receive his son back into the household, but of all things there now arose a Dwarf between them, threatening to drive them apart.

Legolas glanced back as his father turned and disappeared inside the gates with a dark swirl of green and a flash of silver.  Then he heaved a sigh of meager relief and continued on.  “Well,” he said, “that went as well as could be expected.”

Gimli did not comment.

The stables themselves were back a bit from the palace, nestled into the woods behind the hill of the Arthrand, a considerable distance when taken on foot.  They followed a well-trodden path beneath the green arbors to the fair but sturdily-built structure, longer than it was wide, one that looked enough to be another royal woodland hall in its own right to Gimli's eyes.

Legolas led a weary Arod over the threshold into the gently shadowed interior, the entire place an atmosphere of hay, horse, and sawdust.  Individual stalls were placed on either side of the center aisle, several of them occupied as the steeds were groomed or otherwise attended.  Arod perked up in the presence of other strange horses, and they returned his interest. 

“Ah!” Legolas smiled and stopped beside one of them, the tall grey inside offering his head to be stroked.  “Mae govannen, Erinmir.  So you are returned from Imladris, my friend?”

The light from the far door danced then as two other figures were silhouetted against the sunlight outside, a magnificent stallion led by another of the stable-hands.  It was a fine dark bay with fiery black eyes, a beast to inspire wary respect in even the bravest.  His proud neck was arched as he carried himself haughtily through what he deemed his own domain, little heed given the Elf who led him.  He tossed his great head with a squeal to challenge the newcomer.  Arod snorted in return, but looked conciliatory. 

“Mae govannen, Galion,” Legolas greeted the stable-hand with what seemed a tolerant tone, and he was acknowledged with a casual bow.

 “Mae govannen, Hir Legolas,” the dark Elf returned, leading the formidable horse into the stall.  The stallion strode in with an independent air, as though he did so of his own accord and thought Galion irremediably insignificant, the twilight gleaming on his glossy coat.  “The King wished Maethor re-shod,” he explained.

Legolas nodded.  "I have a new charge for you," he said.  "Once Maethor is attended, you will see that Arod is fully groomed.  No half measures.  Gloss his hooves and see he is given a clean stall with new bedding, pine shavings preferably.  Feed him; one portion of the new hay and a ration of the best grain with molasses.  Yes?"

"Yes, my lord."  Galion looked sullen, to say the least, seeing that his prince took some degree of retributory pleasure in making extra work for him.  And the look of bitter disdain he leveled upon Gimli left no doubt as to his own acrid opinion of Dwarves.  Gimli got a sneaking suspicion that there was more to Galion’s story than met the eye.  He would make a point to ask later.

"Good of you," Legolas smiled, though with a hard light in his eyes.  "And you might trouble yourself to sing while you attend him.  He is a spirited one, and enjoys a fair voice."

Closing the stall on Maethor, Galion grudgingly slipped the rope about Arod's head in a quick makeshift halter and led him into a vacant partition nearby.  Meanwhile Legolas glanced around, taking note of Maethor's airs.

"What became of Aranaur?" he asked, as though he could guess the answer.

"Now that is a tale worth telling," Galion said, securing Arod and turning to retrieve his arsenal of brushes and combs.  "But it will suffice to say the foul winged beast of the Nazgûl was the death of him.  I dare say Maethor regrets but little the demise of his own sire."

Legolas nodded, then idly rubbed a critical finger over the inside of a trough.  “Galion,” he said in tone of gentle reprimand, flicking the water from his hand, “you have not been scouring the water troughs regularly.”

“I am sorry, my lord,” the other muttered, sparing only an idle glance as he prepared to wage a war of his own on the mud-balls in Arod’s thick tail.

Legolas smiled.  “You are always sorry, Galion.  You will never change.”

Leaving Arod in what was by command the best of care, they returned to the palace, or rather the ‘fortress’ as it seemed to Gimli.  Early afternoon was drawing on, and the preparations for that night’s revel were taking definite shape on the clearing all around.  

Finally they did gain the gate and passed into the cavernous corridor out of the sun.  But the way was bright with torchlight and alive with living echoes, offering some explanation of Legolas’ tolerance of these caves over Aglarond.  But when at last they turned out into the main corridor, all was answered.  Legolas’ steps faltered not a moment, for this was his home.  But as he followed, Gimli took in all the sights and sounds.  Woodland murals of great skill and depth adorned the walls on all sides, some depicting night, others day, still others sunset and twilight.  Lamps hung from the vaulted ceilings and were ensconced upon the walls, lending to everything a warm golden glow.  Carving and statuary were not absent, though they too made this the most Elvish cavern he had ever seen.  They had indeed managed to make it a palace.  There was nothing that could not be improved upon over a few thousand years.

They were not alone in the corridors.  They became the object of many strange glances, for word had gone around like wildfire, and what should have been a joyous welcome had digressed into hushed avoidance.  There were many sidelong whispers behind them which Legolas seemed to deliberately ignore, but Gimli knew he heard them.  Worse, he knew he understood.  It was plain Legolas had been enormously popular before.  Was he prepared to sacrifice the respect of all his nation for a friendship?

They encountered another of Thranduil’s massive wolfhounds on their way.  A more overgrown monster Gimli had never seen, as tall at the shoulder as some of the yearling draft ponies they occasionally used in the mines.  Far from indifferent, this tawny one was openly hostile, bristling at the Dwarf with a growl and snap of white fangs.  But a sharp rebuke from Legolas sent the handsome beast slinking meekly aside, though not without a last resentful rumble in his throat for the foe in their midst.  All Gimli’s nerves were poised on edge as though he had entered an enemy sanctum.  The atmosphere itself was enough to suggest it.

One thing he could not help noticing with some uneasy satisfaction was that all the Elves of Mirkwood went about openly armed, unlike in Rivendell.  Here even the lords carried daggers on their belts, not in aggression but merely out of habit.  It was a twisted relief to his mind, for now he could carry one of his small axes without giving offense.

Gradually the traffic in the halls lessened as they wound their way toward the royal chambers, but Gimli had noticed a wide diversity to those they had already met.  Some were obviously from the nobility.  Others were plainly from the woods thereabouts, harbored within the capital until their homes should be rebuilt.

After one last twist and turn, Legolas led him into a far corridor that for now was almost silent and in which only Gimli’s sturdy footsteps echoed, something he found vaguely disquieting.  Perhaps Legolas would not seem quite so spectral at times if he would only make some noise.  The corridor itself seemed to branch into several other chambers, each of these indicated by doorways of royal proportions.  Legolas slowed to a stop outside one of these, the door-frame carven and adorned on either side to resemble two beech trees.  In their branches above, elegant elvish script was carved across the top.  It could only be his name.

The heavy oaken door was closed, but gently swung wide as Legolas lay his palm against it, though he did not seem to push much.  He strode inside unconcerned though it had opened to black darkness, Gimli following warily until the chamber illuminated in a sudden blaze of light.  Gimli glanced up to see several lamps ensconced above in an intricate fixture fashioned from the antlers of several deer, their placid flames lit by no hand.  A slight chill crawled up his spine at the causal air with which Legolas was gradually assuming his full powers here in his father’s domain.  The room itself was richly furnished, the wood darkened with age.  The walls were covered floor to ceiling with woodland impressions, the ceiling itself painted as the night sky with glimmering points that Gimli’s eyes insisted were silver, or even white gold, set in faithful reproduction of the constellations. 

Legolas strode through his room with a contented sigh, home at last.  “Sit down, Gimli,” he invited, indicating the divan beside the bookshelf.  “We may both relax now for a moment.”

“And I thought we would never get here,” Gimli commented to himself as much as to anyone else, seated as instructed, setting Celeborn’s grey satchel down beside him with the distinct sound of metal inside.

Legolas agreed, standing before the mirror mounted on his dresser as he unfastened his grey Lórien cloak, seeming acutely dissatisfied with his appearance.  “Neither did I.”  

In the meantime, Gimli pulled off his gauntlets and loosed the Lady’s white ribbon on the bag beside him, looking again upon the mithril from Dol Guldur.  It seemed to have lost none of its luster from the journey, and he could not help feeling a prick of jealousy that it would soon be delivered up to Thranduil, but he smothered it.  Deserving or not, Celeborn had named it for him. 

“Do you have any right idea what this is worth?” he asked, still wondering at Legolas’ indifference.  “Even this one alone?”  He meant the Sereguren, of peerless workmanship and set with the grandest single ruby even he had ever seen.

“I believe I do,” Legolas answered calmly, pensively thoughtful.  He produced a ring from a drawer and slipped it onto his left hand, a solemn gravity about him.  But then he paused and looked back to Gimli.

“Here,” he said, pulling it off again.  “Here is something I value far more than all of Sauron’s hoard, though that be worth all of Lasgalen.”

Gimli took it, though in truth it seemed the one thing Legolas was privately reluctant to let him handle.  It was a bright ring of silver, etched with many intricate leaves.

“We perhaps have not the skill of the Dwarves or the Elves of Eregion, but we are not without our own craftsmen,” Legolas explained, perhaps to set a myth to rights.  “For many years this and the ring my father wears were together the only mithril in this realm.  And still I esteem it far above all that lies there,” he said, indicating the laden satchel.  “It was made for Prince Thranduil beneath the reign of King Oropher.  It is bound to our bloodline alone, and it has been mine since the day I came of age.”

Gimli turned it in the light.  It was not the most impressive workmanship he had ever seen, but it was admirable, more than he would have expected of the silvan Elves.  That was Legolas; simple, but yet so profound. 

He returned it, and Legolas slipped it again onto his hand, seeming to accept with it his burden of responsibility.  It was a subtle but fundamental transformation.  Legolas of the Fellowship had fewer cares than did Legolas of Lasgalen.

A few aimless paces took him to the center of the room as he gathered his thoughts, perhaps considering the new challenges set before him at this turning point in their reign.  But then he turned and smiled.  “All that aside,” he said, “we have more immediate matters to discuss.  When in Elvendom, Gimli, it would be best to do as the Elves do.  Are you going to lather that monstrous beard of yours, or shall I?”

The Dwarf started at that tone, come to a brazen confrontation at last.

“You wouldn’t dare!” he challenged, not sure whether to be apprehensive, incredulous, or to simply laugh.

Legolas took one menacing step toward him in attitude of grim determination.

Gimli immediately shuffled back, raising his hands in gesture of momentary surrender if only to ward off the worst of the scenarios.  He did not truly believe Legolas would ever do such a thing, but it seemed unwise at that moment to tempt fate.  “I suppose I could indeed use a bath,” he admitted reluctantly.

“I would appreciate it,” Legolas said, his tone speaking volumes for his patient endurance in his and also in Aragorn’s company.  He was not pleading, but was very near.

He took Gimli then to his own quarters.  He chose the room opposite his own, chambers fit for a lord.  Two of the silvan servants had materialized at his call, and Legolas gave them their instructions as Gimli perused the furnishings.  The exchange was Elvish, but as he watched it was evident these two were reluctant to obey, perhaps uncertain how well Thranduil would endure their guest quartered so near him.  But Legolas was adamant.  Even sharp.  Legolas was rarely sharp with anyone.

They obeyed in the end, but obviously with their own misgivings.

Legolas shook his head discontentedly once they had gone, but turned back to matters at hand.  “Here,” he directed, opening another door to the side, one that led to a private bath chamber.  “They will have this prepared for you shortly.  Take your time; none shall disturb you here.  If you will excuse me, I have a few pressing concerns of my own to attend.  If you want for anything, you have but to ask.”