(Author's Note: I swear up and down that none of this was inspired in any way, shape, or form by Pirates of the Caribbean!)

Attired once again as befitted a son of a Dwarf lord, and prepared again for a bit of a confrontation, Gimli tramped again through the boldly lit corridors of his home in search of his father.  Thrown over one arm he carried a tunic of bronze orange, adorned at the hem and cuffs with angular accents sewn in gold.  Of all he had found it seemed best suited for Legolas, more befitting his stature as it had been intended for a prince of Dale.  He carried also the chain of wrought gold Legolas had given him in Greenwood.  That might itself serve as a peace offering in Glóin’s eyes. 

He found him at last, sitting in the company of Lord Dwalin.  There is another nut to crack, Gimli thought rather dismally, wondering if Glóin’s resistance to Legolas was inspired by some degree of embarrassment at the way his son was deporting himself before the surviving members of Thorin’s old company.  Lords Nori and Bofur also remained to be convinced. 

“Gimli!” Glóin welcomed him with unexpected cheer.  “Come.  I was telling Dwalin what you told me of the gift of the King of Rohan.  But you have yet only teased our minds with imaginings.  Tell us of these caverns of yours.”

It was something Gimli never tired speaking of, so he gladly obliged them.  “They lie in the north of the White Mountains,” he said, “beside the fortress of Helm’s Deep.  Though you would never guess their riches to hear the Men speak of them.  Never have I seen their like.”  And so he began, reliving the sights and sounds of Aglarond and describing them as best he could for his kinsmen.  And it seemed they became more rapt by the moment with the telling, Glóin pulling thoughtfully at the chain of his medallion, Dwalin fingering the long end of his braided mustache.  “None who have seen will be able to scoff at them,” he said at last, leaning back on his heels self-contentedly.  “Why, even Legolas – ”  Here he stopped and slapped a hand to his brow, remembering at last the nagging voice in the back of his preoccupied mind.  By Durin’s beard, he had almost forgotten him!  It had been so long already, and now here he was idly chatting about caves and realms and other things that would keep well enough until another time.  “Your pardon, father, Lord Dwalin.  I have been derelict in my hospitality long enough.”

By now Glóin had darkened again, for once more the Elf had intruded upon him.  “If that is the company you would rather keep,” he said simply, though the remark was shot with venom.

“I wonder at you, son of Glóin,” Dwalin added for himself with a lift of his thickly bearded chin.  “One may question your judgment in bringing the Elf to the Mountain.  Do you seek to aggravate the old grievances that are best left buried?”

Gimli turned back, prepared for the conflict.  “It was not I who brought Prince Legolas to the Mountain,” he stated firmly.  “He came of his own will, not to aggravate the past, but to offer peace in the days to come.  Nor has Thranduil turned a blind eye our way.  Already he has conceded much in suffering to send his only son into your hands.  He knows your opinion of him well enough.” 

“An opinion not undeserved,” Glóin insisted, beating a fist upon the padded arm of his chair.  “An opinion I begin to doubt you share.  One might believe even that you have grown to like them.”

"I do like them!" Gimli admitted at last, laying all his cards on the table for better or worse.  “I have found in Legolas as true a friend as I could wish.  And Thranduil is a grand old lord well worth his salt!  If you choose to hate him until your dying day, so be it.  But do not expect me to go blindly with you any longer!”  

Both Glóin and Dwalin had risen impulsively, still hale for their age.  “Do not speak to me of the worth of Thranduil’s house!” Glóin snapped in return, his eyes ablaze.  “It was in the weakness of death that Thorin pardoned them!  Dáin was not trussed like a bullock and left to a forgotten end in a forsaken cell!  Thorin the son knows nothing of Elves and their ways!  They receive him, but I will not.  Not so long as he holds my son from me!”

With the sharp clatter of metal upon stone, Gimli violently cast the heavy golden carcanet at his father’s feet.  “There!” he shouted, angered beyond prudence.  “Persist in your stubbornness if you will, but that remains to be matched!  Given freely from the deepest treasury of the Elves, it has earned a sorry welcome!”

Hearing it had come from Elvish hands, Glóin kicked the gleaming treasure noisily across the floor as though he despised it.  Gimli turned on his heel and stormed from the chamber.

He found Legolas in his room, standing at the dresser and squinting at a small square mirror of polished silver.  Dwarves did not shrink from crystal, but they had yet to make mirrors of it.

“Forgive me, Legolas,” he said with a sigh.  “I did not mean to leave you alone so long.”

“Set your mind at rest, my friend,” Legolas smiled.  “Your mother fulfilled your neglected duties on your behalf, and proved herself to be enjoyable company.  She has only just released me from her charge.” 

“She – !”  Gimli knew not what to think of that for a moment.  Was his mother hedging now to his side of this battle?  That would be a relief indeed.  He coughed to tactfully smother his truncated exclamation.  “So, what do you think of her, Legolas?”

“I think you were right,” he said.  “She is indeed very like my father.”

Gimli chuckled, hooking his thumb in his belt.  “I did say that, didn’t I?” he conceded.  “I hope you have not said as much to her.”

“Oh, no,” Legolas assured him, taking an easy seat at the side of the bed.  “I dare not presume upon such familiarity yet.”  He was quiet a moment, all banter fading in the face of the stark realities that awaited them beyond the door.  He still wore the woodland finery he had come in, but at the moment he seemed less a prince and more a friend, turning his ring absently as though he found his royal responsibilities bothersome.  “Gimli,” he asked at last, seeming uncertain, “did I do right?”

“You did right,” Gimli readily confirmed, remembering his impressive deportment at the gate.  There were many discontented individuals within the Mountain who would not have thought it worthwhile to cross the adamantine son of Thranduil, but would have deemed him much easier prey if they could see the gentle heart that lay beneath.  “Any weaker a front on your part would have been unfortunate.”

Legolas nodded.  He had ceased turning his ring and had begun running Galadriel’s long white ribbon through his slender fingers.  At the moment Gimli was glad to see he was not wearing it, remembering Glóin’s scathing description, all the worse because it was a half-truth. 

“What has happened?” Legolas asked of him with an idle air.  “You carry a bad aura, my friend.”

“I just bathed a moment ago,” Gimli protested, willfully misconstruing the comment.  His wry humor was rewarded with a welcome smile, lightening a somber moment. 

“Yes, I did notice,” Legolas assured him with fleeting laughter in his eyes.  “But tell me, what is it that passes among company I am not meant to keep, and in words I am not meant to understand?”

He knew.  Gimli was thankful Legolas had yet been spared the particular details of whatever unpleasantry might have been passed around, but he was not deaf to it.  He was finding Elves to be particularly sensitive to tone and inflection, more so than most.  He had found their perception to be much wider as well; one could not hide the airs of hostility from those who had been trained to recognize it.  “My father is determined to be difficult,” he sighed candidly. “Twice now already he and I have come to loggerheads when your name is mentioned.  I would swear his eyes go as green as Thranduil’s – ” He stopped short, wondering if that was the right thing to say anymore. 

“I feared that,” Legolas admitted, taking no offense.  “I do not wish to provoke him, but it will not profit either of us if we never say a word to each other.”

“Let it lie until tonight,” was Gimli’s advice, “and pray he has mellowed by then.  At least you will have King Thorin at your back.”

“And your Lady Mother,” Legolas added with a knowing look.  “She is one to be reckoned with, and I have seen she has but small tolerance for incivility.”

“Oh, almost I am afraid to ask,” Gimli grimaced, wondering what his mother had done already.

“Let it suffice to say that there is a certain Dwarf within these halls with a richly deserved bruise beneath his beard who thinks no good of either of us.”

“She hit him?”

“She had her blood up, and would have beaten him as mosaic into the flagstones had I not stopped her.”

Gimli groaned, wondering who it had been.  “She insists that actions speak louder than words,” he said.  “But she is not helping our case by sparking new feuds.”  As he painted this dreary picture, Gimli noticed that Legolas had begun smiling.  “Well, isn't she?” he asked.

“Of course,” the Elf said.  “But I was flattered all the same.”

“So she likes you?”  That was a fortunate turn of events.  Gimli knew he should not really be surprised if he knew his mother.  She would follow his father, was the friend of his friends and a foe of his foes, but she had a mind of her own.  She had no personal feud with Thranduil and his kin beyond that which Glóin had passed on to her, and that had lost most of its sting over the long years though it was stirred up from time to time.  If Legolas would only turn that clear smile of his on her it would be enough to inspire a reconsideration at the very least.  She would not be stricken by a fair face, but she had always entertained a soft spot at heart for a beautiful character.  Thorin’s kinsmen Fili and Kili had been high in her affections.  Thus he should not wonder if Legolas had fared well beneath her first curious inquisition.  Her new disposition would make things interesting within the family circle.

“I dare to hope that she does,” Legolas said.  “I cannot profess to be particularly fond of her yet, but her company is not unwelcome.”

“Then, here,” Gimli said, tossing him his new clothes.  “Change into that, and some of this crowd might find you a bit more palatable.  I’d like to introduce you to a few friends of mine.”

The noise steadily grew as they neared the forges, the incessant music of hammers and anvils and hot metal resounding through the caverns.  Gimli knew he was taking Legolas far out of his element, but if it was ever to be faced, now was as good a time as any.  Not once had he heard a protest from him, for the Elf endured it all with good grace.  How deep that tolerance went he could not yet say, but he would make a point to take him outside tomorrow just to ease the strain.  Despite all the self-composed calm that Legolas seemed to enjoy, Gimli had a sneaking suspicion that Elf’s nerves were in truth pulled as tight as viol strings. 

The traffic also thickened here, and Gimli met several old friends.  He waved to Frár, clapped Borin on the shoulder as he passed.  Superficial pleasantries were exchanged between Dwarf and Elf, though the latter was still regarded with a certain measure of distrust.  At least they were speaking to him, Gimli thought, though there were many who chose to ignore him completely.  They would be trouble.

“Gimli, you rogue!” called another from the crowd, and Gimli looked to see a good-hearted friend coming their way. 

“Lóni!” he returned, accepting the rough embrace as between two dwarves.  “It does me good to see your smile again, at least.  I have met entirely too many glowers today.  Legolas, this is Lóni son of Lorin.  Lóni, Legolas of Greenwood.”

The familiar shadow fell over Lóni’s eyes, much to Gimli’s disappointment.  But when the other Dwarf saw the initial and customary coolness was not returned by the Elf, he relaxed.  It was a brief and fleeting moment, but one of enormous implications.  “Greetings, Legolas,” he offered with a casual bow, as between friends.  It was perhaps presumptuous of him to throw out all trace of the protocol due a royal-born ambassador from an allied realm, but even so his manner was more than welcome.  But Lóni did more than that, and offered to Legolas as a matter of course his honest, work-roughened hand. 

Gimli said nothing, watching with baited breath, his hopes rewarded.  It seemed to come as a mild surprise to Legolas, if among the Elves, too, the gesture implied a mutual trust and cessation of hostilities.  One could not draw blade if his right hand was surrendered to his foe.  After only a moment Legolas gave his strong hand into Lóni’s grasp, returning it without reservation, another ally assured.

Gimli laughed and jostled Lóni’s shoulder.  “I knew I could count on you,” he said, glad an unpleasant conflict had been avoided.

“I imagine you will both have trouble enough without dealing with me,” Lóni smiled, revealing his good nature.  “Welcome to Erebor, Master Legolas.  Though I am one of the few who would say so.”

“I must confess I have noticed that,” Legolas said with an attempt to smile in return.  Gimli could see the Elf felt confined despite the optimistic turn of events, and he thought it best not to linger in the bustling corridor.  “Your kin is of the Iron Hills?”

“Yes,” Lóni said cautiously, somewhat taken aback.  “How did you know?”

Legolas shook his head as if to deny the special powers of clairvoyance that Lóni seemed to suspect.  “I begin to see a pattern,” he explained simply.  “I find Dáin’s people to be on the whole more accommodating.”

“Going to the forge?” Gimli asked of him.  “That is one thing I want Legolas to see.”

“Come, then,” Lóni beckoned, turning to lead them on.  “Flói is there already.  You will want to see him, I imagine.”

They wove their way through the throng of preoccupied Dwarves, each of whom was engrossed in his own affairs and giving only sidelong notice to the starkly misplaced figure among them.  Even so, most everyone had heard of the Elf in their midst by this point, and even if most were too proud to do more than turn up their noses as they passed, Gimli knew that Legolas was very much on their minds.  What was he really like?  What was his true purpose?  What were his thoughts?  They were gauging his state of mind so far as they could, even as Gimli was.  How real was his passive facade?  Could he possibly be content among them?  Or was he threatened at heart, vulnerable, concealing his insecurities as best he could?  Gimli had to admit the last was the most likely, and feared it was more obvious than Legolas would have wished.  It made a more uncertain impression.

A shrill and unearthly screech sent Gimli’s heart into his throat just as a falling streak of grey hit Legolas squarely between the shoulders.  Faster than sight the Elf spun into a ready crouch, blade drawn in his hand.  Reflexive though the action was, it did not fail to leave an impression of its own on those who surrounded them, for everyone had stopped cold where they stood.  Even for those who did not consider Legolas an Elf of his worth, his status had escalated from merely unwelcome to dangerous.

As for his assailant, it had leapt back up to the high shelf of stone on the wall, screeching down at them again.  Grey as a squirrel and yet more the size of a cat with a white ruff of fur around its impish face, it was unlike anything Gimli had seen before, though it was somehow reminiscent of what he had heard of the apes of the south.   

Lóni gave a nervous laugh, recovering from the suddenness of the whole incident.  “Master Legolas,” he said, “let me introduce you to Scatha, Thorin’s little devil.”  It screeched back at him, but earned only the growling ire of several passers-by as activity in the passage returned to normal.  “He found him in the ruin of the siege, thinks he belonged to an Easterling chieftain and so took him for plunder.  Don’t mind him; he’s harmless.” 

Gimli followed as Lóni went on toward the first of the forges.  But looking back, he saw Legolas was still regarding the keen-eyed creature with a natural curiosity.  And the little furry imp stared right back, pausing to tug at the elaborate gem-encrusted collar buried in the fur at its throat.  “Legolas!” Gimli called, wresting his attention back to their immediate purpose.  “Let him alone.  Come on.”

Legolas followed, but not without looking back.

The forge was a stifling place, brightly lit and full of glowing furnaces, contained fires, and busy, half-clad, sweating Dwarves.  Sparks were flying and constant noise echoed from every wall.  They did not try to talk, for it would have been pointless.  It was long-missed bit of home to Gimli, complete with the overpowering scent of hot burnt air, but Legolas could not completely hide the fact that he probably thought it a living hell on earth.  Gimli only chuckled to himself as they walked amid the cacophony, knowing some things were simply hopeless.  But fortunately for the Elf they were headed instead for the adjacent chambers, where the heat was not so heavy nor the noise so deafening.  He chose to ignore the embittered glares of several smiths who obviously objected to the admittance of an Elf into their inner sanctums.

Lóni led them back into the side corridor in search of Flói, another that Gimli harbored great hopes for.  Flói was not so friendly as he was merely indifferent.  But he could work with that. 

“Flói!” Lóni called gladly, swinging the door wide and tromping in.  “Gimli is back, and he has brought a friend with him.  I trust you will condescend to give them a bit of notice at the very least.”

Behind a cluttered worktable was hunched a great figure of a Dwarf with a wealth of russet red beard adorned with gold, focused intently on the design drawing taking form beneath the charcoal pencil held resolutely in his sturdy hand.  He did glance up to briefly regard his friends, and seemed not overly surprised to see an Elf among them.  “Good day, Lóni, Gimli, Master . . .”

“Legolas.”  Before Gimli could say anything, Legolas had offered his name, devoid of title or superfluous honors.  Flói nodded before he turned back to his work, content to let his visitors entertain themselves.  The name of Legolas was not unknown in the Mountain and Flói knew well who this Elf was, but seemed unimpressed. 

Even so, Legolas seemed to have taken a keen interest in Flói’s work.  Gimli concluded that it must have been the influence of the artist in him, and it was not long before the Elf had drifted around the table to scrutinize the drawing from his vantage point over Flói’s shoulder.  Gimli looked and saw the creation in question was to be a jeweled flower, a brooch that would likely be included among the bridal finery of Bard’s daughter.  The smudges already evident on the paper made it clear Flói had been having difficulties of his own with a streamlined form that went against his angular nature and inborn love of straight edges.  Suddenly disconcerted by the burgeoning ideas evident in Legolas’ eyes, Gimli feared he would do the worst.

“Do not be afraid of curves,” Legolas fearlessly suggested, pointing out the sharp offshoots that were the clustered leaves.  “They do not grow that way.  And you might give this a bit more flair here.” 

Gimli and Lóni held their breath, wondering how Flói would take such brazen correction.  The obsessive craftsman did turn to look up at his unsolicited assistant, and indeed seemed rather annoyed.  But Legolas offered him an innocent smile that made his suggestion seem more a help and less a criticism.  “Then you do it,” Flói surrendered in a huff, tossing his pencil down in disgust. 

Legolas took the pencil in his fingers and with a few light strokes like a dragonfly skirting the surface of a pond he drew a rendition of his own beside Flói’s attempt, bringing a definite form out of smooth and simple contours in a matter of moments.  It was a distinctly Elvish image, but nothing a Dwarf could not elaborate upon.

Flói looked at it critically, but also with certain admiration.  “How did you do that?” he asked rhetorically for lack of anything else to say.

“The same way any of us do anything, my friend,” Legolas smiled.  “Instruction, observation, and years of practice.  Hard lines have their own purposes, but you must tread softly if you would imitate what has life of its own.  See.”  With seeming effortlessness, he brought out another shapely sprig of leaves, letting only the very tip of the charcoal brush the paper.  The result was a beautiful conception of a jeweled masterpiece.  “Do you think you could make that into something worthy of the lady?” he asked.

“By Mahal, of course I can!” Flói declared, accepting the challenge and eager to prove his own skills before a foreign audience.  “Just wait and see!” 

Gimli loosed a pent up sigh, relieved that Legolas had found a foothold for himself.  He and Flói would get along as well as he could wish if this working relationship realized the promising future it seemed to have with Elf and Dwarf complementing one another unexpectedly well.  Flói did work best when he meant to impress someone.  He only hoped the inevitable reintroductions the night would bring would play out half so well. 

Flói insisted on bringing Legolas with him to see the selection of the gems he would employ.  That meant walking the length of the sweltering forge again, but Legolas did not shrink from that route.  As they passed the through the brief showers of sparks, Gimli noticed the little miscreant Scatha hanging about an iron-worker’s furnace, investigating the various tools about with its little mischievous hands.  The Dwarf in question turned with a laugh and singed the creature’s backside with a glowing brand, sending him bounding away with a yowl.  Legolas obviously thought very little of that stunt, for he sniffed indignantly, something only Gimli noticed.  Knowing Legolas’ way with all that went on four legs or wings, he had a premonition then that he would be seeing more of that little monkey than he could wish.