Legolas glanced around his quarters, taking in what were to be his surroundings for the next several days.  His Dwarvish attendants had left him with hardly a word, neither party craving the company of the other.  But now at least he was left a few moments to himself to pull himself together again before facing any of them.

It was a room he would imagine to be typical of a Dwarvish lord, furnished with sturdily built fixtures, carven walls and bold draperies.  He sat down on the side of the low-standing bed, elegantly covered with the pelt of a snow leopard.  The size of everything would require some adaption on his part, he thought.  Even so, the bed was not intolerably small.  As his father had often said, the Dwarves were obviously big folk at heart.

With a sigh, Legolas loosed the hidden clasp at the shoulder of the Sereguren, letting the brilliant glimmering mithril slide off of him like a serpent.  He stowed it inside a drawer in the bedside table along with the satchel of Thranduil’s gifts for Thorin, unconcerned.  He would not have worn the bauble at all but for his father’s explicit request, for Thranduil knew how such would impress Dwarvish kind.  Still, there was only one bit of mithril he would not be parted with, and all else was to his mind superfluous.

Folding his legs under him on the bed, Legolas turned his ring nervously on his finger, succumbing to the insidious worry that gnawed at the fringes of his mind now that he had successfully passed the point of no return.  He hoped he had managed to make a good impression as his father would have had him do, but in truth he had no idea how to handle such people!  Dwarvish eyes were difficult to read, so wary and suspicious.  In the depths of this mountain he already felt awfully alone with Gimli elsewhere, though he did his best to squelch the first twinges of homesickness along with the same dreadful crushing sensation that had plagued him in Moria.  He would endure for Gimli’s sake, remembering the promise he had already made him in Lasgalen. 

He had not forgotten what Gimli had said once about his mother’s noted resemblance in temperament to Thranduil.  He had kept that candid observation very much in mind, and had approached the formidable lady accordingly, but he had yet to see what would become of it.  He must admit to himself that to his eyes Dwarvish women were indeed hideous by feminine terms, and would be easily mistaken for the opposite gender by untrained eyes.  He must train his own quickly.  But even as disconcerting as it was, he was determined that she would never know his true heart until he succeeded in correcting it.  And he did intend to try.  If beauty was only skin deep, the same must be true in the opposing case.  Yes?

He stood and paced for a time, regaining his composure in expectation of the civil confrontations yet to come.  He had not mistaken Glóin’s silence.  Somehow that unnerved him more than bitter words would have.  Laying a hand against a wall, he found it to be cold and lifeless, as he had expected.  The lord of these halls was obliging enough, but even the mountain itself did not yet welcome him.  Already he felt he was starved for growing things, like a tree deprived of sunlight, but he endeavored not to dwell upon it.  The halls of Erebor were different from the untamed caverns of Aglarond, and eighty years of Dwarves could not completely efface two centuries of Dragon.  There were many tastes upon the air here, and none especially pleasant. 

Slipping off his boots, Legolas returned to his cross-legged seat on the bed in the shadowy light, letting his windblown hair down from its plaits with idle fingers, a nervous habit that had tenaciously survived his childhood.  He recalled the parting advice his father had given him, considered the challenges that remained for him to surmount on his own.  Somehow it became a very lonely moment.

But it was a moment soon shattered by a heavy but succinct rap on his door, which had been left ajar.  Raps were by no means voiceless, and this one had asserted the air of staid demand.  At first he dared to hope it was Gimli as he rose again to his feet, though he had not recognized the tread.  Perhaps he had expected Thorin, or perhaps even Glóin come to rake him over the coals. 

But Erebor would prove full of surprises.

“My lord,” Lady Káli began gruffly with a bit of a stout bow as Legolas resisted the temptation to stiffen in expectation of he knew not what.  It may have been his imagining, but she seemed almost polite.  She was curious at the very least; that much was plain, especially if the universal complexities of the feminine mind were applicable to her kind.  Very well, Legolas chose to indulge her.  He had intended to bore his way into this closed-minded fortress that was Gimli’s family, but he had never imagined the door would be held open to him.  Was this the proverbial chink in their armor?

“Lady Káli,” he returned with a slight but courteous bow of his own, warily governing his expression until he knew her purpose.

She did not answer for a time, but there was nothing awkward in her silence.  She would speak when she chose to speak.  For now she seemed content to look him over again, and strangely Legolas felt no desire to contest this unspoken maternal privilege, even if he thought the moment less than opportune now that she had caught him barefoot with his hair loosed.

“The room is satisfactory?” she asked at last.  Perhaps she meant to sound conversational, but there was something about her tone that indicated there was indeed a right and a wrong answer to her inquiry. 

“Quite,” he decided, allowing himself a shade of a smile.  She was strangely endearing when she was not out for his blood; rough, but with an charisma all her own he was at a loss to name.  Given a moment he could recognize her influence on her son, for there was much of Gimli in her manner.  “I do not ask that anyone be put to unnecessary expense on my account.” 

“Good of you,” she nodded firmly, as though granting him the initial stamp of approval.  Legolas hardly dared imagine what sort of indelible stigma he would have earned for himself otherwise.

Words did not pass easily between them.  As uncomfortable silence settled upon them again – uncomfortable so far as Legolas was concerned – she looked at him long and hard with the critical eye of a jealous mother.  Legolas endured without complaint, knowing Gimli had fared worse beneath Thranduil’s paternal inquisition.  He tried valiantly not to stare in return, though it was an intense inner battle.  But after a time the redoubtable Dwarvish lady pursed her generous lips and seemed to nod to herself.  He had no right idea what conclusion she had come to, but he dared to hope it was a favorable one.

“Long hours pass wearily alone in a strange place, Master Legolas,” she said, drawing herself up self-importantly with a thumb hooked rakishly in her belt.  Fashioned of gold-studded leather, it was too sturdy to be called a girdle.  “Come, if it please you.  Put your boots on and I shall show you the Mountain.”

Clad in a favorite old robe with a flask in hand, Gimli strolled barefoot across the stone floors of his father’s spacious chambers, humming a jaunty old ballad to himself as he headed toward the steaming bath two of his father’s young attendants had readied at his request.  They watched him incredulously, wondering if this was indeed the same Gimli they had known before the war.  He stopped, noticing their vacant stares.  “Get out of here!  I don’t need any witnesses!” he barked, waving them off with kindred good-humor.  They left, and gladly, likely to go tell the tale the length and breadth of Erebor.

But Gimli was beyond caring.  This, he had to admit, was one somewhat Elvish habit that he had discovered to be strangely pleasant.  Tossing his flask into the water with a gratifying splash, he climbed into the great stone basin himself, robe and all.

Glóin returned before long from speaking with the King.  From the look on his face, his protest had fallen upon contrary ears, as expected.  “What are you doing?” he demanded gruffly of his son.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” Gimli returned, catching the bobbing flask and pulling the stopper.  “I wager it would smell a mite grander around this place if we used this thing more often.”

“I worry, you know,” Glóin went on warily, ignoring the comment.  “In my experience most Elves are alike, Wood-elves most of all.  What has suddenly given them such grand stature in your eyes?”

“You do not know Legolas,” was Gimli’s sober answer, all banter aside.  “You have never wished to.  Were it asked of me, I would trust that Elf with my life.  More than that, I would trust him with the lives of my kin.  And more than that, I would trust him with the life of the Mountain.”  He popped the cork back on, turning the flask loose again to bob around the confines of the tub.  He ignored the ever-worsening expression of his white-bearded father as he continued in the utterance of what amounted to heresy within Glóin’s house.  “Thranduil is a worthy ally, and a fearsome foe.  Why should we spurn him?  And by the wayside, Thranduil also wishes his portcullis reforged.  And Éomer of Rohan has granted me the Glittering Caverns – ”

“Can’t you hear them whispering?!” Glóin shouted at last in desperation, effectively silencing Gimli’s rambling.  “Alliances are to be endured, the cold business of kings.  But of this I have not seen or dreamt the like before!  Look at you!  You have been too long among the álfar already.  I shudder to think by what craven means this particular one has won you over to him, a kin of giggling beribboned fools – !”

“This Elf is above reproach!” Gimli thundered, sitting bolt upright with an angry splash.  Even he was surprised at his vehemence, perhaps because the old term ‘álfr’ connoted more credence than was tasteful to the old legends of double-dealing and trickery.  To attribute such slander to Legolas was now intolerable.  “Thorin Oakenshield himself was reconciled with Thranduil in the end.  Is that not enough?  Would you have the Elvenking come himself to plead your pardon on his knees?  Or is it that you fear him?”

That was a deliberate barb, and Glóin received it as such.  His countenance darkened terribly as he tugged sharply at the chain of gold behind his beard, sending sparks of light from his sapphire medallion.  “We owe him nothing,” he maintained.

“Oh, do we not?”  By this time Gimli had thrown caution to the wind, as often happened when he and his father chanced to quarrel.  And he had seen a thing or two since he had left home.  “Do you imagine the Mountain could have outlasted the war had not Thranduil borne the brunt of the army that marched upon your flank?  The Mountain stands by the valor of Thranduil as much as Thranduil himself stands by the valor of the Mountain.  How long will you choke on an empty grudge?”

“Empty!” Glóin protested, his weathered face reddening, drawing himself up until he seemed fit to burst.  “So, the wrongs of your father’s house now mean nothing to you!  Fie!  The conceit of the Wood runs deeper even than I knew!  Had I imagined such insidious sentiments would infest your mind while on errantry, I – I – ” He trailed off rather abruptly, and Gimli, who had been dourly prepared to meet the rest of his harangue, was not certain at first if this hesitation was brought on by stray thought or the palpitation of an old and heated heart.  It did happen sometimes, now that his father was aging, that his mind lost its way for a moment, usually while under stress like this.

“Yes?” he prompted at last, hardly daring to hope the argument could be postponed.  He needed to get back to Legolas soon.

“What was that you said of Éomer some time ago?” his father asked at last, thick brows lowered thoughtfully.

Inwardly Gimli gave a sigh of relief, thankful for the agreeable change of subject.  Nothing would be gained by shouting, no matter how often they tried it, and he had begun to think his lure had failed.  “The King of Rohan has granted to me lordship of the Glittering Caves,” he said, sitting back with a cocksure grin.

“It is a worthy grant?”

“If Balin had known such unspoilt grandeur yet existed,” Gimli said solemnly, “he would not have not thought the forsaken depths of Moria to be worth his effort.”

The gleam he had come to know so well showed itself again in his father’s worn but clear eyes, and he knew he had successfully distracted his brooding mind from the Elf in their midst, at least for that moment.  Glóin was silent for a long while as visions of glimmering walls and stately pillared halls danced before his eyes.  He nodded smartly, hands on his stout hips.  “Good boy,” he commended him simply, including so much in those two brief words.  He left, murmuring gladly to himself, and Gimli was thankful now to see him go.  Legolas had flown from his father’s mind like morning mist before the sun, but he would remember shortly.  Very shortly.  And Gimli resolved to be prepared when he did.

Legolas followed obediently, as was obviously expected of him.  Káli had shown him several of the more sparsely populated sights of Erebor, for she seemed inclined still to shun great crowds while in his company, a goal they could both appreciate even if for slightly different reasons.  Now she had taken him to the very heart of the mountain, to the tombs of kings past. 

Two candles flickered in lonely vigil beside two great stone coffins, adorned with bold runes in the enigmatic Dwarf tongue.  As a mausoleum in the dark center of a cavern, it was one place Legolas would have been loath to visit of his own initiative, but he had promised himself a timely tribute to their fallen ally when he chanced to pass.  Now seemed as good a time as any.

“Here lies Thorin Oakenshield and Dáin Ironfoot, Kings Under the Mountain,” Káli told him, her heavy voice resounding about the chamber with a dead air.  “There still lies the sword Orcrist, where it was lain by the hand of the Elvenking.”

“Yes,” Legolas said softly.  “I remember.”

Quietly he advanced on the twin tombs.  Standing over Thorin’s, he dared to run his feather-light touch over the distinctly Elvish contours of the famed sword, the same his father had lain there decades before after the Battle of Dale.  The blade was lifeless now, manifesting none of the warning glow for which it was renowned.  The orcs were worsted, and many years of hard-won peace were expected to follow.  

He felt her eyes on him.  At first it was like a blade of ice pressed between his shoulders, reminding him of his subordinate place here in this realm of strangers despite whatever nominal honors the king granted; but gradually it was softened to merely a steady regard.  She certainly is not reticent to stare, he thought with a hidden smile, but that he could forgive.  In her silence he recognized the intense workings of an independent mind, something he was glad to see in the given circumstances. 

He turned to the newest grave, the stonework still new, taking the light dust from the name with a smooth sweep of his hand.  Dáin was still highly regarded within the house of Lasgalen, high praise for a lord of the Nogothrim as one of the very few Thranduil freely named a true prince among Dwarves.  Legolas only regretted that he had been denied the grace of a final meeting with him ere he met his long awaited fate.  The light of the vigil lamps was thin and spectral, as though reluctant to disturb the rest of the fallen.  With Orcrist dormant, there was need of color here where all living hue seemed stolen.  From his belt Legolas produced one of the emeralds of Girion, part of the dragon treasure granted the Elvenking after the ascent of Dáin to the throne of Erebor.  He placed it above the runic name where it offered a soft green glow reflected from its many facets, complimenting the silent tribute of the Elves upon the tomb of his predecessor.  Someday, when Thorin Stonehelm would at last take his due place beside them, it could be that the tradition would be continued if any of the Elvenking’s house remained still to witness his passing.

Returning to the corridor and leaving the dreary majesty of the dead kings behind them, Káli led him at last toward more lively surroundings.  She seemed lost in thoughts of her own if the severe set of her brow was any indication, and for a time Legolas was quite content to leave her there.  If she were weighing her own opinion of him against her husband’s predetermined hostility, he dared not disturb her.

There in the hallway there was a masterful bas-relief depicting the jagged range of the Misty Mountains.  He stopped beside them to find his bearings, after a moment recognizing individual peaks.  In Hollin Gimli had said that they were often the subject of artistic renderings in his home.  

“Do not tell me,” he said with a smile, pointing out each one as he named it.  “Barazinbar . . . Zirakzigil . . . Bundushathûr.”

Káli was silent, then loosed a genuine smile.  “Yes,” she said.  “And how has an Elf of the Wood learned to speak the names given by Dwarven folk?”

“It is only one of the many things I have learned from your son, my lady,” he said.  “Still, my father would be beside himself to hear such words come from my mouth.  To us, they are Caradhras, Celebdil, and Fanuidhol.” 

“I will confess, Master Legolas,” Káli continued as they resumed walking, softened in some small degree, “I know not what to think of you.  Gimli does not choose companions lightly.  And I myself find it difficult to reconcile that one with such gifts as with which you seem endowed should be answerable for the unworthy deeds attributed to his name.”

This question Legolas approached delicately, knowing he was given the slimmest chance now to redeem himself.  “Unworthy or not, the particulars of the given case may depend greatly on your own point of view, Lady Káli.  I do not deny that your husband was confined by the authority of my father, but such are the consequences of the suspicious days and ill temper that both are now past.  I do not repent of my part, for never has anyone of the free folk suffered cruelty at our hands.  But I would be grieved if such as that should cost me the friendship of your house.” 

Káli nodded and returned her gaze to the floor, the stone worn by the passage of many feet over the course of many years.  Legolas regarded the subject as closed for now, hopeful that he had made the most of the brief opportunity.  With a thunderous round of barking, a pack of hounds went bounding through the corridor.  Very different from Thranduil’s wolves, these were stouter with heavier jaws and shorter hair, very much dogs without the hybrid influence of their wild brethren.  They stopped in a rough pile at the sight of an Elf in their midst, and seemed undecided whether to bristle or to seek his affections.  Most chose the former, though their throaty growls were not without a plaintive whine as they slunk past them. 

“A lot of beggars, they are,” Káli said gruffly, waving them away.  “They’ll be under your feet at the table before you know it,” she assured him.  She was becoming almost affable, a good sign.

A dark and surly looking Dwarf went out of his way to give them a glare as he passed, muttering something into his beard.  The rough sounds suggested themselves as spoken Khuzdul, and Legolas deemed himself fortunate not to understand the particulars of his comments. 

But Káli understood. 

Catching him by the shoulder with an iron fist, she brusquely swung him back around to face her directly.  “What was that you said?” she demanded with thunder in her grey eyes.  Legolas retreated a few wary paces, for he sensed a storm brewing.  “Will you repeat it?”

Throwing her hand off of him, her antagonist repeated it and more with a sneer on his face.  He must have said something monstrous, for Káli struck him a crashing blow upside the head that sent him staggering backwards, giving Legolas just as violent a start as it did her foe.  

“You pompous, foul-smelling varlet!” she berated him in a terrible rage, looming with ready fists.  “Dare to breathe again such foul words and you shall have worse!  None shall cast slurs upon the house of Glóin; and he is a guest of the King!  Teach your throat modesty, you – you – !”  As boundless as Legolas imagined her vocabulary to be, she seemed unable to find an epithet degrading enough, and would have hit him again had not Legolas caught her wrist in his own firm grasp.  She tried reflexively to throw him off, but his strength was a match for hers.

“Please, my lady,” he begged, unwilling to see the disturbance escalate further on his account.  He would not have sparks stricken heedlessly in an atmosphere so dangerously flammable as this.  “You have already had vengeance enough.  Let it go.”

She hesitated, and Legolas could feel her seething anger as something dreadful.  But he did not release her, and gradually her wrath cooled, influenced somewhat by his presence and his own deliberate efforts to calm her.  At the same time, he cast a passive but withering glance upon the other Dwarf, who had by now righted his jaw and was fuming with a grievance all his own. 

When Káli had again safely bridled her passion, Legolas allowed her to shrug him off with a grunt.  “You forgive far to easily, son of Thranduil,” she said, moving on with a haughty toss of her head while the black-bearded one glared daggers after them.  “It does you credit, but beware lest someday your mercy be misplaced.”