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When they first kissed, it was on the battlefield at the Black Gates of Mordor. Weary, injured, covered in blood, gore and all sorts of filth that none of them wanted to know the name of, flying high from their triumph over evil.
***
At the Feast to End All Feasts (so dubbed by the Hobbits), Legolas had sat across the table from Gimli. Their eyes had scarcely left each other throughout the entire evening. They had steadfastly ignored the teasing and leers of the hobbits (read: Merry and Pippin).
They had also bravely and rather nobly ignored the incessant beam from that insufferable Wizard, Gandalf, as well as the exasperated “finally” from Aragorn, the former Ranger, soon-to-be King of Gondor.
***
That night, they had writhed together upon the silken sheets, long hair tangled, braids undone. Soft murmurs and gasped declarations of love had filled the peaceful dwelling.
Legolas had slept with his head tucked under the dwarf’s chin, pillowed against his chest, body curled towards his love, a new braid in his hair.
That night, he had known contentment that he had not felt since he was a small elfling in his naneth’s embrace, 500 years ago.
***
“Legolas.”
“Hmmm?” the elf murmured sleepily, eyes still dreamy and drifting.
“Your hair’s in my face,” Gimli groused, his irritated tone opposing the soft, possessive stroking of the new braid in Legolas’ fair hair.
“Mmmh.”
Legolas didn’t move. Nor did Gimli. There they lay, basking in each other’s happiness, until they were called out for lunch.
***
“We could just elope.”
It was the day before they were to leave the Last Homely House of Rivendell. Legolas was leaning against an ancient oak, while Gimli sat on a bench near him. The smoke from his pipe curled lazily into the evening air.
“Well now, laddie,” the dwarf grunted, puffing contentedly. “We could, but what would be the fun in that?”
He chuckled, somewhat evilly, never noticing how Legolas’ face fell, just a little, not how the elf’s merry laugh did not match the growing dread in his eyes.
“You’re right,” Legolas murmured, subdued. “What would be the fun in that?”
***
“Well now, this oak-”
“For the millionth time, meleth-nin, it is a beech,” Legolas sighed, half exasperated, half amused. “All of these trees are beeches.”
“Oak trees, beech trees, they’re all the same,” Gimli grumbled. “Can’t expect me to keep them straight.”
Legolas rolled his eyes, giving up.
***
“Gimli?”
They were at the border of Mirkwood - now Greenwood, once more, since Sauron’s ring was destroyed and the darkness driven away. Tomorrow, they would part ways to deliver the news of their engagement to their respective kin.
“My Heart?”
Legolas hesitated, pale eyes darting from side to side. Firelight flickered, highlighting his high cheekbones and noble features, shadows dancing over his furrowed brows.
“I-”
Gimli’s eyes softened, and he shifted so that he was leaning against his elf. The dwarf wrapped a thick arm around Legolas’ slender waist.
“No need to fret, my elf. I will always be here for you, no matter what may come.”
Legolas’ stiff posture relaxed a little.
“Anyway,” Gimli cheerfully continued. “Your da’s been too comfortable, I reckon. Could use some shaking up.”
That brought a peal of startled laughter to the princeling’s lips.
***
Legolas was hugging Gimli, his long hair falling like a curtain of sunlight. He buried his face in the dwarf’s neck, hands clenched into fists at his back.
“What’s brought this on then, lad?” Gimli spluttered, face going red. “Spent too much time singing at the trees, I wager. Mahal’s beard!”
Legolas ignored him.
“You know I love you, right?” he urgently asked, fey eyes glimmering with some strange, unnamed emotion in the dawn. “More than even the Valar know.”
“Aye,” Gimli grumbled, running his hands through the silky hair, brushing the braids and the beads he’d placed there. “I know that, you dratted elf! Love you too.”
With that said, each stepped back from the other, drinking the last sight they would have of each other for months.
“I’ll see you at Erebor in three months, then!” Gimli finally said, smiling fondly at his elf. “Safe travels!”
He turned, walking determinedly onward.
Gimli never saw how Legolas stood there, still as stone, staring after him. Still standing there, as the sun rose. Only when the sun was at it’s peak, did Legolas then turn, disappearing into the dense woods.
***
Legolas strode into the palace, nodding and smiling amiably at the excited cries and the respectful nods of the guards.
“The Prince has returned! Prince Legolas has returned!”
The cheers grew louder, the further he walked into the palace.
It did nothing but heighten his fear.
Finally, Legolas arrived at the throne room. The crowd instantly hushed, as the prince walked warily up to the throne where Thranduil - his adar - elegantly lounged.
He met his father’s eyes, searching them hopefully for an ounce of love, or even relief, or satisfaction, at least, that his only son had returned home hale and whole.
He found nothing.
Why he even bothered, Legolas would never know. He supposed that a part of him would always be that tiny elfling who thought Thranduil hung the moon and stars, seeking his father’s love.
He’d tried so hard, always attempting to meet his adar’s exacting standards, but his best was never good enough.
As he sank subserviently to his knee, Legolas, for a wild moment, wished with all his heart that Gimli was here with him. It would make this trial so much easier to bear.
“My King,” Legolas murmured, kissing the ring on Thranduil’s finger.
“Legolas,” Thranduil returned smoothly, crossing his legs and withdrawing his hand. “You have finally returned from your extended sojourn around Arda, it seems.”
He froze.
“Y-yes, adar,” Legolas finally murmured, heart sinking.
“Why have you returned? Have you grown bored of adventuring, then, ion-nin? Did you miss home?”
It gave Legolas no comfort to be addressed as Thranduil’s son. Once, perhaps, but no more.
“Adar,” Legolas said a trifle helplessly, after an extended pause. He took a deep breath, straightening his back, steel back in his spine. “I was a part of the Fellowship of the Ring. It was an essential quest that needed to be completed. The darkness has been defeated; Mirkwood is Greenwood once more!”
He gazed up at Thranduil, still a study in nonchalance and arrogant nobility.
No reaction from his father.
Thranduil’s gaze shifted, flicking to the new, elaborate braids in his hair, as well as the beads of gold that adorned them.
Legolas tensed.
The Elvenking’s gaze grew cold as death, whatever little warmth there had been leeching away.
Ai Elbereth!
“Out."
The icy whisper silenced the murmuring in the room. All the elves within stood stiffly, wary of the king’s anger.
“Out!” Thranduil roared, lurching from his seat, in a beautiful economy of motion. The ancient king’s face contorted, becoming a terrible mask of rage, teeth bared in a fearsome snarl, fey eyes gleaming.
As one, the courtiers and spectators bowed, beating a hasty retreat.
Legolas tensed, head bowed. His hair fell in two streams on either side of his face. He clenched his hands, breathing shallowly, fear thrumming in his veins.
By the Valar! What dark sorcery was this, that a son could fear his father more than he did battle and death?
He was alone with Thranduil and his twelve personal guards. Legolas could hear the sharp, angry sounds of his adar’s footsteps.
“You failed me with you naneth! You failed me when you led a patrol directly into an ambush. You killed ten elves, then.”
Legolas flinched hard, the memory dealing his a stinging blow, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. His father’s voice and words were like whips, flaying his very soul.
“You failed me when you allowed that creature to escape our dungeons. And when I sent you to report your failure - you go gallivanting around Arda! Without my consent!
“Thrice - four times have you failed me! As heir, as prince, as son. Three times, I could have forgiven. Four, I cannot. Did you expect to be praised, ion-nin,” Thranduil hissed. “Did you expect to be given a hero’s welcome? To be received with open arms?”
No, Legolas miserably answered in his mind. Not eveyone’s open arms. Perhaps… just yours, adar? For a mission, successfully completed? For glory restored to the elves? For being alive?
“And,” Thranduil continued, voice dropping to a silibent whisper. “I especially cannot forgive a son who wears dwarven braids in his hair.”
By the end of his speech, Legolas was rigid. Thranduil whirled around, striding back to his throne, leaving Legolas kneeling at the foot of the dais, utterly alone.
“But I love him, ada!” Legolas burst out, able to take it no longer. “Does that mean nothing? Elves love only once - I have found he who shares my heart, the other half of my soul. He-”
The Elvenking turned, robes swirling around him. Once, twice, three times, his hand fell, connecting with the soft, pale skin of his son’s cheek.
“Never,” he hissed, “speak thusly about a dwarf in my presence again. In fact,” he continued, voice softening until it was almost tender.
Legolas felt as though his heart was in his throat. Eyes wide, a little wet, he hardly dared breathe as his father’s hand rested upon his upturned head. The gentle, soothing touch was in complete juxtaposition to his throbbing cheek.
Heat gathered at the tips of his ears, as he waited, silent and kneeling, completely incapable of forming a coherent sentence. His father’s guard was there still, witnessing his humiliation, watching him be brought down low.
“In fact, ion-nin,” Legolas heard his father say, the loving caresses causing him to involuntarily relax, leaning into his adar’s hand trustingly. His heart throbbed in both elation and pain.
It had been centuries since his adar had touched him so.
Legolas met his father’s eyes, heart lurching when he saw they had remained stone-cold. No, not stone-cold, for had Gimli not said there was warmth in rock? That they whispered to him as trees did to Legolas?
“I give you my permission to leave.”
The Elvenking’s words fell like hammer blows in the shocked silence that reverberated in the throne room.
“A-adar?” Legolas choked, his voice a mere, thready whisper.
The hand in his hair tightened, so that Thranduil gripped Legolas by his hair at the back of his head, forcing it up. The young elf gasped, eyes tightening in pain, as he rose to his full height on his knees.
“Legolas. You have made your choice. A dwarf, a stone-eater, over your own kith and kin. You return only to make demands, to deliberately ignore the will of your king.”
He paused, then, leaving Legolas gasping, unsteady breaths the only sound in the room. Dread filled his every pore, and he could not help but tremble.
The guards averted their eyes from him, ignoring his pleading, terrified gaze. No matter how fond they were of Legolas, no matter how they had played with him as an elfling with a father who had no time for him, they were still first and foremost, loyal to the Elvenking.
“I cast you out, Legolas, son of none, friend to none. The Elvenking denounces you, Greenwood banishes you. Let all those here bear witness.”
Legolas cried out then, with a sound akin to that of a wounded animal.
“No, Adar, please-”
“Let no realm aid you, let no soul provide you with food, water or shelter. Let all who gaze upon you look away in disgust, for you are no longer one of the Firstborn! The Valar themselves will cast their gazes away in shame.”
Thranduil made a subtle hand gesture, and from behind the throne emerged four elves, bearing between them a large braiser. At a motion from the king, it was set down. Thranduil drew a brand from within, the design glowing red-hot from the dancing flames.
Legolas’ limbs grew cold and heavy as stone. His father had planned this - down to the last detail. Even before he had returned, before he had told him about Gimli.
For the first time since Helm’s Deep, he felt despair, such crushing despair. Did he mean so little to his adar? He, who had done everything to please him, to be the perfect son, the perfect prince.
And now… and now…
“Remove your weapons.”
Legolas looked up to see that the King’s Guard had surrounded him, two of them moving forward to grasp his arms firmly, and another his head.
It was this that finally broke Legolas out from his trance. With a wild cry of fear, the shamed prince reach back for his knives, the alarmed shouts nothing but a distant roar in his ears. He could hear his breaths whistling out in short pants, as he twisted and fought, but in vain.
Legolas was quickly subdued, held still under a myriad of arms and legs, his right cheek pressed firmly against the floor.
He could feel fear rolling down his cheeks, the pain in his heart too difficult, too intense to ignore.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thranduil kneel down next to him, one hand tenderly brushing the mussed hair away from his face.
Looking up at his father’s unmoving face, Legolas snarled pitifully, something deep in his chest cracking.
“Y-you’re not my father!”
His face crumpled, chest heaving with sobs as he tried to turn his face further into the floor.
“Ada… I want my Ada!” he cried, frenzied with fear and pain and betrayal. He wanted the father he had in the days before his naneth had died. The father who had loved him and played with him and adored him. Not this mockery of him.
“Disgraceful,” he heard Thranduil murmur, as the heat from the brand blasted his face.
“Please,” he whispered shakily, desperation almost oozing out of his pores. “Please. Don’t do this. For the blood we share, if nothing else.”
Thranduil paused, and hope flared, bright as the sun in summer.
“Legolas… you are not my son. We do not share blood.”
With that, the brand was pressed against his cheek, blisteringly hot, and he screamed. It was all he could do - the agony was too intense to be denied. It was as though a spear had pierced through his head, sending tendrils of white-hot pain down his body.
Still, disbelief and denial raged. Within his heart, he still held the love that a son has for his father.
Legolas raised trembling fingers to his face.
“Remove him from Greenwood. If he resists, kill him. Send word out to Lord Elrond of Imaldris, and heralds to all kingdoms in Arda - none shall shelter him, under threat of war!”
With that, the Elvenking turned, striding out. Legolas lifted his head to look, but despite the hope that still survived in his heart, Thranduil never once glanced back.
Around the room, swords were drawn, and the door flung wide open. He lay still, shaking, mind refusing to comprehend what was going on. Legolas met the eyes of each and every elf in the room, but none wavered in their stance.
Legolas slowly got to his feet. He staggered, feeling as though they would no longer support his weight. The brand was burning, throbbing.
Nodding at the guards, he silently thanked them for sparing him the indignity of being dragged out. One last gift from a group of caretakers to their charge. The halls were empty, but he was sure that all were watching his slow, halting journey.
“You traitor!”
A wild cry rang through the silent halls. A young, elven warrior leaped at him, hands wrapping around his throat with bruising strength. Her hair fell over his face, shielding all from her words.
Even as he gasped for breath, her speech burned his ears.
“I will bring you to Erebor, where you may beg for sanctuary from that dwarf like the beast you are. My debt will be paid after this.”
With that, she shoved him away, genuine disgust filling her features. Legolas toppled to the ground, coughs wracking his slim frame.
“I’ll escort him to the border,” she told the guards.
They glanced from her to Legolas, then at each other, before seemingly coming to a consensus. They nodded and left.
The elf grasped his shoulder, firmly steering him towards the stables. She did him no favours, taking him through the most populated areas, standing by silently as he was spat on and kicked, each word and expression of disdain shattering his already broken heart into even smaller pieces.
They mounted a horse, Legolas’ torso burning from a broken rib one particularly vicious kick gave him. He held on to the mane tightly, hunching over and trying his best not to pass out from the house’s rough gallop.
And so, Legolas Thranduilion left Greenwood, the only home had had known, banished, stealing away in disgrace, when he should have returned a hero.
He was loathe to return to Gimli thusly, broken, ashamed, humbled. Once a Prince, now a pauper, with nothing to his name.
But he had no choice. Cast out, alone, injured, Gimli was the only one he could turn to. And he missed his dwarf fiercely, more than trees and starlight. He would be willing to stay underground for the rest of his life, if only to be with Gimli.
For Gimli, his star, he could - would - endure everything.
Now, he had nothing he could give Gimli, to show to devotion. He had no heirlooms, no weapons to protect his beloved.
Even so, he rode on, because Gimli was his light in the dark, the only friend he had left.