Gimli woke that morning to pain, only dimly aware of the familiar voice gently calling his name.  Feeling as though there must be a bull raging about in his head, he forced open his eyes to see Legolas standing over him with a smile, accompanied by one of his lackeys. 

“Good morning, Gimli,” he said, annoyingly cheerful.  “We began to wonder if we would see you again before the morrow.”

Gimli groaned irritably and made an unsuccessful effort to sit up.  “Go away, nightmare,” he growled in a singularly groggy voice, eliciting only broader smiles from both Elves.

“Gimli, this is Erelas,” Legolas introduced the other.  “He is now empowered to look after you when I cannot.”

“You will excuse me if I am not gracious.”

Legolas smirked and turned aside to prattle a few Elvish directives to Erelas, who gave a smart bow and turned from the room.  “Come now, but slowly,” he beckoned when the other had gone.  “If you insist upon lying abed all day, you can have no fun with us.”  He took the Dwarf by the hand and helped pull him upright. 

“Ooo, even my hair hurts!” Gimli groaned, putting an ineffectual hand to his head.  “How did you get away with it?  I could swear I took no more than you.”

“Perhaps not,” Legolas said, leaving him to sit up in bed as he took a seat there at the bedside table.  “But I was raised upon it.  I meant to warn you.”  He smiled, but Gimli saw no humor.  In fact, he saw very little of anything.

Erelas returned then, bearing a laden tray.  Legolas thanked him pleasantly as he set it down before him. Erelas had a few more questions which Legolas answered, apparently not entirely to his satisfaction.  But then he left them alone.

The exchange had meant nothing to Gimli, nor did he care.  He watched through squinted eyes as Legolas set about utilizing what had come on the tray.  It looked like a stout glass of milk to his eyes, with two round brown . . .

“Boiled eggs?” he asked.

“No,” Legolas answered matter-of-factly, cracking first one and then the other into the glass, deftly stirring it all with a long silver spoon.  Gimli felt he would be sick.  “I have not even made you taste it yet, and already you go white as a sheet!  It is not so bad as all that.” 

“What is that noise?” Gimli groaned instead, hearing those incessant voices drifting again through the halls.

“Noise?” Legolas asked with an arch of his brow, looking a trifle offended.  He returned his attention to the task at hand, the clinkety-clink of spoon on glass almost as painfully annoying as the chanting outside.  But worse, Gimli’s comments had seemingly drawn the Elf’s mind to it, making it simply impossible for him to refrain from humming the tune himself.  

“Here, now,” Legolas said at last, tapping the spoon on the rim before setting it down on the napkin.  “Trust me, you will be glad later to have taken it.”

“I don’t want it,” Gimli insisted stubbornly.  “You expect me to drink that?  If you do, you are mistaken.”

Legolas was undeterred, facing his friend as he would an obstinate child who refuses to accept his medicine.  “I could have Erelas bring a straw, if you like, so I may force it between your teeth.  Or shall I pry you open with the spoon?”

Gimli gave no answer, merely glowered, crossing his arms adamantly over the bedding.

Legolas loosed a terse sigh, his dark brows low and even.  “Thranduil doubted you would have the stomach for it.  Am I to tell him he was correct?”

Oh, that was hitting below the belt.  What was he to do in the face of an open challenge from the Elvenking?  He might as well have been called a mollycoddle to his face.  Well, if Thranduil could stand runny eggs, then Gimli son of Glóin could stand runny eggs.

“Give it to me.”

It was indeed an unpleasant experience, but somehow he managed to refrain from bringing it all back up again.  Ha! he thought triumphantly, even as he struggled not to be sick. 

“The Sun smiles upon us today, Gimli,” Legolas said, relieving him of the empty glass.  “Many of us are gathering down at the river to bathe the horses before the first frost.  Will you come?  We would very much like to have you.”

His vision was clearing by this point, but he knew not whether to attribute that to time or to Legolas’ strange cure.  Perhaps there had been more in it than just milk and eggs.  He glanced askance at the Elf, grateful he could trust him as he did, but finding his current dependence upon him a bit disconcerting.  It would have been so simple for someone – Erelas, perhaps – to slip something less desirable to him, to end his days swiftly and painlessly.  Or worse, to forestall until the full effect would take him in Erebor.  But this was all ridiculous; Legolas knew them better than he, and they would not dare flout the decree of their King.  Would they?

Legolas regarded him passively, leaving him to his thoughts for the moment, awaiting his answer.  His braid fleetingly reminded Gimli of the ropes of woven gold wrought by the Faerie-kings of legend, perhaps not so far from the truth if the Elves gave their hair for bowstrings.  Even Thranduil, perhaps?  It was strange to imagine the probable origins of tales as old as those beginning with these beings who still dwelt whole and hale in the world.  It was enough to skew anyone’s practical sense of time to speak with a living legend from the realm of nursery rhyme.

“Horses?” he asked at last.

“You need not handle one,” Legolas assured him.  “You may sit by and observe if you like.  But I would enjoy your company.”

So earnest, so considerate.  He could hardly refuse.  “I suppose it would be better than idling around here all day,” he grumbled, enough to inspire a brilliant smile on the Elf. 

Powers preserve him – what had he got himself into now?

Soon they were both mounted upon Arod, riding at a slow and easy pace to the appointed bend in the river, a pace inspired more out of regard for Gimli’s lingering headache than concern for the horse.  Arod had no right idea where they were going, so he was docile beneath Legolas’ directives, following the shaded forest paths with the smooth gait cultivated by the Rohirrim. 

Autumn was indeed near at hand, the leaves of the wood already tinged with hints of the brilliant colors to come, the crisp song of cardinals in the air.  Even so, the day was unseasonably warm, which Gimli supposed had inspired the Elves to call this event at the river.  He would wager they had never wasted a clear day in their lives.  And once his eyes had accustomed themselves to the light, it was somehow not at all unpleasant to be out on horseback in the clear open air.  Arod reached aside to snatch a fallen apple in his teeth, but was forced to drop it after the first bite.  Legolas laughed and assured him there would be plenty gathered to sustain him that winter.

Gradually other sounds came to Gimli’s attention, splashing, laughing, whinnying – mostly the glad crashing of horses through water.  In a moment he saw why.  There in a sparsely wooded clearing where the river bent in a branching detour from its main course, where the current was yet swift but not so strong as the full flow, scores of Elves had gathered with just as many horses, all of them going shirtless and frolicking in the deep water, sending up terrific splashes as they did so.  There was the occasional diligent one who actually did employ soap and brush, but that was hastily done so he and his mount could hold their own against the caprices of their fellows.  There was altogether more play than work going on.

Legolas was greeted by several of his companions who quickly glanced up from their games to acknowledge him.  Protocol was generally suspended for holidays like this.  Briefly, as Legolas drew Arod to a halt at the nearest embankment and surreptitiously helped him down, Gimli felt he now knew what it was like to be a sparrow at a bird bath dominated by robins.  It seemed there was no water near that had not already been whipped into a bubbling froth, calming only to have yet another stampede go cavorting through it.  Still, things seemed a trifle more staid here at this end, and he soon discovered why.

“Suilad na vedui, Legolas.  And a good afternoon to you, Lord Gimli,” Thranduil greeted them from where he stood chest-deep in the steady current, the dark head and proudly arched neck all that could be seen beside him of Maethor his steed.  If the Elvenking was surprised to see him, Gimli had to admit he hid it well.  “I see Legolas at last badgered you into joining us.”

“I did no such thing,” Legolas returned before Gimli could say a word, shedding his shirt and boots.  “I merely asked and he accepted.”

Thranduil leveled a sly look upon Gimli with a barely discernible shake of his head as if to assure him that he knew better, regardless of what Legolas would say.  Plainly he had also been cornered by several of his son’s innocent requests.

Legolas coaxed Arod into the river, and was summarily swept away into the general splashing confusion.  The Rohirric horse was unsure of himself at first, but quickly found his footing and was eager to socialize with his newfound stablemates.  Gimli stayed where he was; there was no way he would get involved in all that, but since Thranduil’s presence acted as a gentle damper on the rowdiness he was content simply to sit by on an outcropping of rock and let his feet drift in the swirling river.  He was dimly aware of a few condescending glances from certain Elves about, but none ventured to say a word if the King did not first manifest his own disapproval.

For himself, Thranduil waded into the gravelly shallows, his great stallion following as dutifully as a hound.  The sun glinted off the diamonds studding the black leather of his belt as he emerged from the water, the only deliberate mark of royalty Gimli could descry upon him, and indeed naught else was needed.  There he set about brushing most of the water from Maethor’s dark and gleaming coat, slinging sparkling droplets aside with each firm stroke, giving little or no heed to the rampant ruckus behind him.  Even Gimli, who was not known for an abiding interest in horses, had to admire the beast.  Like his master, Maethor carried not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him, sleek and well-muscled, obviously trained in many disciplines.  The fact that this made him a beautiful thing was only of secondary importance. 

Content not to be noticed until the whole outlandish thing was concluded, Gimli was somewhat surprised when Thranduil glanced aside to him with what could almost have been the beginnings of a smile, still currying wet tangles out of the silken black tail.  He was still curious, it seemed, carefully preparing his final opinion, and unconcerned if the object of his interest was aware of his scrutiny.  “You realize, of course,” he said, with even a glint of wry humor in his eyes, “that this is but an exercise in futility.”

“My lord?”

Thranduil shook his head as if to say he would understand in time, and returned to his grooming.  “Do you mind my company, Gimli?” he asked then, taking him at unawares.

“No,” he said immediately, only to wonder that such an answer had come so quickly and surely from his mouth.  Yet he admitted it was true, little though he would have believed it only two days ago.  Ordinarily such a question would have been justified the other way round, for it was Thranduil who was empowered to crack the whip here.  Of what concern were Dwarvish sensibilities to him, much less individual preference?  But he could see Thranduil was pleased with his answer, recognizing that it had been inspired by neither intimidation nor the obscure evil of political flattery. 

“I am pleased to hear it,” he said, running the smoothed tail through his fingers.  “That simple word from you ultimately says more than any other could.”  He looked up and lay a strong but fond hand on Maethor’s rump.  “Like a horse, you are no flatterer; the noble beast will throw a king as soon as his groom.” 

Gimli found his lurking grin a bit contagious.  He could not recall having been compared to a horse before, but it seemed complimentary in the circumstances.  Legolas’ father had a talent for saying nice things in strange ways.  Thranduil dealt Maethor a gentle slap on the rump, the massive beast trotting away into the field with a glad squeal to join several other loosed mounts where he immediately sank to his knees in the grass and began rolling, effectively nullifying all the work Thranduil had put into his grooming.  

The Elvenking returned to the water, sitting contentedly across from Gimli against another out-thrust rock in the shallows, letting the current sweep past him.  At that moment he was strangely no less a king than before, even though stripped of his regalia and sitting in the river like a dog in the height of summer. 

But idyllic as it was, it could not last.  Another crashing, splashing crowd rounded the bend, unwittingly drenching Gimli ere he could move and inspiring an indignant outburst from Thranduil, though the edge in his voice was blunted with laughter.  “Legolas!” he shouted in complaint, drawing himself up against the rock behind him to avoid the onrush of flying hooves and white water.  “Do you wish to crush me?”

That brought them to a quick halt, agitating the water further.  Gimli sputtered and cleared his eyes, only to hear another bright peal of laughter.  “Something tells me you are all wet, friend Gimli!” came Calenmir’s voice.

“Nor is he the only one,” Thranduil sedately reminded them from his corner in the shallows, the sheen on his hair dulled again by the unsolicited deluge, for he had been wholly drowned in the last swell of a wave.  He looked like a wet cat, but somehow regal still. 

“My apologies, father,” Legolas offered from Arod’s sodden back, valiantly biting back whatever urge to laugh had come upon him.  “I did not see you there.  And Gimli . . .”  Here he did sputter despite his best efforts to the contrary.  “Yes, I am afraid you are all wet!”

It hardly mattered, for every one of them was wet.  Luinar declined to comment, though he seemed grimly satisfied with the mishap visited upon the Dwarf.  He and Calenmir went on with their apologies to their King, who carelessly waved them away.  Legolas dismounted into the river and set Arod loose to tramp to the shore, who only showered them again as he shook the clinging water from his silver coat before joining his comrades afield.

Wordlessly, Thranduil wiped a trailing droplet from his brow, forgiving the foreign horse his uncouth manner and enduring the last indignity in magnanimous silence. 

Legolas crouched there in a position midway between his father and Gimli, comfortably heedless of the onward flow of the river about his waist.  “I am sorry,” he said at last with smile as Gimli wrung out his beard.

“Oh, never mind it,” Gimli.  “I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later.”  In truth it was not so humiliating as it would have been had Thranduil not suffered the same.  As it was, it seemed the Elvenking had fared worse than he, though better prepared.  This was certainly not how he had ever imagined keeping the company of the Green Wolf, which ranked among the more flattering epithets attributed him in certain Dwarvish circles.  The White Devil was another, the Fox, that Incubus of the Wood, and some other less creative epithets he would just as soon forget now.  

With Legolas and Thranduil engaged for a moment in soft conversation for their ears only, a dark and subtle motion caught his eye just beneath the shimmering surface of the water.  Feeling it slip cold and smooth around his feet, he knew well what it was.  Intrigued, Gimli reached down to snatch it as it passed, careful to take the long reptilian ribbon just behind the head.  The sunlight gleamed brilliantly upon its dark writhing back as he brought it up to curl around his wrist like living rope, forked tongue flicking in and out erratically.

Legolas turned with a short yelp.  “Gimli, what have you – ?”

With an abrupt roar of disturbed water, Thranduil sprang clear of the river and had his feet under him in a feral crouch upon the bank.

“Be still, father,” Legolas admonished, though he seemed just a bit put off by the slithery creature as well.  “You will disturb him.”

“I disturb him!” Thranduil returned incredulously, obviously with no intention of reentering snake-infested waters. 

Gimli laughed wryly, enjoying some unexpected pleasure at the Elvenking’s expense.  Quite unintentionally, it seemed he had stumbled upon Thranduil’s weak point.  He knew he shouldn’t, but somehow he just could not resist letting his captive slither purposefully from one arm to the other, just to make that great feline warrior squirm.  

Thranduil stood, regaining somewhat of his ruffled dignity.  “Gimli,” he said at last, “when at last you have done playing with that, I have something I would discuss with you.  You and your kin may yet be of some use to us.”

“Certainly, my lord,” Gimli said, his curiosity piqued.  “I shall listen if you would speak your desire.”

“Speak?” Thranduil asked.  “Come; I shall show you.”

When all of them were dressed again, Gimli followed as Thranduil led him into the echoing deep places of his halls.  Here the torchlight danced brightly across the walls, bare and unadorned in comparison to the great corridors above.  The bustling crowd of silvan servants and other assorted members of the household parted at once, practically falling over themselves to make way for their King.  It was not particularly unusual to see Thranduil descend to their levels, but this was different. 

“There,” he said at last, stopping at the riverside and pointing down the length of the outbound cavern.  “The war left our portcullis in some need of repair.”

Legolas hissed, for he had not been down since his return.  “Gah!  What foul craft of Orodruin was this?  The same that took the Deeping Wall, if at least my nose does not deceive me.”

Gimli did not know what it should have looked like, but he knew a mess when he saw one.  And even he could smell the acrid traces left from the blast.  He might have asked what portcullis Thranduil meant, for there was nothing discernible left.  The rubble had been built up into an impromptu gate with room enough to allow the river its course, but if his father’s tales be true, such an immovable handicap must have wreaked havoc with their method of shipping.  The streaks of black had been scoured away as well as they might, but the faint stains of the blast still marred the walls, like echoes of the chaos gone before. 

For a time Gimli took his careful measure of the project, considering the work and logistics it would require.  Stonework and metallurgy of course, together with a new system of draw ropes.  The cavern itself must be shored up again.  There would be much involved, but still it was not in the end a difficult project.  Moreover, he was rather pleased with the thought of adorning Thranduil’s realm with a stamp of sturdy Dwarvishness. 

“Yes, my lord,” he said at last.  “If such is your wish, we of Erebor shall lend you our skill.  But,” he maintained, “every Dwarf has his price.”

Thranduil smiled, though the expression was now without warmth.  “So have I,” he said, producing an exquisite emerald the size of a plover’s egg, of a rare dark hue that seemed to reflect his eyes.  Appraising it in his own hand, Gimli saw that it had been skillfully cut so that if one looked into the face of it he would see within a six-pointed star.  It was no paltry gift, and an admirable first payment. 

Masked in the guise of cold-blooded business, Thranduil was offering Erebor his renewed favor.  And here Gimli felt he had been employed to forge more than just gates. 

One foundation of the bridge had been rebuilt.  It remained now for him to see the other laid.