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Legolas had never before seen a dwarf grieve.
It was not that he had never dealt with dwarves before; close to Erebor as Mirkwood lay, that would have been nigh impossible to avoid. Even Thranduil, willingly confined to his chambers as he was most of the time, found the occasional moment to meet a dwarf, and not always simply because a company of them had been gallivanting through the forest. As such, even the much younger Legolas had spoken and traded and fought with dwarves, both against them and alongside them.
He would not soon forget the Battle of Five Armies.
However, for all those times he could not recall seeing a dwarf in mourning. Angry, yes, despondent and proud, or simply with an air of forced civility when their dealings were more peaceful in nature, but never in sorrow. There had even been whispers among elves, when he was a child, that dwarves could not feel such things. How could something hewn from stone feel such things, have anything in their heart that could not be traced to the heat of the forge and thunder above the mountains? No, dwarves could not grieve, Legolas remembered hearing in hushed tones, no more than they could love or care, or take delight in anything that did not shine with gold and precious gems.
Yet here was Gimli in front of him, private in his thoughts and heart as was typical of his people, but the turmoil within him was clear enough in his eyes.
When they had first entered Moria, Legolas had dismissed the dwarf's words in promise of hospitality and warm welcome, thinking them nothing but boasts and pride to show up an old opponent. Now, though, thinking back, he found himself recalling much more in those seemingly simple words. There had been pride, yes, but not the cold kind that made his father aloof and hard to approach; Gimli's pride had been warm, growing from the heart. He had been eager to meet old friends and family, to have his new companions share in the warmth and joy he knew awaited him.
Instead, they had been greeted by nothing but dust and old bones in a tomb.
It had been a surprise to them all, especially after all of Gimli's boasting words, yet the shock must have been the hardest on Gimli. And then, because the injury had not been great enough to find the hallowed halls empty and inhabited by nothing but old bones, they had come upon the tomb of his kinsman.
Legolas had first been taken aback by Gimli's open sorrow, shocked, even. Here was a creature of stone, of no feelings other than greed and wrath, crying open tears over an old friend. It had, in the deep darkness of Moria, forced Legolas to wonder.
How well would he have fared in the same position? What if he had expected to lead his friends to the welcoming woods of Lothlorien, there to see the shine and glory of elves, only to be greeted by dead trees and crumbling pillars surrounding the scattered bones of his kin?
The thought alone made him ache with the kind of deep sorrow he had never allowed himself to feel before. And yet, at the time of it, when the realization must still have been a raw and deep wound in Gimli's heart, freshly dealt, all Legolas had been concerned with had been to hurry away from the dusty caves into the relative safety and relief of open air.
He felt the sorrow himself, now, though not over the same; his tears were for Gandalf alone, weighing so heavy upon his soul he could not join his own kin in song for their lost friend. The other elves had known Mithrandir, yes, and he was sure they did mourn his passing, but they hardly felt the loss in as personal a manner as those in the fellowship. They had not seen Gandalf face the Balrog, had not been urged to continue on in his stead.
So if the grief was so heavy on Legolas' heart, how deep must it have been for Gimli, who mourned so much more?
He could not approach the dwarf, not at first. There were too many others, too many eyes and ears for him to force the words out. His father's pride was still strong in him, and they had not exactly been on the best terms for the first leg of their journey. All he could do for now, even as night fell upon Lothlorien with the notes of elves singing, was to sit silent, not drawing attention to what must have been a very lonely shadow in the proud warrior's eyes.
His opportunity, as it was, came late at night. The fellowship were given quarters close together, and though Legolas might have found elsewhere to spend his night, for this first night even he found himself yearning the company of those who understood his grief rather than his kin and their distant songs. Yet he could not find sleep, not even as night fell over the woods like a robe of deep velvet, stars casting a pale light far above the trees.
Elves did not need much sleep, and Legolas was no exception. Even so, he would have preferred some rest after their difficult journey, only to find slumber evading him. His ears caught the soft snores of hobbits, too exhausted to let tears stop them from sleep. Beyond that were the sounds of the forest, the night birds singing softly among the fading notes of elven song, a fine lullaby if there ever was one for a prince of the wood elves. He tried to focus on that, to think of nothing but the sounds, yet his mind kept wandering to the fact that there was no gray-cloaked figure sitting nearby, smoking his pipe underneath the stars, humming quietly along.
It was perhaps understandable that when he first felt the faint smell of pipeweed, he wondered if he had managed to fall into a dream after all.
As the smell persisted yet he found himself stubbornly awake, Legolas finally took to his feet, quietly following the hint of smoke. Finding its source, he paused in the shadow of a large tree. Gimli was sitting alone on a finely crafted bench, a pipe on his lips, eyes staring into the shadows.
Legolas was still hesitating, not sure if he should step forward or back away, as Gimli grunted, knocking his pipe against his sole before stuffing it again. "You going to skulk there like some ghost all night?"
"It was not my intention to, ah, skulk." He stepped onto the clearing, eyeing the dwarf. "I was just wondering how you would react to some company."
"There's plenty of room for both of us, long as you don't mind the smoke." Gimli shrugged, lighting his pipe again. "Not going to ask why I'm not in bed?"
"I suppose it would be the same reason why I cannot find rest." Legolas took a seat on the bench next to Gimli's. "Though your sorrow, I think, is greater."
Gimli took a first breath of his pipe, silent for a moment. Then he said, his voice low and deep, "There's little joy in comparing such things. Knowing another bears a greater grief will do little to lighten yours."
"That is true," Legolas admitted. "But sharing your loss, I have heard, may make it easier to bear."
There was another moment of silence before Gimli gave him a slightly suspicious look. "And why would I share my sorrows with you?" he asked. "I see little point in baring my heart so that you might go and amuse your elven friends with the petty sorrows of a dwarf."
"I would never!" And yet, even in his shock, Legolas wasn't sure he could blame Gimli for his suspicion. After all, they had not been very friendly so far.
"And why would you not?" Gimli snorted. "We live but a couple of centuries. What loss is there to have that cut short, to those who have been granted so much more?"
"On the contrary," Legolas said, even though he knew with an icy certainty many of his kinsmen would have seen nothing but sense in Gimli's words. "When there is but a little time to live, it is all the more cruel to have it cut short." He drew a deep breath. "If I were to fall now, my people would mourn me, because I am still young and have known little of the world," he said. "Yet could I rightly grieve my own fate, when I have already seen many times the years any of you might achieve?"
Gimli was quiet for a while. "We are Mahal's works," he finally said, his eyes somewhere in the shadows. "Each dwarf was forged by his hand for the life and task we were intended for. A tool that's met its end can rightly be brought back to the forge, to make material for something new and better. Why would we be any different?"
"And yet you mourn."
"Of course. Do your people not mourn those of your number who have sailed off? I know that one day I will meet the fallen in the Maker's Hall, but that day might still be long coming, Mahal willing. So I mourn my loss, in that I will not see them until my own years are full. I mourn their lives, and the deeds they might have accomplished if they'd been given the time. And I mourn their pain, their pain and fear as they faced certain death, the mountain that should have shielded and sheltered them becoming a trap where none could escape."
"And all that is worth your tears." Legolas let another moment of silence pass. "I cannot weep for them with you," he said. "It would not be right for me to pretend such grief, not when I did not know them or care for them. However, if you would wish to speak of them, I would gladly share your grief with you. And not speak of it to any other," he added. He believed the reassurance had a cause.
Gimli hummed thoughtfully at first, then was silent for so long, Legolas was certain he had dismissed the thought. Finally, though, he started to speak, low, quiet words in the darkness. He told Legolas of his cousin, the brief Lord of Moria, and of his uncle with healing hands and ailing ears. He spoke of Ori, the scribe, who had not been much older than Gimli himself, who had gone to Moria against the will of his brothers to make a record of the kingdom rebuilt, with small hands that wrote elven marks even better than the sharp runes of dwarves. They were all of the Company, Legolas was told, and he thought back to dwarven prisoners in his father's halls, desperate to reclaim their homeland. He had not grown much since then, himself, such a short time ago in elven eyes, yet even the young scribe had grown and left and met his end within that span, yet here was the wee lad of one of the dwarrows, sitting beside him as a grown warrior.
Gimli spoke for a long time, yet Legolas did not interrupt him, save to ask for some clarification here or an unfamiliar term there. The sky above them started to turn into the first hints of dawn as Gimli finally stood, emptying the ashes from a pipe that had long since lost its fire.
"Well. I suppose I should try and get a moment of rest at least before the halflings make enough noise to rouse the entire forest," he said. "Not that I know what I would do around here all day, either. Half of your kin look at me as though I'm about to take my ax to one of their precious trees."
A thought came to Legolas, then, simple and sharp as an arrow. "Actually, would you care to join me for a walk at some point?" he asked. "It has been a while since I was in this wood, and there is much I have forgotten. I might like some company as I walk among the trees."
"Are you sure you would want me beside you?" Gimli gave him a look, again, but there was more humor than suspicion there now, even as his cheeks bore marks of tears that neither of them had drawn any attention to. "You might lose all respect your kin have for you if you went around leading a dwarf."
"If any lose respect for me for that, their esteem was not worth much to begin with," Legolas replied. "You may join me if you wish, or not if you think you would find no enjoyment from the sight of so many trees."
Gimli pondered on this for a moment. "I might come with you," he said then. "If I'm going to spend my time around elves in any case, it might as well be one who has volunteered himself."
"Good to know you value my companionship so." And yet, Legolas felt no insult, merely soft amusement. Even his own grief seemed softer now, not gone yet but not as sharp and painful, either. He wondered if Gimli's own sorrow had eased, even a bit.
He found himself hoping that was the case.
*
Legolas had never before called a dwarf his friend.
Perhaps it might have been more accurate to say he had never counted as a friend anyone who was not an elf, regardless of their origin beyond that. A prince of Mirkwood could not be entirely sheltered all his life, but his dealings with other races had been minimal and rarely of the kind to inspire true friendship. Negotiations and trade called for cool civility, not affection and delight. Certainly, the dealings with dwarves were often the most tense, but he had also met men who made his skin crawl with their mere presence.
He tolerated the mixed fellowship, of course, but could not help the occasional thought of just how loud and troublesome the hobbits were, or how Boromir on the other hand was too serious and far from pleasant company. Aragorn was not bad company, but then a man of the Dúnedain, raised in the house of Elrond, was as close to an elf as a mortal could hope to be. The rest were his companions, of course, and he would have born their lives in his hands as easily as he would have trusted his own life to theirs, but that did not mean he counted any of them as his friends.
It was nothing strange, of course. Few elves would form such ties to mortals, knowing the heartbreak that befell those foolish enough to do so when a close friend fell after what seemed like but a moment. Even aside from that, it seemed doubtful most mortals could even understand an elf well enough to claim their friendship. With such different outlooks and experiences, was it even possible for two hearts to come to such a close understanding as was the basis of a good friendship?
Now, as he found his travels through the golden woods accompanied by heavy steps and the smell of pipeweed more often than not, Legolas often found himself wondering.
The first time they set out, ignoring any wonder from the rest of the fellowship, Legolas had been the one to fill the silence, introducing Gimli to this place or that, commenting on the elven city or telling him about its inhabitants. Over time, though, they had found more of a balance, exchanging stories and songs or discussed matters that both found to be of importance or amusement. Sometimes, neither of them would speak, wandering along in companionable silence. It had almost startled Legolas when he first realized he did not mind being silent with this dwarf, did not feel awkward or unwanted, did not miss conversation or feel like he should part.
Perhaps he was simply growing used to it, he thought at first, just like he had grown used to the smell of pipeweed, for all that it had first seemed like an assault on his fine senses. If even something as aggravating would become almost pleasant, surely he could also grow used to the presence of a dwarf?
It took him some time, and a particularly thick cloud of smoke from one Peregrin Took, to realize that he had, in fact, not grown used to the smell. It only grew tolerable, even enjoyable, when it signaled the steady presence of Gimli by his side.
After this realization he started to wonder if Gimli felt the same. Certainly, the dwarf took to his company quite willingly, but Legolas wasn't sure if Gimli did so because he found their walks pleasant or because it was simply better than the alternative of staying behind for the hobbits to bother, or tolerating strange elves looking at him with curiosity or disdain. He asked directly, once, but Gimli seemed to misunderstand him, assuring him that he found the woods rather beautiful to behold, surprisingly so to the eye of one who was used to the thick walls of a mountain, rather than addressing the matter of Legolas's company.
It was perhaps fitting, then, that the one who had inspired these feelings in him was the one to address them first.
Gimli was laughing, now, a deep laugh that echoed among the trees and brought a smile to Legolas's face. It was the first time he had shown such mirth since before Moria, and hearing him find such delight in a simple story of the mischief of Lord Elrond's sons eased his heart. The grief was still there, Legolas knew, could still sometimes see it in Gimli's eyes or hear it in his voice, but it was no longer a burden bearing him down to the ground.
Another elf passed by, giving them a wondering look before hurrying on her way. Gimli must have noticed this, too, as he then turned to Legolas with twinkling eyes. "You know, princeling," he said, a hint of mirth still in his voice, "I get the feeling these local elves aren't entirely sure why you would bother to befriend a dwarf."
For some reason Legolas was not sure he could voice, those simple words eased his heart of a burden he had not been aware of bearing. "In that case, my friend," he said, his eyes shining in return, "I am all the more fortunate. If they were to know just how delightful your company can be, I would have to fight them for a sliver of your time."
Gimli chuckled. "And would you find that worth a fight?"
"Oh, that would depend." Legolas grinned. "Mostly on whether I had better company available at the time."
Now, the dwarf snorted. "Oh, princeling, like anyone else would tolerate your prattling on for as long as I do."
"Indeed." Legolas set a hand on Gimli's strong shoulder. "You are, after all, as patient as the mountains."
Gimli did not laugh, which was good. It had not been entirely a joke.
Legolas supposed he could have made a worse friend.
*
Legolas had never been in love before.
Oh, he had thought he was, like many a foolish young elfling mistaking infatuation for something more. He had admired Tauriel, her skill and beauty, had thought her the most beautiful creature he could have ever laid eyes on. When he had lost any hope of her in battle, he had been certain his heart was broken, now, gone for good. However, as the dust settled, he had lived on, his heart bearing the scar of her loss but still very much in one piece. Since then, he had been much more careful of calling his feelings love, no matter what pretty face caught his attention.
It was only appropriate, then, that it was the heat of a battlefield where he now became convinced he was not simply misreading deep friendship as something more.
Legolas was not too proud to admit that he had felt fear before. Despite his youth, he was far from inexperienced in battle; any who would go through the Battle of Five Armies or see the Balrog and not feel even a moment of fear might as well not have had a heart to begin with. He had feared for himself, and for his kin and friends. He had feared for Tauriel, even until his fear had become reality.
However, even in the worst moments, he had never felt such deep, crippling fear as when he looked about in Helm's Deep and realized he could not see or hear Gimli anywhere nearby.
It wasn't rational, he tried to tell himself. Gimli was a mighty warrior; just because he wasn't by Legolas's side did not mean he had fallen or been injured. However, rational thought had little to do with such deep fears. He could see in his mind's eye the heavy ax fallen from a strong hand, the fiery red of a full beard deepened by blood and gore. They fought best together, he had found, side by side against the enemies. Yet now he could not find Gimli anywhere, could not hear his mighty battle cry, and that awoke fears within Legolas the likes of which he had never felt before.
It was not the fear for a friend, or for a loyal companion. It was not even the fear that had gripped his heart when he had lost sight of his father in the midst of the five armies. No, this was a chilling certainty that if he did not find Gimli in time, if his friend had fallen to the foes, his heart would be buried with the proud dwarf. He would not sing for his fallen friend, like he had sung for Tauriel's departure, because with Gimli gone, there would be no song left to him.
It was a startling thought, and one he might have preferred to have somewhere that was not in the middle of flashing orc blades and the screams of the dying. However, it gave him new fire to continue fighting, to slay foe after foe no matter who came his way, because if he stopped, he could not find Gimli, and that would mean Gimli might pass on to his Halls of Ancestors without knowing the truth of his love.
That same fire kept him from breaking apart when he did find Gimli, tired and dirty and injured but very much in one piece, proudly declaring his own success in battle. He managed to smile and joke and see to his friend's wounds, every part the respectable elf prince as long as anyone could see them.
When they later found a moment together, away from any prying eyes, he fell to his knees at last, clinging to Gimli's clothes and whispering his love. He could have kept silent, of course, hidden his love away never to resurface, but that would have torn him apart. He knew that Gimli would not cast him aside, would not end their friendship over such a thing, and for all that he expected to be told his friendship was all Gimli could offer, at least he would know Gimli did not go to his death without hearing his words.
What he had not expected was grimy yet gentle hands caressing his hair, whispering similar words of devotion into his ear.
They had time for little else, not for caresses or confessions or promises, before they were swept back into the bustle of the fortress. There were wounds to tend and people to organize and mouths to feed, and any who could still stand could not in clear conscience stand aside and do nothing. However, as his eyes met Gimli's, he saw a warmth in them that he had not noticed before, for all that it must have been there prior to his frantic murmurs. That warmth filled his heart, in a way nothing else had done before, not even Tauriel's warmest smiles.
He had not been in love before, and giving his heart away now was sure to end in tears, but somehow, he could not bring himself to regret.