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Sons of Fellowship  by Conquistadora

What did one wear to a Dwarvish homecoming?


Back in his hewn chamber Legolas had set aside the tunic Gimli had provided, considering his choices.  He had brought several changes with him, not entirely of his own will, for Thranduil had a considerable say in how his son would appear if he was to represent him.  Legolas suspected his father had also reasoned that the danger to his person would be lessened in direct relation to how magnificently he presented himself.  That was probably true, but he knew he was required to walk a thin line between being impressive and becoming offensive.  But nor did he wish to appear underdressed.  Dwarves harbored a special love for ostentation, he had found, and he did not expect Thorin to slight Gimli’s return.  There would be more splendor gathered here in one place than there had been beneath the trees of his own home the night he rode back from the war. 


At last he dismissed the elaborate tri-colored outfit he had worn into the Mountain that morning.  He would not be redundant.  Three others he did not even consider, the quieter attire he had brought for himself when ceremonies were through.  He deliberated a moment more, but he knew there was truly little choice.  There was only one that was right for the occasion. 


With a twinge of nostalgia that was a momentary salve for his growing homesickness, he took it up almost reverently from where it lay on the bed.  Of a soft and heavy green, it was dark and yet possessed of a subtle but distinct shimmer like dew in the morning, warm yet slightly cool to the touch, like a midsummer’s afternoon with the wind in the trees.  Masterfully sewn at the fitted cuffs and collar and about the hem in prominent thread of silver was bright and bold tracery that could be seen by knowing eyes to be a pattern of script spelling time and time again in an unbroken chain the name of Thranduil. 


It had been made for shoulders a bit broader than his own, but he felt with some filial satisfaction that it fit him well enough, laced at the throat and wrists and belted about the waist with dark leather studded with diamonds.  It was strangely comforting to wear his father’s name, as though he could almost feel those kindred hands on his shoulders as a support in whatever trials awaited him.  Carry me with you, had been one of Thranduil’s last requests, something Legolas was glad to do.  He would need him.


With it went a robe of the same design meant to be draped prominently over one shoulder.  Legolas found he had to pull it a bit farther in front to keep the end from brushing the ground, for he had never been quite as tall as his father.  He regarded his spectral reflection earnestly in the sheet of tinted glass Gimli had managed to find for him.  Robbed of all definite color, at first glance he could almost have seen the shade of his father, only to find it was himself.  There is a good deal of Thranduil in you, had been Celeborn’s verdict during those days they lingered in Lórien.  Legolas was becoming more aware of that as life called him ever farther from home, as he was made more the master of his own fate.  His manner at the Gate had not been entirely feigned.  He would always be proud to be Thranduil’s son.


And in that vein of thought, he retrieved the Sereguren from the bedside drawer knowing it would be his father’s will that he wear it tonight of all nights.  But he stopped short of putting it on, setting it beside the gifts for Thorin atop the polished dresser. 


He turned his eyes then to the doorway, aware of a scuffling at the floor.  His first uncharitable thought was of a rat, for they waged a yearly battle with them in Lasgalen.  But the sound was not the same sharp scratching.  Rather it seemed a curious pawing.  Drifting silently to the door, he pulled it open to meet a pair of beady black eyes in a furry upturned face.  Scatha retreated quickly, inspiring a bit of pity in Legolas, for the little imp obviously expected to be cursed or kicked as a matter of course.  He had seen the same in hounds and in horses, but this was new to him.


Crouching just inside his door, Legolas called to him.  "Come, Scatha," he said in a beckoning voice.  "Come here."  His quarry hesitated, curious but yet unwilling to trust. 


But ere he could coax him further, a pack of hounds came stampeding down the corridor baying as though the hunt was called.  Legolas held the door wide and closed it soundly once Scatha had shot inside like a cat with its tail afire, the dogs moaning ineffectually outside. 


“Thorin’s little devil,” he laughed as he turned to face his ward who had perched atop the dresser.  “Well met, I am sure.”  But in a moment the name proved well deserved, for already Scatha had begun rummaging in the velvet satchel and turned to throw a gem at him with a snickering screech.  Legolas caught it reflexively, but was not amused.  One did not play with a king’s tribute.  “Let it alone,” he said firmly, shooing the menace away from the irreplaceable treasures and thrusting them back into the drawer.  Scatha seemed indignant but unafraid, for Legolas’ discipline fell softer than that of many a dwarf.


Legolas reached out to stroke him, but quick-witted creature caught his hand in his small but strong paws, sniffing and examining it with undisguised interest.  Legolas reasoned that he had likely never encountered an Elf before, an experience far removed from his Easterling and Dwarvish masters.  And so he let the investigation run its course without objection as the inquiry advanced from his hand to the cuff of his sleeve, and from there along the length of his arm.  At last crawling to his shoulder as Legolas supported him in the crook of his arm, Scatha looked his new acquaintance in the eye for long moment, laying a bold paw on his nose.  Legolas could not help smiling, letting the strange tail curl around his wrist like a soft snake. 


Scatha was evidently very fond of his hair as well, but Legolas did not relish the idea of having the little sprite tangled there, and so he pulled him off to set him back on the dresser.  “You have looked enough at me,” he said.  “Now indulge me, if you will.  Neither have I seen your like before.”  Scatha seemed to understand well enough, as all good beasts heard the Elven tongue, but he had a concern of his own, baring his diminutive fangs and tugging at his throat.  Working his fingers gently through the fur as he had been invited, Legolas found the collar there, hard and stiff and unnatural.  It was a fine piece of work in its own right, but beautiful or no it was misplaced on something with as much wild life as Scatha.  He thought once, thought twice, then felt around for the clasp.  He found it at last, a subtle testament to the skill of the smiths; Scatha sat quiet as if understanding the help he was receiving.  At last it fell open, and Legolas pulled it away.  Just like a shackle, he thought grimly as it lay in his hands.  The freed captive rolled his small head and shoulders and then shook like a wet dog, glad to be rid of it; the marks in his fur revealed that he had seldom been without some such restraint.  Legolas could stroke him now without rebuff, for now Scatha seemed to enjoy his attentions.


As the little beast rubbed his head on his left hand like a cat against a post, Legolas used his right to trip the release on the gilded anklets he had found, growing more impatient by the moment.  He did not like leashes and confinement, and used them only when there was no choice in the matter.  Trapped in the sunless bowels of the Mountain, he felt a keen pang of sympathy for Scatha, for what future did he have here?  As unfamiliar as he was with its kind, it did not take great skill in woodcraft to see the animal was plainly meant for life amid the trees.  They were both misplaced here. 


He was interrupted by a loud rap at the door, and Scatha stiffened to peer around him intently, his black eyes keen and unblinking as he readied himself to flee or fight.  “Come in, Gimli,” Legolas called, gathering the tense animal in his arms.


Gimli came, resplendent in all the glittering regalia of a Dwarf lord.  “I – oh, Powers preserve us,” he digressed as he turned to see them both.  “Can’t resist a furry face, can you, lad?” he asked, more terse than humorous.  “Big sad eyes with a long sad tale; that is your weakness.”


“You have been at variance with your father again.”  It was not a question.  Legolas had grievances of his own, but tried to keep the ice from his voice; Gimli was not to blame.  What a day it had been already.


“Yes, I have.”  Gimli tromped passed him to the dresser where the Sereguren and Scatha’s collars lay together.  He indicated the sight of both.  “I can understand your compassion for the beast,” he said.  “But let the wrong eyes catch sight of that, and in a moment it is out that the Elf is filching the King’s jewels.  Then there will be no hope for you here for an age or more.”


Legolas sneared indignantly at the very idea.  “Suspicious minds imagine many evil things,” he said. 


“Yes, they do.  So it would be best to see that they imagine as little as possible about you.  Put them back.”


Legolas was loath to do it, but he had to admit Gimli knew his own people better than he did.  The collar went back on, along with the rest of the undesirable accessories.  He apologized as well as he could to Scatha, who seemed perplexed and a bit disappointed by this turn of events.  He looked up to find Gimli regarding him strangely.  “Yes?” he asked, somewhat bluntly.


Gimli grunted and looked away as if to dismiss it, fingering his chain remarkably as Glóin was wont to do.  “Nothing,” he said.  “You look like your father.” 


Indeed, he felt like his father.  “And you like yours,” he observed.  “What sort of weather might I expect tonight?”


“The stars shine for the most part, but with a chance of stiff winds,” Gimli answered wryly, extending his metaphor.  “The waters are calm, but many things lurk beneath.  If you should ever find yourself alone in diminished company, take care not to turn your back.”




The great halls were ablaze with torchlight and resounded with lusty song and dance, just as Gimli had expected.  It was a free Dwarvish revel and none had patience enough that night for extended ceremony.  The long tables were laden and the glasses always full, the victorious banners and standards of the Mountain adorning the high walls with tattered but proud color.  He and his parents sat beside Thorin at the king’s table in honor, Legolas placed among them.  Despite the merriment around them the air was tense there, for Legolas and Glóin were still not on speaking terms, which was not to say Legolas had not done all in his power to bridge the chasm between them.  Unfailingly polite, his overtures had earned only a frosty welcome until he at last deemed the reception not worth the effort. 


New concerns presented themselves in Gimli’s mind now, for things had changed.  More to the point, he had changed, and he was more attentive now to what the effects of Dwarvish celebration would be upon Elvish sensibilities.  He was acutely conscious of the endless echoing noise, the confinement of the crowd, and in general the free air that characterized the table manners of his people.  He glanced sidelong at Legolas.  He could never be ashamed of him despite his private fears, for the Elf’s demeanor was irreproachable, magnificent in the royal green and silver he knew in his heart must have belonged to Thranduil, the chain of mithril leaves on his shoulders and a circlet glinting on his brow.  He knew Legolas was influenced more by a frayed temper and a longing for the open air, but he managed to make his private insecurities something majestic, evoking the perhaps unfortunate but no less impressive aura of his father.  Such was a valuable skill if it could be maintained.  But his smile was more often fair but false, exhibiting a mounting strain only Gimli had acquired skill enough to see.


Glóin had insisted upon sitting as far removed from the Elf as he could, and Káli was willing to oblige him by taking the seat between, rather indignant for Legolas’ sake.  Gimli had not missed the fact that she had worn her best, a gown of black velvet cut in bold slashes to reveal the cloth of gold beneath.  He and his mother had spoken together beforehand, but the matter was yet to be addressed between her and her husband.  Still, Glóin was not blind and he knew already, only exacerbating his abiding dislike of the Elf.  The old lord’s eyes were sharp, and Gimli was relieved that Legolas went out of his way to avoid meeting them.  


At last, when the moon was riding high beyond their sight, Thorin stood and called for silence, his heavily bejeweled robes shimmering as he spread his arms.  “Dwarves Under the Mountain!” he began loudly when he had arrested their attention, but then had to wait for the bellowing cheer to subside.  “Tonight we receive back into our halls one of our own.  Gimli son of Glóin has returned from war in the South, and by his valor our people are renowned in the realms of Men.”  He had to pause again as another great enthusiastic shout went up from hundreds of Dwarvish throats.  “Now through him a call comes for our skill.  The Gates of Minas Tirith must be reforged!  The Fortress of Rohan rebuilt!”  At that there rose an even greater cheer that continued long, for the fortunes of several craftsmen had thus been assured. 


“But many yet are the gems refined by the fires of war,” Thorin went on, hooking his thumbs jauntily in his belt.  “Far from our own lands, the sons of the Mountain and the Wood have come together to strengthen the bonds that exist between their homes.  I understand that Elvenking Thranduil sends now through his son Legolas a pledge of his continued goodwill and favor toward people of Erebor, and it is my hope that his faith will not prove misplaced.”


There came some scattered applause here as well to Gimli’s relief, and though it was genuine in the hearts of those who offered it, it was short-lived and dampened by the stony silence of those who yet wanted nothing to do with their Elvish neighbors. 


“He does not expect it will be, my lord,” Legolas said for himself, standing in his place and seeming to take no notice of the obvious disapproval of the sizable minority of the populace.  “And he sends more than faith.”  Gently he set down the velvet bag of small treasures Thranduil sent in tribute, but in his hand held the one that outshone them all.  It was a silver eagle with mighty wings outstretched, set with deep eyes of emerald as green as those of the Elvenking.  Gimli was struck by the gift, for he knew well that Thranduil had not relinquished it lightly, and with such generosity came a challenge to be equally accommodating.  A slight hush had fallen over the assembly as keen eyes strove to assess the value of the gift from a distance.  “In memory of Dáin your father,” Legolas said, “Friend of Eagles.” 


Thorin took it carefully with obvious appreciation.  “Mithril!” he declared after a moment, arresting the attention of all with a hushed but collective gasp as the rampant eagle and the carcanet Legolas wore were recognized for what they truly were.  “A kingly gift, indeed, from the hand of Thranduil!  Whence comes truesilver in these days?”


Legolas smiled, and this time the expression was genuine.  “The war is won,” he said simply; “Dol Guldur and Mordor are emptied.  Sauron hoards it no more.  Doubtless much of it awaits your skill in the vaults of King Elessar.” 


“Hear, all!” Thorin called, new ebullience bright in his eyes.  “The Elves bring us more than their friendship.  The days of truesilver have come again!”


The wild and resounding roar was deafening as the hall erupted again into unbridled glee, as flagons were emptied and the heavy-footed dancing begun again, content that Thorin had finished his address.  With Gimli high in Elessar’s favor, Erebor would receive the first and best commissions from the crown of Gondor.  Truly they had entered a new age. 


“See how the thought excites them,” Thorin smiled, resuming his seat.  Behind him, Scatha peered round his shoulder, glancing from the Dwarf king to the crowd and most often toward Legolas, but he did not move for he was bound to his perch by thin chains of gold from the anklets he wore lest he make a nuisance of himself.  Legolas said nothing, but Gimli knew the sight grieved him.


“Excited to receive from Elvish hands what came first from a Dwarvish mine,” Glóin commented bitterly, breaking his stiff silence.  “Your pardon, my lord.”  He stood and left the table, likely in search of Dwalin and others who shared his disposition.  Gimli sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.


“Pay him no mind, my lord,” Káli was saying to Legolas.  “Always he has been a cantankerous one.  It could be that he will hate your house for the rest of his days.”


“It would grieve me,” Legolas said regretfully as he watched Glóin’s back disappearing into the crowd.  Gimli followed his line of sight, noticing at once one particular knot of Dwarves with flagons raised singing a ridiculous sing-song faerietale about an Elf-king who lived in a black forest and lured children to their deaths.  It struck him to recognize that it shamefully smacked of Thranduil, and what he had once thought a harmless tradition had become personal insult.  He was glad at least that Legolas could not understand their words, but the grim set of the Elf’s features said that he recognized their taunting for what it was. 


He seemed lost in thought for a long moment, then quickly finished the lingering contents of his glass with the air of one deliberately walking through thorns.  “My lord,” he addressed Thorin at last.  “I have a request to ask of you.”


“Name your desire, my lord Legolas,” Thorin bade him, still impressed by the gift he had been given.  “You shall have it if it lies within my power to grant you.”


Legolas favored him with a weak smile.  “I pray that it is.  I fear I must beg your leave to quit your excellent company, my lord, that I may find a place where I may breathe.”


Here it was, Gimli thought.  The Elf can stand it no more.  He did look rather short of breath.  The rise and fall of his chest was increasingly visible as he fought for air, evidence enough of his plight if one knew the grace that usually characterized his imperceptible breathing.


“My profoundest apologies, Legolas!” Thorin said, straightening at once in his seat.  “Certainly; you have borne your trials admirably.  You will find an open terrace if you climb the winding staircase there and follow the corridor.  You may have my escort if you require it.”


“My thanks, my lord Thorin,” Legolas said, rising, “but that will not be necessary.  I expect I will rejoin you before the night is much older.  Gimli,” he beckoned quietly but firmly, turning his attention to him and his mother as he passed.  “My Lady, I would speak with your husband.” 




Leaving the stifling and reverberating hall behind him with the suppressed panic of one who knows his time is short, Legolas at last gained the stairway Thorin had spoken of, finding it just beyond the banner-adorned entry.  Dimly lit, the stairs shone quietly with colored stones of gold, red and orange, the many hues of dragon fire.  But Legolas took small notice as he bounded forward two steps at a time, striving toward the glimpse of the open sky he had been promised. 


He remembered this from the first time he had come here together with his father after the Battle of Dale.  One might have thought this place no different from the embellished caverns he called his home, but he could feel the looming weight of the mountain above him, ever present and unrelenting.  He had endured it only a day and yet could abide it no more unless promised a timely glimpse of the world outside where he could taste the free air again.  The heat and abrasive noise of the crowded hall, the hostile eyes of Thorin’s guard on his back, the barely contained discontent of Glóin together with the smothering confinement of too many bodies in too small a place had at last proved to be too much to bear at once, mercilessly sapping his stamina and leaving him now in desperate straits. 


He flew up the stairs that seemed to wind upward forever, running from the crushing atmosphere that threatened to suffocate him.  His breath came ever shorter and blood pounded in his ears, but he did not dare stop to take the stairway at a saner pace.  He needed to get out, away from these walls of stone. 


Finally when he felt he could go no farther and had almost resigned himself to being found later in an inelegant heap on the stairs, the passage widened and leveled into a straight and august corridor, darkened but for the beckoning glow of starlight at the far end.  The air was clearer now, and Legolas ran toward the terrace.  There, bathed at last in pale starlight, he fell against the rail like one half-drowned, drawing deep gasping breaths of cold night air. 


It had passed, the looming burden of the mountain above him, leaving him momentarily exhausted.  Whatever force of will had held him upright that day was broken, and he would need one or two long moments of his own to recover it.  At present he could not bear the thought of going back inside; not now.  Like a bird with clipped wings in a gilded cage, he was offered here some semblance of freedom, but promised only a return to the sunless depths whence he had come, for his task was yet unfinished.       


Gradually the clear night restored his vitality to him, like the clearing of mist over a stream.  The skies were clear here, but dark clouds gathered on the horizon and the wind was growing in promise of a storm.  He picked thoughtfully at the motif of a rampant dragon chiseled into the stonework, all very Dwarvish, though it seemed to be straining toward freedom even as he was, imprisoned forever in stone. 


But then he deliberately thrust such dismal thoughts from his mind and climbed to his feet.  A son of Thranduil did not wallow in self-pity, for there was no more useless an emotion.  There were other concerns to be addressed, notably the heavy tread on the stairway far behind him.  They had finally caught up with him.  Steeling himself for the confrontation, Legolas put his shoulders back and recovered what he could of his poise, prepared to meet Glóin as an acknowledged but benign foe.  He turned slowly to face the dark interior, putting the stars behind him in supporting ranks as he felt his raiment arrange itself impressively at his back.  He watched them as they came; Gimli seemed apprehensive, and with good cause; Lady Káli was restless, spoiling for a fight; and Lord Glóin seemed as bitter as ever, adamant in his estimation of the Elvenking and his progeny, with the subtle air of a huntsman who has at last cornered his prey beyond hope of escape.  It was his cold gaze that Legolas held as the kindred triad approached him through the shadows, and he could feel him grow uncomfortable beneath his steady regard.  Legolas did not expect this to bring any favorable results, but it must be done.  He loosed a terse sigh as he always did before beginning a disagreeable task, though the growing chill in the air made it abundantly and perhaps threateningly visible.  They seemed so fascinated by dragons here, he could just imagine how Glóin would interpret him. 


The Dwarf halted at the edge of the shadows as though his feet were rooted in the stone, instinctively unwilling to relinquish the imagined advantage of the darkness.  A lift of his bearded chin issued the challenge, demanding an explanation of this ill-timed meeting.


“Glóin of Erebor,” Legolas began, channeling all the authority he possessed into his voice.  He forwent the Dwarf’s title purposefully, and it was not without effect.  “I come to you not as a lord of my own people, but as the son of my father.”


“That goes without saying, Legolas of the Wood,” Glóin returned snappishly, stripping his adversary of all abdicable honor as well.  “And as such, you are more than fortunate that we receive you at all.” 


Legolas stiffened, feeling the wind break upon him where he stood.  But the slight was not entirely unexpected, and so did not fall so hard as Glóin had intended.  

“You are not alone in your estimation of us, Master Dwarf,” he said frostily with a smile twisted into something without emotion at all, his years again beginning to color his manner now that he was provoked, for he and his father had ruled the Wood long before there were Nogothrim in the Mountain.  “But you do not influence the throne of Erebor.  Thorin is a friend to Lasgalen, and lest you and your kind be the undoing of all that Gimli and I have established between us, I have come to discuss the redress of grievances between our houses.”


Glóin snorted, as if to kick aside without consideration whatever overtures of reconciliation were offered.  “Discussion will accomplish nothing, Master Elf.  A debt stands between us that cannot be redressed.”


“Cannot?” Legolas asked pointedly.  “Or will not?” 


“The difference matters little,” Glóin insisted haughtily, drawing himself up as if threatened. 


“And what do you want of him!” Káli snapped roughly, frustrated by her husband’s impudence.  “Shall he crawl to your feet and beg?  The past is dead!”


“No, my Lady,” Legolas said.  “The past is not dead, not so long as it is carried in memory.  One would hope the same follies would therefore not befall us again.  Would you have the Nogothrim pass through Lasgalen in peace, Master Glóin, or be regarded still as foes?” 


“The wars are ended,” he insisted stubbornly.  “We have no need of the Greenwood road.” 


Legolas met Gimli’s uneasy gaze, both seeming to recognize that he had his work cut out for him.  “My Lord Thranduil sends his regards to you in particular, Master Glóin,” he said.  “And the commission he granted to your son was extended to you as well.  You are both welcome within our halls.”


“A curse upon you and your halls!” Glóin burst at last as his festering indignation gained the upper hand.  “Never could you tempt me to return!  Not if all your ill-gotten hoard was emptied at my feet!” 


Legolas felt his own anger growing in spite of himself as dull thunder rolled threateningly above them.  Had he endured the crush of the Mountain and abased both himself and his father for this?  

“So be it,” he returned with more force than he had intended, enough to startle both Gimli and his mother as he advanced one angry pace to see Glóin fall further into the shadows before him.  “It will not be said of us that we did not attempt to make our peace with you!  Perhaps we expected too much.  Let us burn in the fires of your heart until it consumes you if you will, for it matters not to Thranduil that you despise him.  A worthy opponent he could receive proudly, but a avaricious rat in a hole troubles him not at all.”


His tone carried much more than his words, though the waning voice of his better judgement warned him that he had stepped beyond his bounds.  Glóin heard the sneer in his voice, for he spat at his feet and then stormed away to fume elsewhere.  Neither Gimli nor Káli dared say anything in the silence that followed, and Legolas stood unmoving until his own wrath had subsided.  He did not regret his words, but his delivery could indeed have been more civil.  But that night he had suffered as much of Glóin as he could gracefully endure.  Frustrated at every turn, he had at last lashed out blindly as his father was wont to do.  He had once seen Thranduil shatter a pane of glass with a bare fist.


As the heat of the moment passed, Legolas feared he had shattered something far more important, and much more difficult to restore. 







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