The next day dawned fair and clear, with the unmistakably crisp scent of autumn about it.  The sun shone down full upon the grassy plain, where could be seen two charmingly mismatched riders who had chosen to avoid the well-trodden road between Dale and Erebor.

Gimli shifted in the saddle, astride a patient and sturdy pony given him by a man of the city in payment of a standing debt owed to Glóin of the Mountain.  Providence had brought the name to his memory, and the matter was now settled to the satisfaction of all, but he still could not help but wonder how his father would consider the bargain.  In any event, she was a good solid little horse, strong enough to carry both her rider and their packs as she plodded along.  There seemed no hurry in her nature at all.

Legolas rode beside him, handsomely mounted on a young white stallion bearing subtle touches of silver reminiscent of Arod; a worthy beast hired from a boy of the Bardings.  Though somewhat awed by the Elven prince who had taken a fancy to his horse, the youth had relented only when Legolas had assured him the steed would be duly returned and given the utmost care in his charge.  Already the Elf seemed to regard the horse as the beloved pet it was, giving commands as soft as thistledown, not nearly so firm as Gimli thought he ought to be.

Growing somewhat apprehensive of the meeting to come, he glanced aside at his companion prancing about beside him, the horse made restless by the slow and steady pace of the pony.  Legolas certainly looked impressive enough in the same green and silver, burgundy and brown.  The Sereguren lay easily over his shoulders, gleaming sharply from a hundred silver leaf points that scattered light like dew.  That had doubtless been his father’s touch.  He looked indeed like something from the royal heart of Greenwood, and therefore Gimli realized he must look the same himself.  But that could very well be the least of his worries. 

At last they surmounted the gently rolling bluff that was the demarcation of the inmost valley of Erebor in the glorious light of the mid-morning sun.  The mountain loomed before them on almost every side, grand and inescapable, beautiful to Gimli’s eyes.  Word had gone before them, and already there could be seen movement about the gates.

“You go on, Gimli,” Legolas said, pulling the horse to a halt in the rippling grass as he observed what lay before them.  “I shall wait until they see fit to receive me.”

“Very well, lad,” Gimli consented, in no position to argue yet.  “Don’t go anywhere; I shan’t keep you waiting long.”  So saying, he beat his heels against his pony’s flanks and spurred her into a jag-paced trot, leaving Legolas to stand behind.

It took a bit of time, but as he neared the bridge over the winding river there came the brazen yell of trumpets and the throaty cheering of the guard and heralds, welcoming him home.  Then from the mouth of the gates there came a veritable outpouring of jolly faces, among them his own father and mother, and the entourage of King Thorin.

“Gimli!” Glóin clapped him on the back as he dismounted there among them.  “It has been too long!  Welcome home, welcome home!”

“Good day to you, son,” smiled Lady Káli as she swept him into a brief and fierce embrace.  “Shame upon you for tarrying so long.”  Gimli returned her endearments, though he wondered anew how Legolas would regard her.  At least she had condescended to wear a sort of gown for the occasion, a heavy thing of uncompromisingly practical cut, of a deep wine-red hue generously spangled with gold.   

“Well met again, son of Erebor!” King Thorin welcomed him with open arms, his gem-encrusted robes glinting in the sun as did the jeweled stays in his sandy-colored beard, perhaps the nearest to blond the Dwarves could boast.  “But how is it that you come dressed as a prince from war and victory in the South?  It is gratifying to see the honor King Elessar has shown to our kin.”

“It is, my lord,” Gimli concurred, bowing low before him, inwardly bracing himself.  “Elessar is a worthy friend.  But my path has led me through the Greenwood, and if I am nobly attired it is to the munificence of the Elvenking that gratitude is owed.” 

“So, Thranduil received you honorably!”  Thorin was smugly satisfied, twisting the end of his forked beard at his belt as he heard the account, though a murmur swept through the crowd and there were dark looks scattered about.  “That is grand, though indeed I expected no less of him.  Still, there are those among us who yet doubt the Elvenking’s goodwill,” he continued, raising his voice in general admonition.  The offenders knew who they were.  “Perhaps this will at last convince them otherwise.  But come, Gimli; you are wearied from your journey, and tonight these halls of stone shall resound with merriment.”

“Glad tidings, indeed, my lord,” Gimli said with another bow, for they were, but he was not yet in a position to appreciate them fully.  “But if I may be so bold, an honored friend and companion has accompanied me.  He waits yonder for leave to approach the King Under the Mountain.”

By now Lady Káli had already caught a glimpse of him.  “Who is that?” she asked with a terse grunt, slapping her son on the shoulder and pointing.

Gimli looked back and could indeed see Legolas as he waited atop the bluff, a distant but regal figure of windswept green and burgundy with flashing white, now and then touched by the brief glint of silver in the morning sun.  “He is Legolas, the son of Thranduil,” he said, “Elven-prince of the Greenwood.”

“What’s he want?” Glóin demanded gruffly before Thorin could say a word. 

“He doesn’t want anything,” Gimli returned.  “He comes out of courtesy.”

“And I shall receive him with such, and with the honor that is his due,” Thorin decreed, pursing his lips thoughtfully.  “Legolas is ever welcome in my halls, so long as memory endures of the goodwill that flourished between his house and that of Dáin my father.  It shall not be said of Thorin Stonehelm in the first years of his reign that he flouted the heir of Thranduil.  Let him approach.” 

Gimli turned and gave Legolas a wave.  His trust in Elvish eyesight was not in vain, for the Elf immediately sent his horse into a gliding gallop into the valley.  Gimli felt all eyes watch him come, particularly his parents and King Thorin, the muffled beat of approaching hooves now the only sound.  The expectation was palpable.

Only a short time had passed since he had left him there on the rise, but as Legolas drew nearer them and dismounted smoothly in the autumn winds, Gimli already knew there to be a change in him.  Gimli looked on him as his kinsmen did, and saw that Legolas was courteous as ever, but closed.  His expressive eyes were hard, inscrutable, his manner firmly demanding as much deference as he gave, carrying himself with the ageless dignity expected of a lord of the elder race.  A covert glimpse toward Thorin revealed that the Dwarvish King arched a strong brow in silent admiration, and so Gimli recognized the wisdom in this departure from the self-effacing Elf he had known.  Legolas would not fawn for their approval and thus earn only their contempt.  There would be no lasting peace but among equals.

The similarity of their attire was not lost upon anyone, least of all upon Glóin and Káli.  

“The warmest regards to you, Legolas son of Thranduil,” Thorin welcomed him with a half bow, a dignity that Legolas returned in perfect form.  “Well met and welcome.  Many have been the years since we were honored to receive the intrepid sovereigns of the Greenwood.  Regardless of the past friendship that has blessed relations between our realms, one of our own has been nobly attended by your house.  I place mine now at your disposal in payment of his debt.”

Solemn words, and grand, worthy a Dwarvish Lord.  Even so, they did not sit well with many present.  Gimli knew the animosity toward the Elves of Greenwood festered still beneath Thorin’s pleasantries.  Here was a prince – the flesh and blood of the infamous Elvenking himself – who had once condoned the capture and imprisonment of their kin.  Bonds did not sit lightly upon the Dwarvish race, and the memory burned. 

Legolas smiled, though the once innocent expression now manifested much of Thranduil’s vivid edge, his eyes the same fell gleam.  Gimli did not like it, this eerily complete throwback to the father.  And what was more, the ease with which he wore the guise was chilling.  “It is a debt we would freely forgive, my lord Thorin, for the pleasure it brought us,” he said.  “Gimli distinguished himself well in the shifting tides of war, and if all the defenders of Erebor are like to him, I do not wonder at your mastery of the hosts of the East.”

Thorin returned the regal smile, though Gimli could see he was positively beaming inside.  “And so the Fair Ones of the Wood remain fair-spoken as well,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt, his many rings sparkling green and red and blue, the same as the jeweled ax adorning his hip.  “Welcome to Erebor, my lord.  I rejoice to receive you.  You are already known to Lord Glóin, I presume.”        

“Our paths have crossed before, yes.”  Legolas turned his penetrating gaze upon him, and Gimli felt his father stiffen.  “It is my hope that in days to come they shall cross more often, and gladly.  The friendship of so venerable a lord is not to be spurned.”

Venerable.  Gimli appreciated his outspoken regard for the proud old dwarf, though Legolas was still uncounted years the elder.  He had not changed so much after all. 

“And beside him stands the Lady Káli, his capable wife.” 

Capable, yes.  But she was a firebrand, Gimli knew, and Glóin’s prejudices had rubbed off on her in their telling over the years.  He cringed inwardly to imagine the time Legolas would have taming her if he did not orchestrate his efforts effectively.  Already she had bristled on her husband’s behalf, drawing herself up as though in battle array.  Or could her hostility be inspired also by a strain of the same parental jealousy that had initially beset Thranduil?

“Well, Prince Legolas,” she said, in an unmistakably scornful tone, standing like a grizzled she-bear before an elegant stag, “this is indeed an honor.”

"Well met, Lady Káli of Erebor," Legolas replied with a gallant bow.  “The honor is mine.”

Even Gimli noticed that Legolas was deliberately laying on the charm a bit thicker than usual, his face as beautifully guileless as ever.  Lady Káli seemed to hesitate at that, as though the Elf’s gallantry had stricken her sarcasm cleanly across the knees.  She blinked after a long moment, staring rather ill-manneredly as though she were appraising a beautiful horse and yet could not account for his behavior or find fault where she looked for it.  She seemed undecided whether to apologize for her incivility or to scoff that he was too naive to understand her meaning.  Glóin still said nothing. 

“Come, come!” Thorin said at last, clapping his great hands for attention.  “Take charge of the horses!  Bring their effects!  Follow me, my lord; follow me.”

The King turned to lead his guest into his domain, his entourage following obediently even if not entirely satisfied.  Gimli saw Legolas pause a moment, glancing back to the rippling grass of the plain as if reluctant to abandon the world of sunlight.  Gimli met his gaze as he turned back, and lo and behold, it was only Legolas who stood there, the same he had known from Rivendell and beyond to the ends of the earth as it seemed.  The self-assured severity had gone, leaving only the kind-hearted friend he remembered, though he seemed rather nervous now.  Feeling a swell of the old amiable affection, Gimli beckoned encouragingly as he had at Aglarond.  And with a deep breath, Legolas again turned his back upon the world he knew, and consigned himself to Erebor’s dominion.