The stars shone like brilliant points of silver in the indigo sky, but theirs was not the only light that night.  All around the Arthrand the wood was brightly illuminated by the golden glow of lamp, fire and torch, some tinted to throw rays of red, green, and silver blue.  Long tables were laden with fare fit for the King himself.  The place was thick with Elves, all dressed in their best with autumn blooms in their hair, dancing and singing and laughing to the music of flutes, drums, and harps, the reconquest of Greenwood at last fully achieved.

Gimli joined the festivities in the company of Legolas and Thranduil, who now looked more their part than ever.  Both the Elvenking and Prince were crowned with butter-yellow snapdragons bound by slender ribbons of green.  Thranduil wore a silver carcanet of his own over his shoulders, glinting with emeralds and diamonds, which he apparently only brought out for special occasions.  Legolas wore the gleaming Sereguren, which proved to suit him incredibly well, magnificent while not garish.  Gimli had perhaps been expected to exhibit some sign of servile obeisance in Thranduil’s presence, but Legolas had flatly refused to allow it.  And so the Dwarf kept their company as another prince, a singular sight that went unnoticed by no one. 

For love of Elbereth, now they had seen everything.

Gimli sat with them upon Thranduil’s left, an unspoken honor he soon appreciated by observing all the wondering glances cast his way.  Legolas assumed his place on the right, the rest of the table occupied by other lords and such, and flanked by Elvish soldiers in jaunty uniforms of green and yellow to match their king.  These attendants were still armed, the newfound peace notwithstanding.  Gimli did not like the inimical looks many of them leveled upon him, but they had read the King’s decree regarding the Dwarf.  They would not touch him, even though his presence caused them considerable unrest. 

There was an initial round of ceremonial pageantry amid the revelry.  A company of mounted lancers rode out in full victorious array, heraldic streamers borne on their spears boasting the initials of the royal family.  They were led by a fair captain that Gimli recognized as Luinar, son of Linhir the seneschal.  There was plainly still no love between them, but Luinar managed to keep quiet as he performed his charge of ceremony before Thranduil, though it obviously rankled him to see the Dwarf accorded such honors.  There followed another mounted company led by Calenmir, bedecked as another woodland prince leading the elite of Lasgalen’s knights upon the fleet warhorses, the son of Thranduil’s adjutant the Lord Galadhmir.  Prince Duinen was to be seen elsewhere, marked by the same yellow and green as a commander of the palace guard.

With its completion, the organized bravado melted into the general festivity, the horses led aside to be ridden in sport.  Even many of the lords at the King’s table could not maintain their seats, joining the social whirl with their ladies.  Dinner, such as it was, went on as a leisurely affair.  One took what one wanted when one wanted it, and the servers kept the courses circulating.  Gimli was actually pleasantly surprised by the provender offered at Thranduil’s table, for if it was not so elaborate as the fare found in Rivendell, it was more satisfying.  Here he need not worry over the impropriety of disturbing an intricately garnished masterpiece each time he wanted a bun.  The meat was roasted and seasoned but still red, near enough his ideal.  There was the usual assortment of bread, honey, and fruit, sweetened baked apples.  

Again, there was no ale, but that was not to dismiss the wine glass set before him, an intriguing vintage of a dark ruby red.  He tried it, but as a Dwarf he was not accustomed to sipping anything.  Eyes widening in mute appreciation, he quickly decided it was not something for the young and untried, a bit too rich for his tastes.  Gimli glanced about, and saw that indeed most everyone was drinking the stuff without reservation.  He noticed that Thranduil did not sip either.  The Elvenking apparently expected no tipsiness at his table, or else was badly prepared, for their chairs amounted to no more than sawn tree rings, and consequently had no backs.

It could become a most interesting evening.

Gimli had a tendency to eat when he was nervous, so that was how he first occupied himself, and there was more than enough to keep him busy.  The others held their peace for a while as well, perhaps gradually acclimating themselves to the situation.

“I trust you will allow me to accompany Lord Gimli back to Erebor,” Legolas said at last, letting that drop like string to a cat.

Beside him, Gimli saw Thranduil squirm noticeably, then drain his wine glass.  “I can scarcely refuse.” 

Legolas smiled.  “Formally or informally?” he asked.

“Formally,” Thranduil decided.  “Will you go by road or river?”

“The latter.  Poor Arod has come far enough.”

“Very well.  Such a journey will not be wasted as a joy trip.  Already I sent my heralds to Esgaroth and to Dale, but you shall bear our greetings to them again.  I trust Master Gimli will not object to a few errands of diplomacy along the way.”

The conversation went on as such for a while, the festivities playing before them incessantly.  A great group of Elves was engaged then in an impressive dance that opened and closed in formation like a flower, all of lively music and laughter.  Gimli spotted a few he knew, though he could hardly help it.  Again he considered the obvious differences between these Nandor, as Legolas had called them, and their Sindarin lords.  One could not honestly say they were of the same people.  They were like slender saplings, while Thranduil . . . well, Thranduil was Thranduil, he decided at last.  There really was no more apt explanation.

“Legolas!”  Gimli's musings were interrupted suddenly by the breathless voice of a fair Sindarin maiden as she burst upon them, ribbons of red and yellow streaming amid her hair.  “Come, Legolas; you must not sit idly by on a night like this!” she insisted, making as if to drag him away of her own will.  “You have to come and dance with us!”

“Moredhel!” her father snapped at her in obvious disapproval.

“My lady honors me,” Legolas assured him as he was pulled from his seat.  “Forgive me, father; I have been kidnapped!”

“Go on,” Thranduil waved him away with a smile.  “Enjoy yourself.  It is certainly high time you did.”

Legolas was then drawn away into the general confusion, and it seemed it was not only Lady Moredhel who sought his hand.  But even for his obliging approachability, Legolas maintained his essential indifference; he would dance with anyone, but encouraged no one.  There was no lady among them to whom he was specifically given, nor did he seem to entertain any preference. 

For the first time Gimli found himself alone with the Elvenking, and he not an arm’s length distant either.  It was a vulnerable feeling, but for a while Thranduil seemed to take no notice of him, gazing somewhat dejectedly after Legolas, his eyes deep with memory. 

“I have not seen him so chipper since Gondor,” Gimli observed, finding the silence awkward.

“Was he happy there?” Thranduil asked absently, swirling the wine in his glass.  “He is glad enough to be among us again, but it is in his heart to go back.  And I do not doubt that the waters of the Anduin carry him even farther than that in the end.”  It seemed he had almost forgotten who he was talking to.  Nor did he seem to care.  He turned aside to thoughtfully regard that enigma of a Dwarf, a long but nigh-invisible scar beside his brow showing itself in the changing light.  Rather than mar him, it seemed to compliment his peculiar character.  “I will admit that I was incredulous at first, Gimli, but you do care for him.”

“As much as any of us would,” Gimli said, twiddling his beard, knowing it a great admission from Thranduil to openly condone his company in so many words.  “You understand brotherhood in arms.”

“That I do.”

He felt Thranduil probing his defenses, regarding him still as a potential adversary but in an inquisitive way.  It was a step in the right direction, anyway.  Disarm him one sentence at a time.

“It was not until Gandalf fell and we left Moria for the Lady's Wood that we found we could get by without trading harsh remarks at every turn,” he said.

“Moria,” Thranduil murmured darkly.  “Yes.  Celeborn might have told me as much, but he was . . . regrettably preoccupied.”  He indulged in a drink as if to banish unsettling imaginings. 

“It was enough to try the hearts of all of us,” Gimli said emphatically.  “I honestly thought we were done for, what with orcs and trolls, and that Balrog.”

Beside him the placid Elvenking choked and burst into a violent fit of coughing as the wine missed a turn in his throat.  Legolas glanced anxiously their way from the ordered chaos, though he could hardly spare a moment lest he throw the whole dance out of step.  Thranduil looked back at him with some measure of paternal indignation as he caught his breath; they would clearly take up that matter between them later.  “Your pardon,” he begged of Gimli, his voice still a bit rough.  “It seems I am the last to hear of many things.”

One never knew where one would touch upon something explosive.  Gimli was only grateful he had earned no enmity toward himself by it.  Someday he would learn to tread carefully.  After all, mention of the Balrog had set Celeborn against him quickly enough.  “My apologies, my lord,” he grunted awkwardly, not wishing to spoil with an idle remark all that Legolas had gained for him thus far.

There was something notably less intimidating about Thranduil when he turned back to him, for he looked as one who was nettled by his own conscience.  “It is I who must apologize, Master Gimli,” he said plainly.  “I ask you to forgive the manner in which I received you this afternoon.  Such effrontery was uncalled for.  Understand that if I seem to deal overbearingly with you now, it is for both our sakes.” 

Gimli looked, but try as he might he could see naught but sincerity in those formidable green eyes.  And if it was as genuine and as unaffected as it seemed to be, he respected the Elvenking all the more for it.  Such a deliberate sacrifice of pride in the face of a rival came only with hard-bitten courage to anyone, and only out of an uncompromising sense of justice.  “I must say, I never expected to hear that out of you, my lord,” he marveled, wondering if he dared to smile.

“If Legolas has taken you so into his confidence, so must I,” Thranduil said solemnly, somewhat stiffened by his self-inflicted chastening, no trace of a smile about him.  But with one sidelong glance at Gimli it was not long in coming, try though he did to smother it.  Either that Elvenlord was learning to like him, Gimli decided, or he was merely made more accommodating by the wine, which he had admittedly been consuming very liberally.  Of course, he knew the real trial would come the next morning. 

“I shall be frank with you, Gimli,” Thranduil then admitted quite candidly.  “I am a bit hot-tempered.”

“Is that so?” Gimli replied, as though he would have never guessed it, finding the almost amiable atmosphere a pleasant change. 

“I confess to find it a meager relief that in so many hours I have not yet found grievance with you.  Which is not to say I have not tried.”

“And you expect to?”

“Forgive an anxious father,” Thranduil smiled slyly.  “I shall not have formed my final opinion of you for several days yet.  If there is aught to be leery of, I shall find it out, I assure you.  But keep on as you are, and I shall own myself overmastered, which I have seldom admitted of anyone, I would have you know.”

Gimli felt a sleek form squeeze past his legs, and momentarily a great silver snout appeared sniffing from beneath the tablecloth.  Thranduil lifted the linen to descry the identity of their companion.  “Glirhuin!” he smiled, stroking a notched ear.  “Tolo hí. Come here, my beautiful.”  The wolf came gladly and lay a white paw in his master’s lap as Thranduil fondled his majestic war-scarred head with diminutive Sindarin endearments, the great bushy tail brushing unwittingly across Gimli’s chest. 

“You keep impressive beasts, my lord,” Gimli said, quite honestly.  He still did not feel comfortable around them, though.

“I forgive you your reticence to admire them.”  Thranduil pushed Glirhuin back down, for the hound had almost begun standing in his lap and it was becoming more difficult to evade his tongue.  “They were not bred for docility.  I fear good Glirhuin is not so young as he once was, but he has torn many a Warg in his time,” he said, tracing the long-healed abrasions on that noble face.  “Yes, Glirhuin,” he went on, his voice assuming again the affectionate lilt, though his words were not half so comforting, “you take those curs apart piece by bloody piece!”

The hybrid beast had begun to eye Gimli warily, so the Dwarf exploited a time-honored attempt to win a dog’s favor.  He tossed him a buttered roll, and Glirhuin eagerly snatched it out of the air and wolfed it down.  It seemed to have the desired effect, but Thranduil looked on in mild disapproval.  “We try not to encourage begging at the master’s table,” he said, “but if you must feed him, do so this way.  Glirhuin,” he commanded, “havo.”

Glirhuin sat.

“Mae carnen,” his master commended him as he took another roll in hand and set it carefully upon the wolf’s nose.  “Sedho.” 

Glirhuin held it dutifully, though he panted through his teeth and all his attention was bent upon it.  Gimli knew that bit of bread would die a violent death in a just a moment.  Thranduil released him at last, and Glirhuin gnashed down on his reward with a swift dexterity that would have shamed a viper, white fangs flashing in the starlight.

Legolas rejoined them then, somewhat out of breath but otherwise none the worse for wear.  “Are we getting along?” he inquired.

“Admirably,” Thranduil assured him.  “You have other duties tonight I do not envy.  I shall entertain your guest while everyone else clamors for a piece of you.”

There came a rise of noise from behind them, for the horseback games had moved.  Turning where they sat, Gimli observed one of the mounted lancers gallop down an open track, skillfully catching a small wooden stake on his spear to the applause of his fellows.  The game seemed enormously popular, and every knight and aspiring guardsman was anxious to try his hand at it for the amusement of the ladies.  This, Gimli supposed, was what amounted to Elven jousting.  Less rash danger, but an equal test of skill. 

“An innovation borrowed from the Northmen who once abode near us,” Thranduil explained.  “It has a formal name, but is affectionately known as tent-pegging.”  He turned to Gimli with what could almost have been called a knavish grin.  “It plays lovely havoc in an enemy camp.”

“From the Northmen who became the Éothéod, who became the Rohirrim,” Legolas clarified.  “You see, father, I have learned much while I was away.  Aran Éomer would be pleased to see the games of his people practiced still in the Elvenwood.” 

“The more you speak of him, the more I feel it worth my while to meet him,” Thranduil said, watching as one of his guard took a lance in hand and flew down the track to the cheers of his comrades.  “In fact, I might well consider calling upon Elessar now that he has come into his own.  It will not be forgotten that I taught that boy what real swordsmanship was.”  But Aragorn was quickly forgotten in the face of the gallantry afield.  “Will you try your hand at it, Legolas?  Or has it been so long that you have forgotten?”

Legolas was reluctant to make a spectacle of himself, but his father cajoled him into it in the end.  And nor was Thranduil the only one who was glad to watch their prince prove again his well-earned prowess.  He was given a horse, and the rest was poetry in motion.  Soon even Thranduil insisted upon taking a turn himself, swinging astride a mount of his own and snatching a lance as he passed, still as capable as any of his guard.  The course then became a race, two competitors vying to complete two full passes in the shorter time, the turf churning beneath the thundering hooves that providing a counterpoint of living drums to the festive music. 

Gimli sat his place at table, chuckling to himself as he watched the antics by fire and starlight, content with the food and wine ready to hand.  Glirhuin sat at attention beside him, dutifully attending his master’s guest.  Gimli toyed with the idea of giving him another treat to balance, but he was not sure he had the commands right, and nor did it seem wise to tease the monster alone.

Once roused, Thranduil did not relinquish the field easily, though there was no scarcity of eager contenders willing to try a tilt against their King, and he welcomed them.  Legolas proved the most demanding challenger, and though his father did eventually win the best two out of three, it was not without considerable effort.  Several pairs of ambitious warriors rode against one another for the honor of contending with the reigning champion.  Trained in Thranduil’s school of warfare, they gave admirable accounts of themselves, but few had any hope of displacing him here.  Still, to be trounced by the King was an honor in its own right, and to judge by the smiles all round they would rather have him rollicking among them than sitting majestically aside.  But, wonder of wonders, one canny silvan archer did best him by a handsbreadth.  The crowds of spectators cheered wildly at the unexpected victory, which Thranduil was man enough to admit.

“Na vedui!” he called with a smile, tossing the victor his crown of flowers, which by then had gone loose and a bit lopsided.  “Mae carnen, Tathren!  You will be a captain before the year is out!”

The rest of the evening passed without incident, blurred somewhat to Gimli’s mind, but that he attributed to the wine.  When Thranduil had done with his play, he formally presented Lord Gimli of Aglarond to the populous of his realm, which seemed more eager to welcome back their prince than to take a foreigner into their confidence.  But their King voiced no explicit reservations on his part, which gave many of the Dwarf’s staunchest opponents cause for second thoughts.  There followed a thunderous performance of one of their favored anthems, enough to shake the very trees. 

As the lamps and fires burned low they were not refueled, but instead were allowed to exhaust themselves.  However, that by no means meant the end of the amusements.  These elves could be just as merry in the darkness, by the light of the stars alone. 

More subdued dancing continued amid fair songs to Elbereth, but the greater part of them gathered round the last embers of a large bonfire.  There the lords amused themselves stirring smoke figures of the curling wisps of grey.  The greater ones among them began to glow gently with a light all their own as they brought their influence to bear, conjuring brief and passing images with the power of hand and voice.  Thranduil, out of a steady rhythmic melody formed the unmistakable silhouette of an eagle in flight before it drifted away.  Lady Gwaelin felt ambitious that evening and twisted three tongues out of the rising smoke, braiding them from bottom to top with a rich trill of her voice.

But when it fell to Legolas, he paused a moment in thought.  At last he began in a tune Gimli thought he recognized, though it was more somber now.  Out of the shapeless tendrils of smoke a slender grey ship took distinct form, fading points about it that might have passed for gulls, a subtle gust of night wind carrying it slowly toward Thranduil.

Everyone had fallen silent, for the purport of the gesture was not mistaken.  This was not idle fancy, but a silent request for judgment.  They had feared the cold hand of the Sea had touched their prince in the South, and at that moment it yet remained to the King to either stop that passing ship or let it go.

Thranduil knew well what it meant.  At first he seemed poised to ward it away, to let the spectral image break upon his hand and fade out of thought and mind.  But in the end, he resignedly allowed it to ride unhindered across his palm.

Gimli had never truly heard a crowd sigh, a mixture of sympathy and dashed hopes.  True to the fate of their kind, they had no sooner won their victory than those they cherished most began to slip through their fingers.

By that time, Gimli could hardly keep his eyes open, for midnight was long since gone.  He dimly remembered Legolas gently leading him away, and then little more than nothing.