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The elf mocked him, of this Gimli was certain.
Many times he caught Legolas tilting his head at him, watching him with a glint in his eyes, and the dwarf couldn’t help but narrow his own. Those pale lips quirked in amusement, and Gimli suspected that the elf was inwardly laughing at him.
It wouldn’t surprise him. After all, long have the Elves looked down upon their race; for indeed, what were Mahal's creations compared to the Firstborn, Ilúvatar's favored Children? They were instead given the derogatory label of Naugrim, the Stunted Ones.
Gimli bristled at the remembered insult. Would Legolas call him that as well? He peered at his golden-haired companion, who seemed content enough in his presence. Gimli could only shake his head. Even now, he couldn’t hope to understand the Princeling. He couldn’t even fathom why Legolas favoured his company even amongst his own kind.
At best, the dwarf mused bitterly, he supposed he was a curious new pet to the elf, one that could be called upon to tag along.
Gimli sighed. To be fair, he had never refused.
"You are brooding again, Master Dwarf," Legolas called down from his perch on the blasted steed. "Are your feet not hurting? Arod misses your welcome weight upon his back."
Gimli snorted as he easily walked apace the leisurely gait the horse and its master were taking. "I find that hard to believe, Master Elf, when he seems intent on throwing me off any chance he gets. I believe I'm much safer with my feet planted firmly on the ground than hanging over the sides of that wild beast."
Arod abruptly neighed in protest, and Gimli scowled. Legolas threw his head back in mirth, and his resonating laughter was reminiscent of a brook running merrily over the stones on its way. The dwarf glared at him, unsure of whether he was being insulted again.
Legolas relinquished the reins for a moment to raise his hands and smile. “Peace, my friend, I mean no offence. I only intend to offer my assistance. Come," he reached out to Gimli, "Or do you not feel safe with me either?"
Indeed not, was Gimli’s thought, though not in the way Legolas believed. "You need not ever play the guilty card with me, Master Elf," the dwarf grumbled as he took the offered hand. He swung a leg over Arod and settled himself behind the elf. "You know I trust you with my life."
And so much more, though that Gimli did not dare say.
Legolas glanced at him then, and something in the elf’s gaze softened. "I know, mellon nín. I know."
Gimli pursed his lips and silently turned away. He couldn’t refuse Legolas whenever he looked at him like that.
Alas, Gimli was beginning to realise that he never could.
“Is it truly for safety’s sake that you wish to pass through the forest, Master Elf?” Gimli queried knowingly. “Or is it because you perhaps seek a semblance of peace among these… mallorn, do you call it?”
Legolas inclined his head in acknowledgement of the halting, awkward use of Sindarin. “I know that the woods do not bring you comfort, mellon nin. You need not endure it for my sake.”
“Yet the woods bring comfort to you, stubborn elf,” Gimli pointed out. Indeed, as Arod moved steadily into the heart of the forest, Gimli could feel from beneath his hands the way the elf relaxed at the sight of the trees enfolding them. A certain weariness seemed to lift from his shoulders, and even his breathing deepened and slowed. Gimli squeezed the elf’s arm partly in reassurance, partly in sympathy. “You need not pretend for mine.”
Legolas turned to him then, and Gimli’s breath hitched at the look of open gratitude the elf was giving him. “Must we parry with words even in this, Master Dwarf?” Legolas teased, though his tone was soft.
Feeling strangely exposed at the elf’s prolonged gaze upon him, Gimli rolled his eyes and focused his gaze instead at the shadows dancing upon the ground as the sunlight streamed through the swaying leaves. “I dare you to deny that you enjoy it,” he returned glibly.
The dwarf felt the vibrations through the elf’s back as he chuckled. “I shall not, as I’ve discovered how surprisingly fearsome a dwarf’s temper can be when challenged.”
Gimli huffed. “I’ll have you know, Master Elf, that the Khazad are a patient race, and our temper is only tried by bad company.”
Legolas cocked his head thoughtfully. “Oh? Do I pass muster then?”
The elf was looking at him from beneath half-closed lids, managing to look both innocent and coy at the same time, and Gimli’s stomach knotted. “I have endured a great many trials in my lifetime, Master Elf, and your presence has unfortunately been one of them.”
At that, the elf merely smirked. “I dare you to deny that you enjoy it,” he casually threw Gimli’s own words back at him.
When the dwarf was apparently too flustered to come up with a rejoinder, Legolas laughed out loud. “Can it be that I have finally beaten a dwarf in a battle of wits?”
“Just this round, laddie, and only because I let you!” retorted Gimli, and quickly sought to change the subject. “Now let us stop and rest here a moment. The journey has been long and our steed might be weary.”
Legolas grinned. “I knew it. You secretly care for Arod.”
“Blasphemy! I do not!”
Gimli’s vehement denial was met with a pleased whinny from their horse, and the dwarf muttered darkly, “Oh shut up, you overgrown pony, see if I give you the extra carrots next time.”
“You feed him behind my back?” Legolas was positively beaming now.
“… One more word from you, you pompous elf, and I swear you will find your golden head severed by my axe faster than you can blink.”
Legolas merely laughed again, and Gimli sighed. The elf did not take any of his threats seriously anymore.
Still, as they dismounted and settled underneath a great elm to make camp, Gimli was glad to hear a note of joy in his friend’s voice again, even as shadowed as it was by the war that loomed ahead and the grief that laid behind. He suspected that the forest had indeed done its magic in easing the elf’s troubled mind, much in the same way that earth and stone could lighten a dwarf’s.
Even now, as Gimli rested his back against the elm and he quietly smoked his pipe, Legolas was wandering around as if in a dream, reverently touching each of the trees in turn as he sang to them softly. Not for the first time, Gimli wished he could understand the elegant words streaming out of his friend’s lips, and he wondered what he was singing about this time.
Gimli tilted his head as Legolas neared and he heard the elf’s song take on a melancholy tune. With a sudden flash of recognition, he realised where he last heard the familiar elven melody — in Lothlorien.
Gimli’s grip on his pipe tightened as it dawned on him that the song was a requiem, and he felt his heart clench as he slowly lowered his hand.
“For Boromir?” he whispered.
For a long moment, Legolas did not answer. Gimli watched quietly as he allowed his friend to finish the final meandering notes until at last Legolas inhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes shut.
“I wanted—” the elf’s voice broke as he shuddered a sigh. “I wanted the trees to remember him, for he could never return now.”
His gaze sought Gimli’s then, and the dwarf felt his chest spasm in painful empathy as the elf made no move to mask the sorrow shining plainly in his eyes. “I wanted this land to always remember the fallen Son of Gondor.”
“It will,” Gimli declared firmly, even as his own hands shook with his own neglected grief. He had thus far been successful at keeping it at bay, but now it threatened to overwhelm him suddenly. He curled his hands into fists. “We will make sure of it.”
The haunted look was still in the elf’s eyes, but now it was tempered with a gentle smile. “I marvel at the strength of Dwarves,” he murmured.
He folded his legs to sit beside his friend, and Gimli moved over to make room for him. “I can only wonder…” Legolas hesitated for a moment before continuing, “I can only wonder how it was for you in Khazad-dûm.”
Gimli smiled in appreciation at the effort to speak of the Dwarrowdelf’s proper name in Khuzdul, rather than the blackened name of Moria. “Truth be told, lad, the cold terror the Balrog brought upon us was nothing compared to what I felt when I saw my cousin’s tomb.” It was his turn now to close his eyes in remembered pain. “They were my kin. All of them.”
His Khahay were now forever lost, the desecrated bodies not even given the proper burial they deserved. Gimli took a long, deep breath as he viciously fought back the despair clawing at his heart, and he turned to Legolas with a small smile as the elf touched his knee worriedly.
“Thank you, Master Elf, for saving me then,” said the dwarf softly, sincerely. “For pulling me out not only of that cursed place, but out of my own grief.”
Legolas shook his head. “Nay, you amaze me, my friend. For you to have faced such unimaginable loss and still have survived… Aulë must indeed be hailed for his creations not only of understated beauty, but of indomitable spirit. Even the most enduring mountains of Arda cannot hope to match your might.”
Gimli stared at him in surprise. He never would’ve imagined an elf, of all beings, openly praising not only the Dwarven race, but also their Maker. “You flatter our kind far too much, Master Elf, for we can only be humbled to receive such praise from Eru’s Children.”
“Yet isn’t it a wonder, Master Dwarf,” Legolas murmured, “How one of the very few things that can kill the Firstborn is grief?”
Gimli’s eyes widened as the light in the elf’s dimmed. “Isn’t it such a curious irony that the mortal beings can survive what the immortal ones cannot?”
Legolas gave a start as he found his arm being gripped tightly, and he looked in surprise at the face of a very determined dwarf.
“If this strength is indeed one of the greatest gifts Mahal has given us,” Gimli whispered fiercely, “Then allow me to lend this to you.” His fingers trembled. “As long as I draw breath, I will not allow grief to take you.”
As the elf stared back seemingly in shock, Gimli belatedly realised that he must have overstepped an unspoken boundary. Shamefaced, he shrank back, but before he could move away, he found himself being held fast and sure by hands as strong as steel.
“You…” Legolas stammered, “You cannot make an impossible promise.”
And Gimli, son of Gloin, the last of Durin’s line, only smiled resolutely.
“You would do well to remember, Master Elf, that you should never underestimate a Dwarf.”