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Chapter Text

Legolas brought his companions to Ithilien for the first time when their work in Gondor had drawn to a close, when they were finished with their tasks but not quite ready to depart.  He had wished to bring them earlier, had felt the yearning to come deep within him – but looking around at them now, watching their faces and feeling their spirits change in tune with the land on which they traveled, he knew that it had been the right decision to wait.  Knew that once they arrived here, they would not be able to leave.

The air itself changed the nearer they drew to Ithilien – changed in a way they could all recognize.  It grew quieter and sadder, as though the air itself were so thick as to choke out the song of the wounded things that grew there.  But there was something different here, different from even the darkness in Mirkwood-that-had-been.  The songs of the plants were themselves quieter: rather than fearful warning of danger nearby, or even the sadness of a light that had been lost, the song was merely – muted.  As though they had been strangled and pressed for so long that they had forgotten how to sing.  And there was a difference to the air, too – an extra bitter-burned taste that sank onto the tongue and lingered in the back of the throat.

He had been expecting it, himself, but his companions did not; the mood that surrounded them changed along with the air, and had they not been on horses, some of them might even have stumbled.  Eleniel’s good hand reached out to brush Legolas’s arm, and he wondered if she felt it the same way he did.  He too had been touched by Mordor, deep-wounded as a result of struggle with a seemingly-endless darkness, and the stifled song of the plants spoke to his own heart. And he wondered if Eleniel felt it, too: if it crawled into her skin, to the burns left below the surface, and touched those not-healing wounds.

Whatever their individual reasons, they had all come here for the same purpose. They had all lived long in a forest suffering and scarred from a similar darkness, and among his friends and confidants, Legolas had also brought some of those most passionate about and skilled with the healing of plants. And he felt as though, looking around at his companions’ faces, he could see the awakening of their compassion.

“I see,” whispered Hadril.  “I see what you meant.”

There was no signal, nothing any other would have recognized, anyway, but Legolas could see when it became too much for the others, when they could not bear to continue on as they had.  It was different for him, of course, who had lived here for some weeks, who had grown kindred spirit to the sad song of the land rather than instant healer – but he stopped when they did, slid from Arod’s back to the ground.  Celair had remained only seconds standing before folding straight to hir knees, and the others followed suit, looking to hir – suddenly – for direction.

Legolas had been glad of Celair’s presence for many reasons; ze was Siril’s sibling, and had been as kin to him even in his younger days: like an elder cousin, perhaps.  But ze was also the most skilled woodland healer and weaver of enchantments who had accompanied him, and he and the others looked to hir now as ze closed hir eyes and lifted hir hands.

Ze began to hum, a low, resonant note that vibrated in Legolas’s chest so that he did not even notice when he began to hum along.  But he felt it when they all picked it up, a single spreading tone that traveled through his body and spirit to connect him to all his companions, that vibrated down his limbs and into the ground beneath his palms and his knees. Felt it sink into soil, felt that note war with the other fouler magics that had soaked into every tiny root and grain of soil.  Felt the combined force of their will swelling out in the unified melody of that single note, fighting all the way with the remnants of suffering – whose source was no longer there, but which had sunk so deeply into everything here that Legolas felt himself tremble with the effort.

And then, when he thought he could no longer bear it, the note cut off, and he slumped.  Around him, he could hear his companions gasping with the effort; his own knees shook so violently that he nearly fell the rest of the way to the ground.  He realized now that he was drenched in a cold sweat.

Celair, he saw when he looked over, was actually lying prone, with hir head turned to the side and ear pressed to the earth. Hir chest and belly rose and fell against the ground as ze breathed: heavily, audibly.

“Well,” ze said.  “We will not be doing that for the entirety of our task.”

“Indeed not.”  Lachor was panting as well.  They all were, Legolas noticed, the ringing quiet in the absence of their song was broken by the heaving breath of a dozen elves.  But he thought that something about that oppressive heaviness in the air had lessened.  “I see now what you meant, Legolas.”

“And so you see why we are needed here?” he said, anxious suddenly – though he knew not why – that they would be frightened away.  “And you still wish to stay?”

“Wish to stay?” laughed Lachor, even from his position on hands and knees.  “Why, I should like to see you pry me away.”

And then the others were chorusing their agreement, and Legolas looked around at all of them, and then again out on this land – so wounded, so stifled, and yet so stubbornly beautiful in spite of that – and his heart was glad.

It was Hadril who noticed it, on their first morning in Ithilien before their true work had begun: the reason for the offness that they had all been sensing – or perhaps merely another symptom of it.

“Legolas,” she called, from where she was knelt in a thicket of brush not far from their campsite.  (In fact, it had been all they could do to clear a campsite that first night at all, one large enough for them all to sleep in.) “Legolas, there is something strange here.  Come and look.”

He came, marveling again at how easily the elves with him had accepted his leadership – for some he had not anticipated problems, but Hadril had never been under his command at home, and so he could not help being surprised at how natural it seemed to her to turn to him.  “What is it?” he asked, kneeling beside her.

“These branches,” she said.  A long forked branch came free from the rest of the brush, rustling and shedding leaves when she tugged, but when Legolas expected to see the end, it continued to extend.  “They are dead.”

“Yes.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “I had gathered that, as they are no longer attached to trees.”

“No” – She stood and dragged it away from the rest, tugging the stubborn twigs free of the brambles.  “I mean, they have been dead for too long.  Look.”

He looked more closely, standing as well as she continued to pull at the branch, and he saw that it was longer than it should have been, for where it was.  It had come from a large tree – the networks of twigs which each grew their own branches spoke of its origin in a tree – ah.  He understood.

“This did not come from any tree near here,” he said.  “It is” –

“Too old.”  She finished his sentence, finally wrenching the last of the branch free of the brush and heaving it away from them, so that it spun and crashed back down with the jagged broken-off end facing them.  “This did not rot off a tree, and yet it must have been knocked aside years ago.  It has been dead for too long, and yet see how well-preserved it is.”

She dealt the branch a solid blow with the side of her hand – a blow that, had the branch been rotting from the inside, should have set it crumbling apart.  Instead, the branch merely shivered. A single shriveled leaf detached slowly and fluttered to the ground.

A chill ran up Legolas’s spine.  “I see what you mean,” he said.  “Is this true of every dead thing here?”

He fell to his knees where she had been and began combing his hands through the undergrowth.  Dried leaves and twigs caught on his fingers and fell away from their roots, but they did not crumble as they should have.  The soil beneath the tips of his fingers felt too dry – not rich as it should have been with the rot of the dead things above it.  And the insects were suspiciously few, as well – his raking fingers encountered no earthworms, none of the round black grubs that burrowed into healthy soil.

He stood again at last, with only a handful of dead leaves for his efforts.  “I think we ought to call the others.”

It must be, they decided, a combination of the nature of Ithilien and its proximity to Mordor.  There was a reason the land had remained so fair for so long, after all: it must be the land itself, hanging on tightly to the beauty and life that had always characterized it.  In the face of the choking evil of Mordor, always threatening to claim more and more of it, the plants and waters and the land itself must have held onto as much life as it could, refusing to relinquish it even to a natural death.

“It has been pressed too hard for too long,” said Legolas.  “It has forgotten how to truly live.”

Eleniel darted a sharp look at him, and he could not blame her for it – but although he could understand the deep wounds of the land, for once he did not speak of himself.

“I start to believe,” said Celair, very carefully, “that perhaps the fires in Lasgalen were necessary for this very reason.”  Ze paused, and Legolas deliberately did not look over at Eleniel – but he knew that everyone around him was doing the same; she made an impatient hissing noise, and ze continued.  “That perhaps the forest needed to be cleared of some of the dead and corrupted things, so that the new and the healthy could grow.”

“Then we should burn the dead things here, too?” said Eleniel.  Legolas looked over at her now and saw that her face was set and hard, her fingers curling and uncurling.  “That the living will have room to grow?”

“That would be my suggestion” –

“Then we shall,” Legolas interrupted.  He wondered for a moment if he should have waited – but she blinked at him in relief, and he was glad he had spoken.  He knew how to speak for Eleniel even as she did him, and longer talk on this topic would do no good for her or for any of them.  “Let us speak no more, but rather begin.”

So they did.

They spent those first days in Ithilien hard at work: raking through brush piles as Legolas had done with Hadril: pulling out the stubborn dead branches and skeletal root systems, freeing the new green leaves and flowering plants beneath.  The dead things they piled in massive stacks during the day for burning in the evenings.

They covered little ground – the work was long and hard, and required attention to every small patch of land.  (It would be better, Legolas hoped, once he was able to return with the rest of their company – some five dozen more at least, he hoped, with others to follow them in the years to come.) But they sang as they worked: harmonies with one another about the joy of life, the triumph of hope; new strains added with every new root system that they freed from the choking tangle, every tiny flower that uncovered its face to the sun.

They burned the brush piles in the evenings.  That first night, Legolas worried – and he thought the others might as well – for Eleniel.  She said nothing, only stood beside him with her right hand clenched within her left, her lips pressed together and jaw tense as the flames rose.  It was almost eerie, how the firelight cast the burns on her face into relief: the flames twisting upwards in the same shapes etched into her skin.  Her left eye gleamed in the firelight; her right, clouded over, seemed to reflect no light.  But the sheen of tears on her cheeks caught enough shine to make up for it.

Legolas wished to reach for her, but knew not if he should.  He did not wish to draw attention to her suffering, or to make her push him away.

She took a long breath through her teeth, and he had almost decided to reach out – when she drew herself up and let it out.

It was the same note Celair had sung the day before, upon their arrival: that same deep-powerful cleansing thrumming.  Her voice shook a bit when she sang it, but it was noticeable for only moments – all the others had drawn in breath and joined her, and their voices rose beneath hers in a cushion of strength and sound.

The fire faltered under their voices, and then seemed to grow stronger – and Legolas felt as though he were part of the fire, as though he could understand that kinship: that shared desire to cleanse, to heal, to drive back that bitter tang of evil that still lingered over the land and bring it forth in all the glory that had so long been kept from it.

They sang for a time, weaving strength and magic and hope together in that powerful chorus, and then once more their strength gave out, and they faltered and stopped.  Beside Legolas, Eleniel was the last to stop singing.

“Oh,” she said faintly when they had finished, and then she sank to the ground and wept.

He let her be.  They all did, in fact.  Legolas and Faimes took their bows and shot a few rabbits for them to eat; Damion and Lachor skinned and roasted the meat once the fires had burned low enough for cooking.  There were herbs aplenty, it seemed; Duvaineth gathered them for seasoning and helped in the last preparations of the meal.  And all the while, Eleniel sat beside that first fire: head bowed, legs crumpled beneath her, weeping into her hands.

But as the meal was being served up, she rose and came to Legolas – and without speaking, she took him in her arms.  He held her, and felt her shake against him – the last of her tears melting into laughter, so long and sweet and deep that he could not but laugh and cry himself.

And then she pulled back from him and wiped her cheeks and smiled, and she took a breath so deep that the air seemed to expand in his own chest as well.  “Thank you,” she said softly.  “For bringing me here.”

“No,” he replied.  “Thank you for coming.”

She braced her hands on his shoulders and held him, and the grip of her hands seemed, for that moment, almost equal.  “I would not have missed it.”

Chapter Text

When it came time for the dwarves to depart for Rohan, Gimli came to fetch Legolas from Ithilien – both because he had not told him exactly when their work would be done, and because he had known that Legolas would not pry himself away on his own.

He had borrowed a pony from another of his company, with the promises to return it safely; he would never enjoy riding on his own (though with Legolas, the prospect was more appealing than he would ever admit).  But on horseback, the journey was quicker than alone.

He had thought it would be more difficult to find the elves – Ithilien was, after all, a large place – but as it happened, they were not too far within the bounds of the land, and their presence was obvious.

He almost thought that he felt them before he saw them: Gimli could not understand the speech of the land, but he could hear enough to tell its mood.  It practically hummed with the elves’ presence; some heaviness that had been there that summer years ago was lightened now. Not gone, perhaps, but – less.

He heard them next: merry voices raised in the songs that had become so familiar to him.  He had never been able to understand elves’ voices in song: perhaps it was because their language was still so new to him that it was all he could to do speak it, or perhaps the language they spoke when they sang was something else entirely.  Gimli did not know it well enough to tell.  But he understood enough: the bright quickness of their melodies and the laughter bubbling between the strains of song made it clear that they were rejoicing.

If he was close enough to hear them, surely they could hear him as well.  He dismounted, to take the rest of the distance on foot, and could not help smiling as he drew nearer, swaying to the rhythm of their voices.

And then a voice broke the melody with a cry of delight; the song frayed apart into silence, and as Gimli crested the hill up which he was trudging, he was met with a blur of green and brown and an enthusiastic embrace.

Elves and dwarves should not have been made to fit so perfectly into one another’s arms – and perhaps it was true that their sizes did not match up the way they could – but Gimli’s arms closed perfectly around Legolas’s waist, and his head was at just the right height to press against his shoulder.  Legolas was warm and slender and solid in his arms; he smelled of leaves and earth and fresh running water.  “Hello, my love,” Gimli murmured into his tunic.  “I hope I have not come at a bad time.”

“Never.”  Legolas pulled back from the embrace enough to peck Gimli on the lips, and Gimli laughed and kept a hand on the back of his neck, deepening the kiss into something longer and sweeter.

“You are filthy,” he said when he pulled back, holding Legolas by the arms and looking down at his dirt-stained knees and the smears of pollen on his clothing.  “I suppose I am, too, now.”  He looked ruefully down at himself – but then, his traveling clothes had seen worse.

“I am sorry,” Legolas began.  “I did not think” –

Gimli interrupted him not in words, pulling him into his arms once more and tucking a kiss into the side of his neck. Legolas’s hair fell into his face, tangled-in leaves brushing against his forehead and cheeks until he had to extract himself for fear of being poked in the eye.  Once he caught fuller sight of it, though, he laughed.  “A crown for the woodland prince?” he asked, reaching up to finger the small white flowers braided into Legolas’s hair.

“And one for his consort.”  Legolas’s fingers were deft, quick enough that Gimli did not notice what he had done until there was another flower tucked behind his own ear.  “I have more for you, if you can delay for a few moments.”

“I came here with the intention of delaying.”  He caught Legolas’s hand as it withdrew and laced their fingers together.  “We cannot stay for too long; my company is assembling in Gondor to begin our journey to Rohan, but I hoped you would be prepared to show me the work you have been doing before we depart.”

“I hoped you would wish to see it!”  Legolas pulled away from Gimli at last, keeping hold of his hand, and gestured with his free hand out over the land beneath the low hill on which they stood.  “Behold!”

It did not look like much to Gimli – not at first.  But low as the hill was, he could see enough of the land surrounding where the other elves were working to notice the difference: it was greener and lighter here, somehow, and though he did not understand the reason for it, he could see what Legolas wished to show him.

As they moved down the hill, the effect decreased, and all that he could see was what was near him.  He could, however, see all the effort the elves were putting in.  They were raking through patches of brush, spreading soil out in clearings, piling dead branches in heaps.  “What are those?” he asked of the piles.

“Those are for burning,” said Legolas.  “I will tell you more of it later, but we found that we needed to clear away and burn the dead things, to give room for the living to grow.  We are mixing the ash with the soil.  Eleniel!” he called suddenly, waving his friend over to them.  “Gimli is here!”

“I am aware,” she said dryly, “as you have made no effort to conceal it from us.”  She smiled at Gimli, though, and his eyes caught the circle of blue and white blossoms that crowned her short dark hair, slipping sideways over one ear.  “Greetings, Gimli.  Welcome to our home.”

Legolas smiled irrepressibly at that, and Gimli could not help mirroring the expression.  Home.  This would be Legolas’s home, henceforth – a home for elves, true, but a home where Gimli would be able to visit him and feel welcome.  And soon they would journey to Rohan, so that he could see his own future home just as well.

“Come,” Legolas said, sliding his hand up Gimli’s arm to drape around his shoulders.  “Before we depart, let us have a midday repast.  I am sure we could all use a rest.  And of course,” he smiled wickedly, “I must add adornments to your hair.”

The elves stopped their work to sit with them as they ate: strips of dried meat seasoned with herbs, wine they had brought with them, and berries, which had been gathered from a bush that looked to Gimli like nothing more than a tangle of branches.  They chatted pleasantly in Sindarin, the elves speaking slowly and patiently of light matters out of courtesy for their guest. They told him of their labors thus far in the land, asked him about his journey home.  The language was limiting, for Gimli could not yet form all the words he needed to speak of the Glittering Caves, and his desire to see them once more.  But the elves listened politely, teasing him lightly when his enthusiasm forced him into Westron.

And all the while Legolas sat behind Gimli, long fingers weaving flowers through his hair.  It was an indignity he never would have suffered even three years ago, but now all he could do was laugh and allow it.  The other elves laughed as well, but their jesting was directed more at Legolas than at him, their jibes spoken slowly enough that Gimli could understand them.

And finally, when they had eaten enough and Legolas had finished his elaborate creation in Gimli’s hair, Gimli sighed, stretched, and stood.  “Well, my love?” he said, turning to Legolas.  “Are you ready to depart?”

“I am.”  Legolas stood as well, looking down at where his elven companions remained seated.  “You know you need not my guidance” –

“A word of advice,” Eleniel interrupted.  “In your capacity as Lord of Ithilien, do not begin your sentences with that phrase.”

Legolas bent down to flick her on the shoulder.  “It is well you should be giving such advice, Interim Lord,” he said.  “I leave all decisions to you and Celair in my absence, with the certainty that you will care for the land well.  And within a few weeks, I expect to return with more companions for our work and our settlement.”

“Travel safe,” said Celair, and Eleniel tugged Legolas into a swift embrace – then, surprising him, Gimli as well.  The others tossed their own farewells at them as Legolas and Gimli retreated to their horses – riding separately for once, though Gimli fully intended to take up his place at Legolas’s back once they could return the pony to Gondor.

“It feels strange,” admitted Legolas, once they were some distance away.  “Having command.”

Gimli turned to look at him.  “Have you not done so before?”  He recalled hearing of Eleniel as Legolas’s second before – surely this was not new to him –

“Of a small archery unit in my father’s guard,” said Legolas.  “Not of a settlement!  It is different – I can make decisions in battle, even in command of a unit.  And they were different kinds of decisions: they needed to be swift, not considered; there was little time to talk myself out of things.  Which is not to say that I did not make terrible mistakes even in that.  And besides, those were based not so much on the considerations of a kingdom, but on trust in my companions, or intuition of each situation” –

“And this will not be so different,” Gimli interrupted him before he could dig himself deeper.  “I see how much your companions trust you, if you do not.  And I can hardly believe that you could have made mistakes so terrible as to deserve such doubt in yourself.”

“Oh, but I could.”  Legolas looked over at Gimli.  “Have you forgotten already what brought me to Rivendell?”

“I” –

Gimli stopped short.

He had, in fact.  He recalled now that he had spoken with his father after the Council that had started it all – that they had laughed at Thranduil’s people’s inability to keep track of their prisoners.  That he had imagined the rude elf who had refused to speak to him likely had some fault in the situation.  He had thought things, he recalled, that shamed him now to remember.

And yet –

“You said . . .” He tried to remember.  “You said that you had allowed Gollum to climb a tree, and that he refused to come down – and then you were attacked by Orcs.”

“Aye.”  Legolas nodded.  “And that was my decision.  Lives were lost that day, Gimli – young warriors, people I knew well – because I thought that a simulation of freedom for one prisoner was more important than the safety of those under my command.”

“Perhaps,” Gimli mused.  “Or perhaps it was the right decision after all.”  He was remembering more now, stories that Frodo and Sam had told of their journey.  “Had Gollum not been free, Frodo might never have had his guide to Mordor; the Ring might never have been destroyed.  Perhaps the intuition you mentioned before guided you, although you did not know it.”

“Perhaps.”  Legolas did not look convinced.

“I see now why you came to Rivendell.”  Gimli was thinking aloud now.  He had never asked about it, but once he had understood Legolas’s worries and reluctances, he had wondered why Legolas had been the chosen messenger.  “Were you asked to deliver the message, or did you volunteer?”

“I volunteered,” Legolas said.  “How could I not?  After the damage my mistakes had wrought? – Eleniel told me she would do it herself, but I could not have lived with myself if I had not.”

“And so you did,” Gimli said, “and so you took on your role in our Quest – none of which you would have wished to do – why?  Out of guilt?”

“Yes,” Legolas said, “but not only.  Also out of a – a feeling that it was the way things were meant to be.”

“And so it was.”  Gimli dared to take a hand off the reins and gestured around him.  “And now you are here, and I am here, and – we would never have met, had you not decided to come to Rivendell.  Had you not braved your fears and told your story.  And now we ride together on our way to establish our new homes, and all has turned out as it should.  Legolas – none of what you have told me now has convinced me that you are the wrong person to be leading your people.  You have more courage than you believe, and more intuition than you know.  If nothing else,” and now he smiled, “I would hope you would trust my instincts.”

Legolas made a small sound, and Gimli looked over to see that his head was ducked, loose hair and braids and flowers falling to shield his face.  “Thank you, my love,” he said.  “I know not what I have done to deserve one like you, but” –

“Have you not heard a word I have said?” Gimli demanded.  “You are yourself, and that is all you need to do to be deserving.”

Legolas laughed.  “Thank you,” he repeated.  “I – thank you.”  He brushed his hair back and turned to look at Gimli.  “Do you think we could perhaps make a short stop soon?  For I believe I need to kiss you senseless.”

Gimli’s smile grew.  “That sounds like the most urgent sort of delay.”

Chapter Text

When they arrived at last at the Glittering Caves, Alma was the first of Gimli’s company through the archway.  She had barely contained her excitement all through the necessary greetings with Éomer, and her cry of delight was heard before any of the others even caught sight of what she had seen.

Gimli stood back to allow his fellows in before him.  It was only fair; he, after all, had seen much of these caves before, even if his eyes would never have their fill. Legolas waited silently at his side, fingers laced with his.  Gimli spared a moment, allowing his companions to stream past them, to remember the last time he had been here: looking anxiously at Legolas’s face in the hope of seeing appreciation there, only to realize that his elven companion saw the same beauty that he did, and falling deeper in love with every slight change in Legolas’s expression.

More sounds were coming from his companions now: impressed whistles, gasps of disbelief, shocked murmurs from the few whose expectations had been low.  Gimli grinned despite himself, and Legolas squeezed his hand.

And they had stood here before, as well; Gimli remembered that.  Remembered blindfolding Legolas here, both wishing to surprise him all at once and taking guilty pleasure in the feeling of Legolas’s hair beneath his hands and breath on his face –

He lifted a hand to Legolas’s neck to guide him under the archway, and their eyes met for a moment in shared memory.  Then Legolas ducked his head and allowed Gimli to lead him in without a moment of hesitation.

The beauty threatened to overwhelm Gimli as they wandered through the caves, but, as last time, he paid most attention to his companions.  Their reactions to this were what interested him: he wished to see who would surely come back with him, who would want to make these caverns into their home, and why.

There were those, like Alma, whom he had never doubted, and whose responses now gave him joy to see.  She spent her time in the first two caverns exclaiming in delight at all that she saw, but by the third, she had fallen silent, and now merely trailed her fingers gently over pillars or corners or edges of stone, as though already feeling for the shapes they would make.  Oh, she would come; and she would be his second in the building once more (though he would need other advisors, statecrafters more instructed and experienced in diplomacy, for the rest).

Then there were those like Skafi, who from the first Gimli had known would not stay longer.  Of late his contributions had grown fewer and fewer; he had drawn into himself.  Even now, though he too seemed impressed with the caves, his reactions were not as enthusiastic as the others’, and Gimli knew he longed to return home to Erebor.  Gimli would not be sorry to see him go – they had never found the understanding that perhaps they should have developed – but he thought that this parting would be for the good of all of them.

There were others, though, whose reactions were less predictable; those who had come to Gondor out of a desire to experience something new or to be paid for the project, and whose paths were now uncertain to Gimli.  He had asked for no commitments from his companions until after they saw the caves now, and even now – he could not be sure how to feel.  There were those like Narin, who had seemed skeptical of their dealings with elves and men, but who now seemed enraptured by the beauty of the caves – what was he to do with them?  Would their desire to live here war with their reluctance to be further involved with the world outside of Erebor?

He wondered these things for a moment, wondered if he should be watching every individual dwarf, but Legolas tugged on his hand beside him, and he looked up in surprise.

“Do not question them now,” Legolas breathed into his ear.  “Do not let your worries about the future mar your joy at returning here now.”

Gimli raised an eyebrow at him.  He should not be surprised, even now, at how well Legolas understood him, but he could not help it.  “You of all people should understand that is easier said than done,” he murmured back.

Instead of taking offense, Legolas smiled.  “And so I of all people am uniquely qualified to give you this advice.”  He bent to drop a quick kiss on Gimli’s temple.  “You have taught me that dwarves are skilled in knowing their own minds – believe, then, that your people will make up theirs in their own time.  And that you will be able to make the final decisions about your companions.  Allow them – and yourself – this time to appreciate.”

“I suppose you are right,” said Gimli.  “No” – He smiled now, sliding an arm around Legolas’s waist in a spontaneous half-embrace.  “I know you are right.  Thank you.”

“Always,” said Legolas.  “Now go, my love, and enjoy.”

And so he did.

They stayed at Helm’s Deep for some days, sleeping in the Hornburg and wandering during the day.  Gimli used the time with purpose: walking with chosen companions (always including Alma) through the caves, discussing their potential and their possibilities in florid Khuzdul and expansive gestures.

That first day, Legolas tried to join them in their wanderings.  Most of the dwarves still did not know of his endeavors to learn their language, and they were accustomed to his silence – but he found that, for all that he could keep up with the speed of their speech, and often even understand Gimli’s lapses into more poetic language, when they moved into more technical discussions, he was left far behind.  He had not learned of the many different names for rock formations, or of the particular structures that might be formed for them.  And he did not wish to slow Gimli down with explanations, or draw attention to his own knowledge of Khuzdul.

He visited the horses instead.

The caves were beautiful, it was true; they would be Gimli’s home, in the years to come, and Legolas knew that in any home Gimli crafted, there would be space for him.  (And that thought, that knowing, was a deep and solid certainty unlike anything he had ever felt before.) But now, as lovely as the caverns were, Legolas knew that these conversations were not where he fit, that the caves as they were were not the place for him.

(He was not thinking about the return to Erebor.  Steadfastly, and determinedly, he was not thinking about that.)

Out in the fields, though – ah, that was good.  He had not always been fond of such wide open spaces – he was accustomed to tight-packed trees, winding paths, rustlings and murmurs always alert to warn him of danger – and places to hide when it came.  But he had come to love the open in its own way: the expanse of green field, where he could cast his vision and hearing out so far; the feeling of the sun or rain or wind sinking into his skin and soul.  Here he could not climb, but he could run: fast and far and in any direction.

And the horses!  Horses were not unfamiliar to him, for he had ridden them on his few errands outside of Lasgalen, but their voices were still unusual to him: he could only make out the mood of their speech, not the meaning. But he could speak to them and make himself understood, and they wanted little from him – only a companion.

And so he spent his days running with the horses of Rohan, befriending some individuals, trying and failing to keep up with their fastest speeds.  Arod seemed pleased to be back among other horses, but he did not forget his particular friendship with Legolas, and always returned to him, nosing at his hands or at his neck: sometimes in search of treats; sometimes merely out of friendship.

And at night, he returned to Gimli and the other dwarves for meals, sat mostly quiet at the table with Gimli’s leg pressed against his in wordless comfort, attempted to make pleasant conversation with Éomer or the others sitting beside Gimli.

On their third night there, though, he found himself restless after dinner and chose to wander – for once, through the caves on his own.  He did not have the stone sense of the dwarves, but he had been through some of the passages enough that he would not get lost.

He was in one of his favorite spaces – a wide-open chamber whose walls glimmered with the pearly substance he had noticed his last time, and whose ceiling tapered to an open skylight similar to that in his own chambers at home.  Night was falling, and he was gazing up at the sunset visible through the light, casting soft orange gleamings on the walls, when she wandered in.

“Lord Legolas,” she said.

“Lis.”  He did not know her well, though she had been friendly enough to him.  For all that she had become friendly with others of his folk, he found that he did not know what to say to her.  “How do you fare this evening?”

He cringed as he said it – the triteness of his own question seemed to echo around the walls, and he clasped his left hand in his right, rubbing the inside of his wrist with his opposite thumb.  Perhaps she had not come looking for conversation?  Or had looked for something more interesting from him?

“I am well enough,” she said: slow, thoughtful, as though she wished the response not to be automatic.  “And you?”

“The same.”  He should go – she looked as though she wished to be alone, and he was taking up the space she wanted for herself.  “I apologize for my intrusion, I” –

“You are hardly intruding,” she interrupted.  “You were here already when I came in.  Do you object to my company?”

He cringed once more.  “Nay.”  Now he could not leave, even if he had wished to – but did he wish to?  She at least fell quiet after that, pacing around the center of the room and gazing up at the sky, even as the sun fell lower and dusk took over.  Small insects began to come out, their low whining creating an oddly pleasant harmony, and for a moment it was almost companionable.

Then she spoke again.  “Tell me, my lord.  Would you plant a garden here?”

“I?”  The question surprised him, though perhaps it should not have.  He knew, after all, that gardens were Lis’s specialty, that that was the cause of her particular friendship with Duvaineth, that –

“You, or anyone, I suppose.  Do you think that plants would grow well in this room?”

Legolas looked up, then around.  Sunlight would enter this place well enough, and besides, gardens could be grown indoors if one cared enough – but that was known well enough to most anyone, elves and dwarves alike, so this question must have more meaning than it seemed on the surface.

“Plants can thrive anywhere they are tended properly,” he answered quietly.  “But I think that a garden would be especially lovely here, yes.”

“Anywhere they are tended properly,” she said, almost breathed, as though speaking more to herself than to him.  She kept her eyes fixed up on where the sky was growing ever darker, stars peeking through the fabric of night.  “Did you know, I had no idea how to tend a garden before coming to Gondor.  We grow plants in Erebor, for food and medicine and such, but they are not grown for the purpose of beauty.  I had always been fascinated with them, but I never knew what could be done with them – what marvels they could grow to be.”

“Ah,” was all Legolas said.  He had thought Lis was a specialist – thus she had been introduced to him.  But perhaps she had merely said so because she wished to be?  “And so you came to Gondor to learn?”

“Aye.”  She laughed, a strange sort of half-amused chuckle.  “And learn I did – learn more than I ever thought was there.  And now I find myself returning to Erebor with a knowledge of myself that I have heretofore lacked, and a craft whose individual existence I have ever doubted.”

Legolas was quiet for a moment.  He could see that he was being given a gift, and although he knew not exactly why she had chosen to tell him this, he could also see the worth in what she offered him.  At last, he asked her, “Am I wrong in thinking that you would tend well a garden, if it were here?”

“You are not,” she said.  “But I think I would not want to do so alone.”

He knew, then, what was being asked of him – and he knew the only answer that he could give.  “I can only speak for myself,” he said, “but I think I can assure you that you will not be.”

Chapter Text

On their last evening at Helm’s Deep, Gimli pulled Legolas aside after dinner.  “Will you walk with me awhile tonight?” he asked.  “I have something I would discuss with you.”

Before Legolas’s heart even had a chance to spike, Gimli seemed to realize what he had said.  “Good things only!” he added hurriedly.  “Nothing for which you need be concerned, I promise.”  He smiled up at Legolas.  “It is only that we have seen little of one another in the last days, and I would right that tonight.”

“Oh!” It had been foolish of him to worry, of course.  “I would like nothing better.”

They strolled, as before, to the entrance to the caves.  This time, though it was just they two once more: no other dwarves to take up Gimli’s attention or Legolas’s concerns, and as they walked side by side, Legolas felt some tightness inside of him begin to relax – a tension he had not noticed before.

When they reached the entrance, he made to duck beneath, but Gimli stopped him with a hand on his arm.  “Wait,” he said softly.

Legolas turned, puzzled, and was captured by the shine of Gimli’s eyes, the softness of his smile.  His expression was filled with the melting tenderness that Legolas had never seen directed at another, that always made his bones loosen and his insides warm.  “Wait for what?” he asked, although his voice came out as only a breath.

Gimli reached up and rested a hand on the back of Legolas’s neck; Legolas bent down slightly, automatically, a moth to the low-burning flames of his eyes.  “We came here, years ago,” said Gimli.  “All this long week I have wondered if you remember it the way I do, if you prize the memory more than I would any gem mined from this place.  If every detail plays in your mind as it does mine.”

“It does,” said Legolas in a rush.  “Every time I stand here, it does – I had never thought being blindfolded could be such a pleasant memory, but I remember the way your hands felt against my head, and I remember how I could scarcely dare to breathe, and I remember how I wondered even then if you felt as I did.  But I think there was part of me that knew it even then, for all my doubts.” He wondered if he was rambling; he fell silent, face warming.

“And I felt the same.”  Gimli sifted his fingers through Legolas’s hair until he found the marriage braid he had woven, and taught Legolas to weave himself, flicking a finger against the bead he had crafted.  “I had come to know with certainty that you were the one for me – the one I would love for all my life and beyond it, whether or not you returned those feelings.  And though I feared with every part of me that you would not” – He tugged Legolas’s hair lightly, and Legolas subsided without speaking – “I prized every moment of our time together, as much as I prize these caverns.  And now I stand beside you, with our vows made and our future assured, and I see these caves as the home they will become – and I would spend an evening with the two dearest desires of my heart.”  Legolas could not look at him anymore; the gentleness in his face and the kindness in his voice was more than he felt he deserved and he closed his eyes against it, even as he wished for Gimli never to stop speaking.  “I would walk through these caves with you at my side, the same but so different, and I would bask in the knowledge that all my dreams have come true.”

“You are too generous.”  Legolas brought a hand up to cover his face, needing more of a shield suddenly – but Gimli reached up and removed it, resting his palm against Legolas’s cheek instead and holding him there, so that Legolas had no protection against the love in his face.

“You deserve nothing less,” he said.  “Now, my love,” before Legolas could protest, “will you walk with me?  Will you retrace our steps through this journey we had only just begun, three years ago?”

“How strange, that you think you need to ask.”

There was no blindfolding this time, no hesitant hope in the air between them, but a sweet certainty instead.  Their steps matched from long walking together; their thighs brushed with each step.  Legolas laid an arm over Gimli’s shoulders, and Gimli wound his around Legolas’s waist, and their footsteps echoed together in the otherwise quiet.

“I told you once before,” said Legolas after long moments, “that you were fit to be the lord of this realm.”  He would never truly move beyond that awe that struck him sometimes, when he looked upon Gimli and remembered that they were wed, but now, at least, he could speak it aloud.  “Ever I have thought you magnificent, Gimli, and to see you here in all your splendor seems only fitting.”

“Now it is you who flatter too much.”  Gimli led Legolas through the next chamber, and then stopped.  “I wished to show you something – a place I do not think you have yet visited here.”

“And how can you be so certain of that?”

Gimli only gestured in response.

It was a passageway Legolas had not seen before, and he could not deny Gimli’s reasoning – even if he had, it was not a way he would have taken unprompted.  In fact, it hardly looked like a passage so much as a hole in the corner of a larger room.  “I concede,” he laughed.  “I have certainly not been through there before.  But you would take me now?”

“We will expand the passage, once we have begun our work here,” promised Gimli.  “But if you will trust me, there is a room at the end that I want you to see.”

“There is much in this world about which I am uncertain,” said Legolas, “but one thing that will never be so is my trust in you.”

The passage was too short for even Gimli to stand upright: he bent nearly double at the waist to make his way through, and there was nothing for it but for Legolas to crawl on hands and knees.  It was dark in the passage, and he could hardly see; he gauged his own speed by the sound of Gimli’s slow steps and soft grunts of effort, and could not help laughing when his forehead bumped awkwardly against Gimli’s backside.

“Now, now, Master Elf,” said Gimli mock-sternly, though Legolas could hear the amusement in his voice as well, “there are better places for such boldness.”

“I cannot help it,” Legolas tossed back.  “It is your fault that I forget the demands of propriety when you are near.”

Gimli snorted at that, reaching back with a fumbling hand to swat him on the head.

They made their shuffling way through the passage, but true to Gimli’s word, it was not long before it grew lighter around them.  “Ah,” Gimli said then in satisfaction, “here we are,” and then he was straightening up, and Legolas emerged from the passageway and looked around in wonder.

The room was significantly smaller than most of the chambers they had ventured through, not hall-sized, but still large and open: perhaps the size of their small house in Minas Tirith.  The walls were dark green, uneven edges revealing that they were uncut gemstones that shimmered subtly in the sunset that filtered in through the two window-sized openings high on the opposite wall.  It was simpler than the larger chambers that Legolas had seen, simple and beautiful in a way that touched something inside of him.

“You need not say yes if it does not please you,” Gimli said, “but when I found this place, I thought of you – of us.  And I thought this place could be made into our chambers – the home of the Lord and his consort.”  He smiled, but there was a hesitancy to it, a tentative hope.

Legolas’s heart swelled so full that he could not speak.  All he could do was bend down and take Gimli’s face between his hands to kiss him.

“Shall I take that as a yes?” asked Gimli, when Legolas pulled back again.

“It is perfect,” Legolas breathed against his lips.  “Exactly right – and exactly what I never would have allowed myself to dream of when we came here last.”  He kissed Gimli again, and then pulled back to gaze around.  “Just the place where an elf and a dwarf might dwell together in harmony.”

Gimli let out a long relieved sigh, and Legolas was touched anew, that Gimli had hoped so much for his agreement in this.  “Exactly that was my thought,” he said.  “I saw the windows and the walls, and I thought of you, and I am so glad that it pleases you.”  He tugged Legolas down for another kiss, longer and deeper.  “I will construct it for us, if you trust me” – Legolas nodded frantically against his mouth, but could not even open his own to repeat his assurance before Gimli captured it again in another long, clinging kiss. “But I wondered,” he pulled back once more, hands now wandering down over Legolas’s shoulders and chest, “if you would like to begin the process of making it our own.”

“Making it our own?” Legolas asked, but then Gimli’s mouth was on him once more, lips moving from his face to his neck, hands on his shoulders pressing him lower to the ground, and ah.

“Ah,” he said aloud, and whether it was an indication of his own understanding or a reaction to Gimli’s lips against his earlobe, he did not know.

Either way, the answer was the same.

Chapter Text

When the time came, Legolas and Gimli bade farewell to the remainder of the dwarven party near the outer boundaries of the elves’ habitat, the farthest into the wood-elves’ realm that the other dwarves were willing to venture. They would continue to ride along the outer borders of Lasgalen on their journey back to Erebor; Legolas and Gimli would turn deeper in, some two days’ journey to the halls of his father.

“I will be gone a few days yet,” Gimli reminded Alma, clapping her on the shoulder.  “You will be responsible for spreading the word in that time; I will speak to those whose names you gather when I arrive.  Ganar,” he indicated the older dwarf with hair not quite as red as his own; a distant cousin, as far as Legolas had been made to understand, “you have charge of the party on the way back to Erebor.”

Legolas gazed around at the rest of the dwarves, who were shifting and muttering. It seemed many of them had not taken Gimli at his word that he would be remaining in the forest for a short time.  His sharp ears caught most of the mutterings of apprehension – understandable enough even had he lacked any knowledge of Khuzdul. But it did not matter what Legolas could hear, for soon enough one of them – Regar, Legolas thought his name was – spoke up aloud.

“Are you certain, my lord?” he said.  “To remain so long in Mirkwood” –

“Lasgalen,” Gimli said sharply.  “You would use a tainted name at a realm’s very border, before its prince?  I have been here before, Regar, under far less favorable circumstances, and came to no harm then, nor will I now.  Besides,” and he turned to look at Legolas with a sly sideways smile, “I have family to visit.”

Legolas could not help wondering if Gimli took pleasure in scandalizing his kin.  And watching his husband’s face closely as his ears picked up more – less complimentary – murmurings, he decided that this was indeed the case.

“Very good, my lord,” said Lis aloud – too loud, perhaps in an effort to speak over the few who were discontented.  “Then we wish you a safe journey.”

A few others echoed sentiments to that effect, and Gimli smiled.  “That’s more like it,” he said.  “I wish you all the same, and we shall see one another once more in Erebor.”

“Farewell, my lord!” said Alma, drawing him into an embrace that seemed to surprise him, if his sudden huff of air was anything to go on.  But before Legolas realized what was happening, she had relinquished Gimli and turned to tug him in turn – embracing him tight around the waist and pressing the breath from his lungs as well.  “And to you, my lord Legolas!  You will come with Lord Gimli to Erebor, will you not?”

“I will,” said Legolas, putting his arms around her as well.  Alma had been one of the greatest joys of the group of dwarves in Gondor, and he was glad that this was not the last he would see of her.  “How could I not, when you will be there for me to see again?”

“Good.”  Alma pulled back.  “For I should hate it if this were truly farewell.”

The farewells needed not be dramatic – they would all be seeing one another soon, after all – but it felt like the end of something, and indeed it was.  Legolas said his goodbyes to other friendly acquaintances he had made among the dwarves; even those who had maintained their distance managed stiff nods.  Some would be returning, and some would not – but there was a marked difference in friendliness between those two categories.

He hesitated before approaching Karstin. They had spoken more than once, but Legolas had never managed to overcome his own uncertainty – he could never tell if the dwarf’s gruffness came from a similar place as his own discomfort, or if it was in fact dislike.  Even now, he was unsure if he should say an individual farewell, or simply leave it as it lay – but Karstin made the decision for him.

“Master Legolas,” he said, coming up to Legolas and beckoning.  “Come with me for a moment, if you would.”

Legolas’s head went light, his stomach cold, but he followed. This was nothing serious, he tried to reassure himself, though he did not believe it; surely Karstin merely did not wish to say whatever he had to say before other dwarves – but what had he to say? –

“Thank you.”

Legolas nearly stumbled.  “I – what did you” –

“I said I thank you,” said Karstin again.  He did not look up, his eyes fixed on Legolas’s collarbones.  “I know our experience is not the same, but none has ever been so understanding of my own before.  And I am grateful for your patience. I know your own particular” – he hesitated – “struggles are different from my own, and I thank you for braving them in an effort to reach me.”

He and Karstin had never been as close as friends – only ever allies, it seemed, linked in the face of a common struggle – but Legolas looked at him now and felt a surge of fondness.  This proud dwarf, who had spent so much effort hiding his pain, and who now let Legolas see it.  “No, I thank you,” he said.  “For allowing me in.”

Karstin nodded at him, still not looking into his eyes – but Legolas appreciated that.  He nodded back, and then without another word they returned to the group so that they might part at last.

Eryn Lasgalen lived up to its new name.

Gimli had seen the forest only once, but that once was enough for him to marvel at the changes in it in only the few short years since he had been here last. It was not so much in sight, at first, but in feeling: the oppressive heaviness that had hung in the air seemed to have lightened somehow.  The air was less thick, easier to draw into Gimli’s lungs – and when he cocked his head – could he hear birdsong?

Legolas’s waist beneath his hands expanded and contracted, his breath deeper than it usually was, and Gimli wondered if he too felt he could breathe easier.  His hands tightened around Gimli’s, and though he spoke not a word, Gimli could only imagine what the joy might be for him, who could see and feel so much more.

They continued to speak little, in fact, as they made their way deeper into the forest.  Legolas guided Arod unerringly along the path, and even the horse seemed more relaxed than he might otherwise have been.  Gimli spared a thought for the strangeness of the thing – where his father, so many decades before, had gone so hopelessly astray and been imprisoned, he came now as a guest – as kin, even – with a guide who knew the forest as well as his own body.

They made camp that night, in a little clearing where, Legolas informed him, they had camped last time as well – but trees were trees to Gimli, and he did not recognize it.  For all the lightness of the forest, Legolas insisted on sitting watch.  Just in case, he said, and Gimli had heard enough of the once-horrors of this wood not to question him. And the next morning, they journeyed on.

It was then that they arrived at a part of the forest Gimli recognized.

He felt it the way he had last time – as though the air seemed to open up around them.  There were still trees, but somehow the space between them was greater.  But this time there was no smell of burn to warn them – and so it was still a surprise to Gimli when they entered the almost-clearing that had once been a burn scar.

But it was so different!

The sun spilled over them in the sudden absence of shadowing canopy, warming Gimli’s back and assaulting his eyes in a sudden blaze of light. The beams reflected off the young green leaves of the saplings – trees perhaps as tall as Gimli, with thin trunks and whippy branches, spaced here and there throughout, with ferns and greenery between them.  And still a path was visible through them, and Gimli noted the rustlings, as though small animals and insects made their homes there.

Just like the sun breaking through the shade, something in that hushed mood that had held them was broken.  Legolas exhaled deeply, and then he was laughing, low and quiet and so merry that Gimli could not help but join in, though he did not understand.  “It is so easy to forget, when you have no reminder of it.”  He gazed out around the forest, and laughed again.  “And yet with such proof before me, how could I ever have doubted?”

He slid down from Arod and turned to give Gimli a hand.  Gimli did not understand why they were dismounting, but the sun threw gold across Legolas’s skin and points of light reflected like flecks of topaz in his eyes, and before he knew it Gimli was accepting his hand and sliding to the ground beside him.

“What did you doubt?” he asked, for he felt that herein lay the answer to Legolas’s strangeness.

“I forgot,” Legolas said, dropping to one knee and stroking a fern growing beside him, “that ash makes the soil richer.”

Before Gimli could think how to answer that, Legolas had reached up to tug him to his level and kiss him: long thorough kisses broken by bursts of that same quiet but joyful laughter.  Gimli wondered if it was the sun or the fresh air or the joy of seeing his forest healing and growing green and fresh once more – but whatever the reason, Legolas kissed him again and again, now accompanying the kisses with long rolling motions of his hips against Gimli’s.  And for all that he was the taller with Legolas kneeling, Gimli felt himself being bent slowly back, borne towards the ground.

Ah, something had to be done, and it seemed he was the one to do it. “Legolas,” he panted, pulling his mouth free of his husband’s with a sucking sound, “Legolas, my love, what exactly are you doing?”

“I know not,” Legolas murmured, and laughed again: low and wild.  The uneven huffs of his laughter gusted across Gimli’s lips, as warm and soft as the sun on his skin, as the sweetness of his mouth.  “I know not, Gimli – but is it not glorious?”

Some fey mood was upon him, but Gimli could not bring himself to disagree, though he kept his hands firm against Legolas’s sides – to keep him from dancing away, perhaps?  Though it seemed as though Legolas had an entirely different sort of dance in mind.

“Do you – hmm,” he said, the last of his unfinished question swallowed up in the next press of Legolas’s mouth.  It was well enough, he decided dimly.  It had not been a very important question anyway – in fact, he had quite forgotten it by the time Legolas pulled away.

Legolas’s next words, though, reminded him well enough.  “Gimli,” he said, his hips still undulating in long languid waves, his eyes all warm brown iris, pupils pinpricks against the sunlight.  “I would have you here – right here, in the new-growth of a forest long darkened, under the smiling beam of the Sun” – He seemed to run out of words, or perhaps he had simply decided on a better use of his mouth.

Gimli could hardly disagree that this was more pleasant than talk, but after some time Legolas’s words caught up to him.  “Legolas,” he said the next time they separated for air, and forced his mind to remember it even when they came together again, “my dearest – mmm – you mean to – no, wait – you mean right here, right now, when any passing patrol of your kin might happen upon us?”

Legolas blinked at him, startled into stillness, with eyes large and dark and – sheepish.  “I” – He closed his mouth.

Gimli could not help himself: he burst out laughing.  He ran his hands up and down Legolas’s sides to soothe his affront, but he threw his head back and let the laughter roll out of him, up at the sky so visible above them.  “Legolas, my love,” he said between chuckles, “no.”  He leaned forward, cradling Legolas’s head against his shoulder and burying his face in the silky hair.  “Not here, not now, you lovely delirious fool.”  Some devil seized him then, and he kissed down the side of Legolas’s head to nip at an ear, laughing when Legolas full-body-shuddered against him.  “Get me first to your home, to your private rooms, and then you may have whatever you wish of me.”

Legolas sighed into Gimli’s collarbone.  “I suppose you are right,” he whispered, lips brushing over soft skin in a way that may or may not have been deliberate revenge.  Then he looked up.  “You are sure?”

Gimli laughed again and kissed him once more, then stepped back and tugged at Legolas’s shoulders to get him to rise.  “Come, let us go,” he said, “for the sooner we ride on, the sooner we will be in a place of assured privacy.”

“Ah, very well,” sighed Legolas, and rose to his full height once more. “But I will take you up on your word, never doubt it.”

“I would not dare,” Gimli assured him, and let Legolas help him mount once more.

They rode along the path through the new-growing forest, and Legolas’s head swiveled ever from one side to another; sometimes his shoulders too would twist so that he could turn and beam at Gimli – the kind of wide, abandoned smile that Gimli treasured seeing on his face.  He did not speak, but finally Gimli did.

“Tell me,” he said.  “Tell me about the joy that shines through your face.”

Legolas’s smile widened.  “I have never heard birdsong in this part of the forest before,” he said simply.

Gimli had never cared about trees or birds or forests before he met Legolas – but now he felt himself smiling as well, in borrowed joy, and he wrapped his arms tighter around Legolas’s waist and held him close.

They rode thus for a while longer, out of the sun and back under the shade of the trees. The forest was still dark and dense, heavy tree canopies and ominous rustling noises, but it seemed to feel less oppressive, less unfriendly, than the last time Gimli had been here.  Or perhaps he was only imagining it, comparing the absence of tension in Legolas’s sides and shoulders to his stiffness on their arrival before, when he had worried so for his forest and his people.

But just as Gimli was pondering this, Legolas froze.

Gimli’s breath caught in his throat as his husband went tense and alert against him, chin lifting, head tilting as though to make out some noise that Gimli could not hear.

“Legolas?” he breathed, knowing it was not a good idea, but unable to say nothing.

“Be alert,” Legolas whispered back, his voice no louder than the rustling leaves. “Something approaches us.”

“Something?” For all he tried to keep it low, Gimli felt his voice rise in alarm.

“It is not too near, not yet,” Legolas responded.  His tone was more reassuring now, but Gimli could not help noticing that his hand was on the hilt of his knife.  “It is coming fast, though – I know not yet” – He broke off, cocked his head to one side – and then all at once his muscles relaxed, his head dropping, and he sighed, murmuring something under his breath that Gimli could not make out.  Then he shook his head.  “Ah, fear not, we are in no danger.”

“What did you hear?” Gimli asked, but Legolas paid his words no mind.

“Hold on,” he said instead, in Westron and then in Sindarin, and with that as his only warning he sprang down from Arod’s back.  Gimli swayed in his seat but remained upright, groping for the horse’s mane and hoping that he would not take this moment to flee with Legolas away.  But it seemed that the last command had been for Arod as well as Gimli, for he only pawed at the ground once before settling.  Legolas laid a hand briefly on the horse’s nose, murmured one more command – “Stay calm” – and then he burst into motion.

And so did the woods.

That last was a bit of an exaggeration, but Gimli startled badly at the flurry of motion in a tree ahead of them, a loud snapping of twigs and shedding of leaves, and then a gold-and-green blur streaked down from the tree and launched itself at Legolas.

The clang of blades rang in Gimli’s ears almost before he could resolve the image in his mind: the blur was another elf, taller than Legolas and fair-skinned and golden-haired. He could think initially of two who could fit that description – and something told him that this was not Thranduil.

Gimli had not imagined that Legolas’s sister would be the type to attack him unprovoked from the trees – but then, it was true that he did not know her well.  He found his estimation of her rising as he watched, though – never before had he seen Legolas so outmatched by an opponent.  Her each movement was almost too fast for Gimli’s eyes to follow, her sword flashing with each fleck of sunlight that managed to filter through the trees, and within moments she had sent Legolas’s knife spinning out of his hand, her sword point at his collarbone.

For all that Legolas had assured him that they were in no danger, Gimli could not help wondering for just a moment if he had been mistaken – but then his opponent sheathed her sword and laughed, hauling him in for an embrace, and Gimli relaxed.

“I should have known that it would be useless to attempt to take you by surprise,” she said – in Westron, and Gimli noted the courtesy although she had yet to address him directly.  “But I could not resist observing for myself if your reflexes had dulled after time away from the forest.”  She pulled back and held his shoulders.  “I find they have not.”

“Not dulled,” said Legolas, “if not sharpened as I might have wished.”  He turned aside to Gimli.  “If you would believe it, that was a worthy showing on my part.  Not in all my years of life have I ever bested Laerwen with the blade.”

She waved a hand.  “But nor have I been able to take you by surprise in hundreds of years.”

“That is the only element not in your advantage,” said Legolas wryly, and then pulled free of her to help Gimli at last down from Arod’s back.  “But ah, I am glad to see you again!”

“And I you,” she said, and, turning to Gimli, “and you as well, Master Gimli.”  To Gimli’s surprise she came to him and laid a hand in his, slender but strong and callused – and he, acting on some instinct that surprised even him with its boldness, lifted it to his lips.

“I thank you for the greeting, my la – Laerwen,” he amended at her stern look.  “I am pleased to see you as well, if the manner of greeting was not as I would have expected.”

“I suppose not.”  She grinned suddenly, wide and open, and for all that she and Legolas were wildly unlike, their faces seemed nigh identical when they smiled thus.  “But I confess, I could not resist the spectacle.  Come with me now, and we will see that you have all the comforts of the prince’s chambers after your days on the road.”

Elven hearing was not so keen as to have made out their earlier conversation, was it?  Gimli did not know, and he certainly was not about to ask.  Instead he merely nodded and turned, and, as they had done before, they followed Laerwen back to Thranduil’s halls.

Chapter Text

Last time they had come through here they had ridden; Legolas’s apprehension at their arrival swallowed up in excitement to see his father. Though that excitement was still present, Legolas chose to walk today instead: it would be Gimli’s preference, certainly, and he found he was in no rush. Sparse sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees, the air was clean and sweet, and his love and his sister were on either side of him.

He laced his fingers through Gimli’s as they walked; they had long since found the perfect tilt of wrists and arms that let them hold hands without too much strain.  And he chatted with Laerwen in Sindarin without worrying that he was leaving anyone out – so long as they spoke slowly enough for Gimli to follow, and sometimes even join in.

“There will be another feast,” she said, holding up a hand before Legolas could even gather breath to speak, “and do not even try to protest it.  There is no use talking him out of it; he has had it planned for months, ever since we knew you would be coming home within the year.”

“Of course he has,” Legolas mumbled.  His father’s revels were famous, even if the other elven kingdoms had never quite understood them.  “Tonight already, do you think, or will he give us time to rest from our journey first?”

“He did not give us time last time, and that journey was much more taxing,” Gimli pointed out.  “I cannot believe he would be kinder now.”

His words were a bit stilted, heavily accented, but Legolas beamed at the surprise on Laerwen’s face.  “Your command of our language is impressive, Master Dwarf, particularly as Legolas tells me you have not been learning it for long.”

“Thank you,” said Gimli.  “That means much, from one whom I know to speak a few words in my own.”  Legolas frowned, but Gimli was looking over at Laerwen.  “I never asked you, but how did you learn any Khuzdul?”

“It would be an exaggeration to say that I truly know any words in your tongue,” said Laerwen.  “But I am sure you have come to understand the keenness of elven hearing.  And after hearing certain words many times, always in the same context – particularly as an elf in a dwarven realm – I grew at least to understand something of warnings.”

“You did not tell me this,” said Legolas – though to whom he spoke, he knew not.  But Gimli and Laerwen shared a significant look, and he wondered what he was missing.

“There was nothing to tell,” said Gimli at last, nudging him with his shoulder.  “Do not concern yourself, my friend.  Your sister was hesitant to trust me at first, and I can hardly blame her for it.  Though I dare to hope that I have since earned more favor in her eyes,” he added playfully.

Laerwen smiled: not the open, unrestrained smile that Legolas remembered from hundreds of years ago, which he had seen so rarely since Siril’s departure, but no less genuine for that, and he found his own spirits rising in response.  “You certainly have, son of Glóin,” she said, and one of her hands came to rest on Legolas’s shoulder.  “Seeing my brother so joyful and comfortable in himself is a greater gift to me than you know.”

Legolas ducked his head, but Laerwen squeezed his shoulder and Gimli his hand.  “I must disagree with you,” said Gimli.  “For the gift is equally mine.”

“Stop!” Legolas protested at last, and the two of them laughed at him until he could not help joining in.

They fell quiet for a time after that, and Legolas was glad of it.  For as much as he delighted in seeing his sister once more, he could not stop marveling at the differences in the forest since he had seen it only two years ago.  The new-planted trees were still small in comparison to what they would be, but they were taller and stronger than the saplings he had left behind.  They grew in the places where the thicker canopy had been thinned, where sunlight still reached the ground, throwing patterns of dappled light on the younger trees and the ferns and moss that grew at their feet.  And in that sunlight, Legolas could see as well as feel the lessening of the darkness that had oppressed for so long.

He realized suddenly that what he felt, looking around at the forest, was not only relief but yearning.  He saw healing brought to his home forest, healing wrought in part by his own hands but mostly by others, and the memory of Ithilien rose up in him: a land which had suffered as much for as long, and yet which had retained all of its stubborn beauty, clinging to life past sense as it fought a darkness that was only starting to recede.  And he realized that this beauty, this relief here, was not enough for him.  He wanted to carry the memory of no-longer-Mirkwood with him as he began his new life in his new home.

And there was sadness in that thought, but more than that, there was hope.

Legolas’s father was more reserved now in his greeting than he had been the last time: he did not touch Legolas this time, and took only a few steps forward before waiting for Legolas to close the gap.  But he inclined his head and laid a hand on his heart, and his eyes were full of the same unrestrained affection.

“Welcome home, Greenleaf,” he said.  “All Lasgalen rejoices at your return.”

Behind him, Legolas heard a strange stifled sound and twisted to see Gimli with a fist pressed to his mouth, eyes crinkled in suppressed laughter.

When he turned back, he saw that his father had arched one brow.  “Am I mistaken in my guess, or does Master Gimli display a new understanding of our tongue?”

“You are not mistaken,” said Gimli: slowly, his Sindarin careful and his pronouns correct.  “Legolas and his kin in Gondor kindly taught me some of your speech.  I hope my knowledge is enough that I do not give offense.”

Thranduil’s responding smile was so small as to be nearly imperceptible, but Legolas saw it.  “How could I be offended by one who has the courtesy to greet me in my own tongue?” he said.  “You have been taught well.”  His attention shifted back to Legolas.  “And how fare your companions?  I notice you have returned alone.”

“The others remained behind in Ithilien,” Legolas said.  “They could not pull themselves away – and I cannot blame them for it.  Only my desire to see my family was enough to compel me to depart.  But I hope to return soon with others who wish to join us.”

“And you shall have them; I will see to it,” his father assured him.  He smiled again, a little larger this time, more crafty.  “Perhaps tonight I shall make an announcement” –

“Adar!”

Laerwen laughed.  “Did I not tell you there would be no dissuading him?”

Legolas sent his father a pleading look, to be met with pitiless amusement.  “You may be leaving my realm soon enough to start your own, but I hope you shall never forget that as your father and your king, it is my solemn duty to make your life difficult.”

“Believe me,” said Legolas, rolling his eyes, “I have never forgotten.”  But that dissolved ere long into a smile of fondness.  “And I shall miss it dearly when I depart.”

“As we shall miss you.”  Laerwen took a few steps past Legolas to stand on their father’s other side.  “But you know, of course, that we are proud of you.  And I, at least, expect to hear as many stories of your last two years as your tongue can tell before it wears out completely.”

“But not now,” said Legolas’s father.  “You look as though you could use a rest from your long journey.”  Legolas made to protest, but then he followed his father’s gaze.  Gimli, behind him, had not spoken in some time, and now that Legolas looked at him, his eyes did appear strangely glazed.  “We will talk at greater length tomorrow, so that you may fulfill Laerwen’s desire for tales.  Then, once you have finished those, we may discuss your plans, your vision, and what you will need in the days to come.”

“Thank you,” Legolas said.  He stepped back to where Gimli stood and laid an arm over his shoulders; Gimli blinked and looked up slowly at him, seeming not quite in the moment.  “Perhaps you are right that we should rest from the road.”

“You will need it for tonight,” added Laerwen, and Legolas tossed a glare over his shoulder but led Gimli from the room.

Gimli remained quiet and slow as they made their way through the halls; Legolas kept an arm around his shoulders, guiding him.  How had he not noticed this exhaustion?  Or was it something new?

His own quarters were – and somehow he was surprised to see this – exactly the same as ever.  It was warm enough outside that they needed no fire, so Legolas latched the door behind them and busied himself stripping Gimli of his outer things.  Only then did Gimli seem to wake from his daze and look up at him.

“Legolas,” he said, his voice slow – and then he raised a hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn.  “Forgive me; I know not what has come over me.”

“Are you tired from the journey?” Legolas asked, tugging Gimli over to the bed and pressing him into sitting.  “You did not seem so exhausted before” –

Gimli shook his head.  “I was not.  Oh –” He yawned again.  “I am sorry.  I think it has been creeping up on me since we met Laerwen in the forest, but it did not hit me so hard until I stood in your father’s throne room.”

Suddenly, Legolas realized that – without his notice – they had switched to Westron.  “Could it be the language?” he asked.  “You have spoken in Sindarin since we encountered Laerwen, and such an effort can be tiring.”

“Mm.”  Gimli was leaning against him now, eyes half-closed.  “That sounds plausible.  Though I fear I cannot offer an intelligent response at the moment.”  He blinked his eyes open again.  “Have we time, do you think, for a short rest?”

Legolas gathered his courage and responded in Khuzdul – if he did not give offense, perhaps it would be comforting for Gimli to speak in his own tongue.  “Indeed we do.”  He drew back the covers on the bed and watched as Gimli nestled in with a sigh.  “Take what rest you need, my love.”

“Lie with me?” asked Gimli sleepily.  He spoke in Khuzdul as well, and it was a relief to Legolas to know that he had not crossed a line by speaking a dwarven tongue in an elven realm.

“Soon,” he promised.  “I promise, I will be by your side when you wake.”

“That is well,” mumbled Gimli, and Legolas smiled fondly as his breathing became even and deep.

He had the same feeling as last time he had come to these rooms with Gimli by his side: that there was something here missing.  That it was no longer his place to be there.  It was not a new revelation, but it meant something different in light of his work in Ithilien, the belonging he had felt there with his companions, with the land itself.  The belonging that he no longer felt here.

This was not his home anymore; it was more than a feeling, but a knowledge now, and for some strange reason that was more of a relief than a disappointment.

Gimli rolled onto his side, his breath hitching in half a snore, and Legolas looked down on him with a different sort of relief.  He shed his own outer things, twitched the covers aside, and slid into the bed beside Gimli, draping an arm over his shoulders.

Gimli was warm against him, warm and solid; his hair tickled Legolas’s neck and chest, and his body expanded against Legolas’s as he breathed.  It lent this place the sense of rightness that it had been missing, the sense of meant-to-be, and in the combination of the comfort of familiarity and the certainty of Gimli’s presence, Legolas allowed his eyes to drift closed as well.

This, ah this, was home.

Chapter Text

No. Not again.

Legolas stared ahead at the mountain looming before him, cold and heavy against his insides as though the stone had entered his body and begun to expand, and he fought it, fought the press against his lungs that threatened to choke off his breath.  He would not allow this to happen again.

Not only for himself, but for Gimli as well.  How could he allow such a moment of weakness when he knew that Gimli was beside him, hoping for things to go well?  How could he allow the same folly to overcome him twice, when he knew there was nothing to fear, when he had sworn to himself to keep his dignity this time –

There were guards at the gates. He could just begin to make out their faces, which meant that they could see him now, though they knew not who he was.  But their faces were drawn together – in confusion, or in hostility? Were they just trying to identify him, or did they already know who he was, and did not want him here?  He was in their view now, and would soon be even nearer – exposed before them, at their mercy – and then he would be under the mountain again, crushed under the same heavy isolation as before –

His insides coiled in discomfort, then pulled tight.  A knot jerked into place in his stomach so suddenly that his breath came short.

“Legolas?” Gimli said.

“Yes?” Legolas kept his voice level, or he tried. The fingers of his right hand were laced with Gimli’s; he could not resist wrapping his left around himself, applying pressure against the place where the knot throbbed.  He wanted badly to bend forward, to fold around himself: the urge tugged at his chest and shoulders.

“Legolas.”  Gimli stopped walking.  “Love.  If you need a moment, we can take one.”

“Nay,” Legolas managed.  He leaned down slightly, as though his body were being magnetized together; his stomach creased a bit, but it was not enough.  Why was he reacting so?  His last stay here had ended well, and now he had more friends under the mountain than ever before – and yet the sight of it filled up his chest, took up the space he needed for breath.  “Nay, I will be well enough” –

“Shh.”  Gimli tugged on his hand, gentleness more powerful than any amount of force, and Legolas followed him off the path almost without realizing it.  “Let us stop and sit for a moment.”

“Gimli, I” – But his voice betrayed him: too airy, breaking off after only those words.  He pressed his wrist harder into his belly, and Gimli only hushed him again.

The path wound its way from the forest through a large clearing littered with boulders.  Legolas could not help but wonder if it was accidental or deliberate, for they were flat and perfect for sitting.  Gimli tried to lower Legolas onto one of these – but once sitting, Legolas found that even this was too high for him, and he slid down the side of the boulder to sit on the ground, finally giving in and folding around himself the way he yearned to do.

“May I touch you?” asked Gimli.  His hands still rested on Legolas’s arms, but lightly, and Legolas knew that if he asked he would lift them away.

He would not ask.

He nodded instead, focusing on his breathing.  He still had control over his body and his mind, and he used it to order himself to slow down. Wrapped his arms tighter around himself and leaned his forehead against his knees.  It was better this way, his whole body bundled together thus: his legs tucked into his stomach pushed back against the panic expanding inside it; his arms wrapped around himself kept him together, so he would not fly apart into tiny pieces.

Gimli’s arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind, and that was better still.  Closing his eyes, he leaned back into Gimli’s hold, listened to the steady sound of his breath, and matched his own to it.  The mountain before him might threaten him still, but in Gimli’s arms – here he was safe.

Gimli supposed, after all that had transpired, that he could not blame Legolas for this.

It was moments like these that he understood Legolas and his anxious desire not to displease: as he gazed up at the mountain that had always meant nothing but safety and protection to him, he felt a strange sense of sinking guilt that it could inspire such fear in one so dear to him.

He did not say that.  Legolas would misconstrue it, of course, and at the moment he wished for nothing less.  Instead he rubbed his hands up and down Legolas’s arms, listened carefully to the sound of his breathing.  This did not seem so severe an attack as others he had seen in the past, but he did not want to count on ease.

Without warning, Legolas’s head snapped up; his breath choked in his throat.

“What is it?” Gimli asked, whipping his head around for the source of Legolas’s alarm.  “What do you hear?”

“Ahead,” Legolas managed.  “One of – the guards.”

Gimli looked where Legolas’s head had given the slightest jerk: indeed, one of the guards at the gate had deserted his post and was approaching them.  Coming to find out what was the matter, to be sure.  Gimli glanced down at Legolas, then back up, and made his decision.

“Stay here,” he said, rising with a last pat to Legolas’s shoulder.  “I will go intercept him and see what is the matter.”

“Thank you,” whispered Legolas, before burying his face in his knees once more.

Gimli hurried forward, wanting to meet the guard with as much distance between them and Legolas as he could manage – to give his husband the time to compose himself, and spare him being fully seen by maybe-unfriendly eyes.  Perhaps the guard would be one he knew – he could not but hope – a hope which was borne out.

“Gimli!”

“Ain!”

Two years was too long not to see such a beloved friend, and Gimli rushed forward to embrace him, momentary troubles forgotten.  They had exchanged the odd letter, but for all his assets, Ain was a poor correspondent at best, and Gimli had simply been too busy to make up the difference.  “My friend!” he said, pounding Ain’s back before pulling back to smile at him.  “It has been too long!”

“Far, far too long.  But it is so good to see you home again!”  Ain grinned broadly at him, before his eyes slid away.  “And your husband as well.”  He was frowning now.  “Is he . . . well?  I wondered if perhaps” –

“It is . . .” Gimli hesitated.  “It is not my place to speak of that which troubles him,” he said at last.  “But I think he will be glad to see you as well.”

He glanced back, to see Legolas struggling to his feet.  Internally, he sighed – of course Legolas would have to prove his fitness, rather than taking the time he needed to recover.  But Legolas crossed the distance between them with only a slight waver to his step, and stood beside Gimli with a hand on his shoulder.  (Gimli stood firm, determined not to reveal how hard that hand was pressing.)  “Greetings, Ain,” he said in a voice that would have been strange, had Gimli not known that it indicated Legolas’s desperate struggle to keep it steady.  “Gimli speaks true; though it has been long, I am pleased to see you.”

Ain glanced between Gimli and Legolas for a moment.  “You need not stand for me, if you would be more comfortable sitting,” he said.  “I do not wish to press you.”

Legolas’s chin rose, and Gimli groaned internally.  “You do not press,” he said, voice harder.  “I thank you for your concern, but I am perfectly well.”

It was obvious he was lying, but perhaps Ain could understand the reason for his untruth.  He let the subject go.  “Very well,” he said.  “I confess, I had hoped that I would be on guard duty when the two of you arrived.  It has been too long, Gimli.”

“Two years is far too long,” Gimli agreed.  He did not voice the second part of his thought, which was that Ain should come with him when next he left, so that it would not have to be so long again.  It was not time yet, perhaps.  “But it is good to be home.”  Legolas looked sharply over at those words; Gimli raised an eyebrow and he subsided without opening his mouth.  “I look forward to seeing my family once more.”

“And they you.”  Ain clapped Gimli on the shoulder.  “Let us go now, that your reunion with them not be delayed any longer.”

Gimli kept an arm around Legolas as they made their way into the mountain – he was tense, breathing shallowly, but he walked steadily and only the pressure of his own arm around Gimli’s shoulders revealed his unease.  Perhaps it would have been better if Gimli had not given him regular concerned looks, but he could not help it.

They made it, this time, to his home without incident – and without interception, which could only mean one thing: they did not know he had arrived.

He squeezed Legolas’s hand once in reassurance before letting it go and knocking on the door.

He could not hear their footsteps himself, but Legolas’s twitch beside him revealed that someone was walking towards the door.  And before long, it opened.

His mother’s face was a delight to behold – both because he had missed her dearly, and because of the way it shifted from her usual brusquely-civil expression to utter shock to pure joy.  “Gimli!” she roared, and flung her arms around him.  “Gimli, you are home! – GLÓIN!”

Gimli winced – that last shout had been directly into his ear – but he hugged her back, burying his face in her shoulder and rocking them slightly back and forth.

His embrace with his mother lasted so long that his father had time to arrive, and as Gimli released his mother slowly from his arms, his father swooped in and seized him up in an embrace of his own.

He felt somehow different, Gimli noticed.  His arms were still strong, his grip still tight, but there was something . . . off.  When he pulled back and his father held his shoulders, Gimli realized that there were more lines around his eyes and mouth than had been there before.

Two years was a long time not to see one’s parents – and the realization crashed down upon him that his father was nearing his two hundred and fiftieth year.

He wondered if that was one of the unforeseen effects of living and traveling with an elf – that he was both acutely conscious of his own mortality and forgetful of the mortality of others.

An elf. Legolas.

That revelation he stored in his mind to mull over further later, and turned to his husband.  Legolas was hanging back in the doorway, looking uncertain.  He made a strange jerk as though to bow – but Gimli’s mother scoffed aloud.  “None of that,” she said, and reached out to haul him in for an embrace of his own.

Gimli watched in pleasure as Legolas was tugged down to his mother’s level, watched the surprise on his face morph from shocked to pleased, before it was replaced by simple contentment.  He held Geira back very loosely, Gimli noticed – probably more out of tentativeness than lack of enthusiasm – but his eyes closed as he bent into the embrace.

Gimli took the moment to give his father a meaningful look, and Glóin took it as intended – when Legolas and Geira separated, Glóin gave him a hug as well.

When they finally separated, Legolas looked a bit stunned, out of his depth – but the rigid set of his shoulders had eased.  “Thank you,” he said, then blushed.  “I mean, not thank you – I am – I was not expecting such a warm welcome.”

Geira raised an eyebrow, and Legolas’s eyes grew wide.  “I mean, not that I did not expect warmth from you – I mean” –

“Relax,” said Glóin gruffly.  “We understand what you meant.  Welcome.  To both of you – we are glad to see you home once more.”

Home.  What a strange thought.  Gimli supposed it was true – and yet, it did not quite seem so.

This must be another thing he would tuck into the back of his mind for further thought later – for now, his mother had tapped him on the shoulder.  “Gimli,” she said, “we must eat together tonight, but I did not know you were coming.  Will your elf be willing to eat roast lamb and potatoes?”

She said the words in Khuzdul, and beside him, Gimli felt rather than saw Legolas twitch uncomfortably.  When he looked up, it was to see Legolas darting an uncertain glance at him, and then away.

He had clearly understood everything, and was not sure whether to answer himself or allow Gimli to do it.  And Gimli himself had to pause for a moment.  Still, Legolas’s endeavors in Khuzdul were mostly secret.  He was not ashamed of them, but nor was he interested in opening his actions up to censure from others.  Those he would lead to the Glittering Caves – that was another matter.  Those would be selected by him, people who were willing to move forward into a new world.  But here –

But after all, he did not want to keep secrets from his own parents.

“Amad,” he said in Khuzdul, “he can understand you.”

His mother looked, for a moment, taken aback.  She recovered herself admirably, but Gimli could still see the shock in her eyes.

His father was not so composed.

“Gimli!” he hissed, and then burst into a furious flurry of iglishmek.

Even as Legolas shrank beside him, Gimli watched his father’s hands flying and shook his head.  “No, Adad,” he said at last, aloud, in Khuzdul.  “But in time I will teach him this as well.”

In fact, now he thought about it, iglishmek might be just the language for Legolas – a language one could speak without ever having to speak at all.  He would have to give thought to that.  But for now he squared his shoulders, ready to fight with his parents if he needed to, though it was not how he wished to spend their first moments together.

But his mother interceded.  “Glóin,” she said quietly, setting a hand on her husband’s shoulder – and Gimli watched as his father subsided, though his cheeks were bright red.  He was breathing heavily, too – and again Gimli thought of his age, and he worried.

Legolas’s hand fell onto his own shoulder; he looked up into his face and wondered how many of his thoughts had been understood.  But after allowing that moment of shared silence between them, Legolas took a deep breath and faced Gimli’s parents again.  “I will be pleased with whatever you have planned to eat,” he said in hesitant, halting Khuzdul.  “But I am grateful for your thought.”

There was another long, ringing silence as his words fell into the air.  Legolas’s body tensed more – though it seemed impossible – with every moment of quiet; his shoulders hunched.  Anticipating, Gimli reached out and took hold of his hands before they could wring one another, and together they waited.

Finally, Geira took a long breath.  “Well,” she said.  “You are part of our family now; I suppose it is natural that you should understand our tongue.  Now come inside, before any others hear you.” She tugged them fully into the house and closed the door.  “Let us go and sit.  You must tell us all about your adventures.”

It was late.

Not even that late, not really, Legolas supposed, to one who needed as little sleep as he, but he marveled at the sort of exhaustion that came upon him after long hours of conversation.  As though he were a cloth that had been filled to sopping with water and then twisted completely dry.  Dinner was long over; they had changed the lamplight to simple candles; night had surely fallen, and still they remained in the sitting room, talking.

Rather, Gimli talked.  As Legolas had done in his own home, he told his parents tales from their journey, their time in Gondor, their sojourn in the Glittering Caves.  (He skimmed over Ithilien and Lasgalen, and Legolas could not blame him; he had done the same himself with Aglarond.) Legolas himself remained mostly silent, answering the odd question or filling in details as he was bade.  Mostly he was content to observe: watching Gimli’s hair glow in the light of the candles and the expressive gestures of his face and hands; listening to the low rumble of his language in his voice and the way his parents’ rose and fell against it.  It was almost like a lullaby of stone and earth.

At first, he was pleased to note how much more skilled he seemed to be becoming in this language with every day he heard it: only a few words and sentences escaped his understanding, and his own responses were becoming more correct, even if he still spoke haltingly.  But as with Gimli, it seemed that it exhausted him – that it in addition to the regular effort of such long conversation poured sand through all his limbs, filling him all the way up to his ears, and it was not until several moments had passed that he realized that he no longer understood anything that was being said.

He only noted when the speech stopped – when Gimli broke off in the conversation to look over at him, and then laughed.  “Are you awake?” he asked, switching so abruptly to Westron that Legolas started.  “You know I can never tell when your eyes glaze over so.”

“Hmm?”  It seemed to take a long time for the sense of Gimli’s words to make it into Legolas’s mind; he blinked.  “Oh – I am sorry” –

“None of that,” said Gimli sternly, covering Legolas’s hand with his own.  “Amad, Adad, if you will pardon us, I think it is time for bed.”

“I would not cut your conversation short,” Legolas protested, but he let Gimli guide him to his feet.

“Nonsense,” said Geira briskly.  “It is we who have burdened you, in asking you to speak so long when you are surely tired from your journey.”  She rose as well.  “Rest well, the both of you.  I will be away in the morning – I have work to do in the smithy – but Glóin will be here, and” –

She paused.  There was another knock at the door.

“More visitors?” she asked.  “Well, I shall answer that, while you two go to bed.  Good night!”

“Good night,” Gimli said; Legolas mumbled.  He thought perhaps he was still not entirely present, but he followed Gimli down the hall and towards the stairs that led to his own quarters.

Before they had made it so far, though, Geira came bustling towards them again.

“It is for you,” she said, looking a bit bewildered.  “Both of you.”  And she held out a thick piece of paper – one that was, indeed, addressed with both of their names.

Legolas stared at it – vaguely bewildered by the happening; still feeling slightly removed from reality.  Gimli, seeming to realize this, took the paper from his mother.

“Thank you, Amad,” he said.  “We will take this with us.  Good night.”

Up in his room again, Gimli opened the letter.

Their names were the only thing written in script Legolas could read; the text on the inside was written in the Cirth runes that he had yet to learn.  But even as he sat down on Gimli’s bed (and was hard-pressed not to lie down right then), he watched Gimli’s expression morph from interest to a surprised smile.

“What is it?” Legolas asked.

Gimli turned to face him fully.  “An invitation to Lis’s wedding.”

Chapter Text

The wedding took place two days into their stay in Erebor, so Legolas gladly agreed to stay at least until it was finished.  He recalled Gimli’s mention of her partner near the end of their stay in Gondor, but he had not heard any mention of her engagement before – and Gimli confessed that he was as surprised as Legolas that it was happening now.  “They have been promised some years now,” he said.  “Usually, when a dwarf discovers their one love, they do not wait any longer to secure the vows.”

Legolas remembered their own weddings, which had taken place very shortly after their declarations of sentiment.  “Among elves, it may be so, or it may not be,” he said.  “As I have told you, the desire to wed” – He lapsed into Sindarin then; it was easiest to discuss these matters when using the words that he understood* – “begins to awaken with the onset of love, but with some it happens more swiftly than with others.  So betrothals may be as short as an hour and as long as a hundred years.”

Gimli smiled at him.  “Well, I am glad we did not wait so long.”

Legolas laughed, and sat forward to allow Gimli to finish braiding his hair in preparation.

This was the second dwarvish wedding he had attended – but he did not think that his own truly counted.  Then he had been too overwhelmed, too inundated with confusing and powerful emotions – fear, doubt, excitement, love, disbelief – to be able to truly witness or even enjoy the celebrations beyond what it meant to Gimli, to him.  And, Gimli informed him, their wedding had been an unusual one; many of the formalities had been altered both because one of the participants was not a dwarf, and because it had been combined with a welcome and congratulatory feast.  This would be different, and none of the pressure would be on Legolas himself, and he was determined to enjoy the observation.

This time, it was not the king officiating – that honor, it seemed, had been due to Gimli’s status both within the mountain and as a hero – but another dwarf whom Legolas (and apparently Gimli as well) had never met.  (“What – did you think we all know one another in the mountain?  Do you know all the elves in Lasgalen?” he had asked, seemingly facetiously, though Legolas’s, “Most of them” had quieted him.) Legolas and Gimli sat somewhere near the middle of the crowd, on a long bench beside Ain and Nali.

In groups of dwarves, Legolas was always so conscious of himself: of all the ways he differed from them.  It had been so as they entered the hall: Gimli, it seemed, was even more popular than Legolas had thought, and he stopped what seemed every few steps for greetings, embraces, brief conversations, jokes that only he seemed to understand.  Legolas hung behind him, twisting his hands and murmuring greetings as needed.

He saw more dwarves that he recognized than he had expected; it seemed that Lis had invited many of those who had been in Gondor.  Alma was there as well, near the very front; she could not come to greet them, but she waved frantically at Gimli and Legolas until they waved back.  And Legolas found that once sitting, the occasion was almost pleasant – because no one was looking at him.  All eyes were fixed ahead, on the aisles to the dais where Lis and her partner Althi would be walking.  And Legolas remembered again his own wedding, his own participation in such an event; he knew the love and fear and excitement and certainty they must be feeling, and he could not help smiling and pressing his side closer into Gimli’s.

There was more of an introduction to this wedding than there had been at his own – perhaps again because it was more standard.  The officiator spoke for a time about the honor of this wedding: the celebration of the love between Althi and Lis, which had endured through years of togetherness and separation, and which would endure for all the years to come.  And Legolas knew not if it was because of the moving speech (which he was not supposed to understand) or the reminders of his own wedding, or simply the love that he felt in the air, but he found himself near to weeping.

He watched, rapt, as the procession began – longer, again, than his own had been: the parents of each partner went to stand beside the dais, and then out came those who would be standing with them.  On Lis’s side, Legolas was glad to recognize Bjolla; on Althi’s side was a dwarf he did not know – but it seemed that those beside him did.

There was a change in the air beside him, almost like a sudden coldness.  When he looked over, Ain had gone stiff and still.  His hands were tightly clenched in his lap – and as Legolas watched, Gimli and Nali each reached over to take one of them.

What had gone wrong?  Legolas yearned to ask Gimli; his own hands fluttered uselessly as though there were anything he could do – but of course he could not, and he could not cause any sort of disruption.  He wound them together in his lap, instead, tugging on his fingers in an effort to channel his sudden disquiet; his eyes flicked always back and forth between the wedding ceremony at the front and Ain beside Gimli, his face set and tight.

As with his own, however, the ceremony was not too long – the vowing, for all that it was done in a traditional and sacred manner, was but a formality, and the celebration was the true part of the wedding.  So before long, Lis and Althi were weaving their braids into one another’s hair, and then with a great scraping of benches, the audience stood so that the feast tables could be moved in.

Legolas took the opportunity, amidst all the confusion, to lean over to Gimli.  “What is wrong?” he whispered.  “If I may ask?”

Gimli glanced up at him, then over at Ain, who was having a whispered conversation with Nali in Khuzdul too fast for Legolas to follow.  “I will tell you later,” he murmured back.  “After the feast.”

“After the feast” turned out to be much later than Legolas had anticipated – for as it turned out, what had been left out of his own wedding was the sheer volume of speeches.

They must have cut down the speeches given for Gimli drastically, either in deference to Legolas’s lack of family and friends present or out of their discomfort with Gimli’s choice, because now there were at least three speeches for each spouse, followed by the speeches by the spouses themselves.  Lis’s parents spoke; then Althi’s; then her brother; then their* sister – the same dwarf who had led them to the dais to speak their vows. Eina, as she introduced herself.

And it was when she rose to speak that Ain stood up as well, without a word, and left.

A moment later, with a furtive glance around as though to ensure that no one was watching, Nali rose and slipped out after him.

“Gimli?” Legolas whispered, trying to keep his voice low enough that none would hear.  “What is wrong?  Has something” –

Gimli looked up at him, and his face was conflicted, eyes darting back and forth.  He licked his lips, twisted his head to where Ain and Nali had gone, back to Legolas –

“I will tell you later,” he whispered.  “I promise.”

And then he, too, stood up and left.

Legolas sat rigid, frozen in his chair.  Should he rise as well?  Should he follow?  Or – no, he would be noticed.  In that moment, he felt acutely his own height: if he rose, he would tower above the tables, all eyes would turn to him, they would question –

But if he was needed, if he could provide support, should that not be irrelevant?  How could he concern himself with the reactions of others if a friend needed his help?

But then, was Ain really his friend?  Perhaps whatever upset him was something he did not wish to share, something that belonged to him and Gimli and Nali alone?  Perhaps Legolas should stay here, remain inconspicuous?

He was sweating; he could feel it: waves of cold breaking over his forehead and the back of his neck.  His insides were cold, too: just-melted ice sloshing around inside his stomach; he would have glanced back and forth as well, but his neck felt rigid.

Paralyzed by indecision, he missed the rest of Eina’s speech – and in the applause that followed, he thought perhaps he could slip out?  But no, he could not – for Lis had stood up, and she was speaking in Westron.

“Pardon my departure from our traditional tongue,” she began, “but I decided to speak in Westron out of courtesy for the guests here, as it is in part thanks to them that I am standing here before you all.”

Guests?  Legolas was now frozen for an entirely different reason.  There were no guests here who did not (or should not) speak Khuzdul but himself.  He – she was speaking about him?

He felt eyes turn to rest on him, and gripped the underside of the table in an effort to remain calm.  He could not leave now.

“I am sure that many of you wondered, when you received your invitations recently, exactly why our wedding came so late, when we have been promised so long.  Yes, I see your guilty look, Bali.”  She paused for a rippling of light laughter, and Legolas looked instinctively to where Gimli had been sitting, before remembering that he was no longer there.

“Some twenty years ago,” Lis continued –

“Twenty-two years and two months,” corrected her spouse, amid more gentle laughter –

“ – thank you, Althi,” Lis resumed, “I met a dwarf.”

She paused to let that resonate, and then picked up her story once more.  “We were, of all things, standing in a line to sign up for a dance class.  I had not left the house intending to make any new friends, and I certainly had not anticipated such a thing happening before the class it even began.  Nor had I expected, even when I started a conversation with the stranger standing beside me, that I would be so charmed by the time it was my turn at the front.”

“It was a very long line,” Althi interjected beside her, and she laughed with the rest this time.

“That may be so,” she said.  “After all, long waits are a characteristic of our relationship.  And even when I reached that counter, I had no idea this dwarf would become my partner in the dance class, and in all other parts of my life.  That I would find in them the dearest friend I had ever encountered, and the one love I had been awaiting all my life.  And as I am sure you are all waiting eagerly to learn their identity, I shall not give it just now.”  More laughter.  “I shall only say that they are the most generous and loving person I have ever met, the only one who can cheer me up when I am at my lowest point – and, incidentally, a marvelously skilled swordsman.

“It may seem strange to you, but it was this that halted my eagerness to wed.  For although I knew when I met them that I would love them for all of my years and beyond, I also knew that there was something else waiting for me.  A craft, a passion, another life’s devotion.  I simply did not know what it was.”

Legolas caught his breath, and his worries stalled for a moment.  He recalled his conversation with Lis in the Glittering Caves, recalled her saying that she had sought a craft whose very existence she had always doubted – and he understood, now, why she was speaking with him in mind.

“I asked myself,” she continued, “how I could bear to vow myself to one who knew so well what they wanted, whose future seemed so certain.  How I could make myself a part of their life without first knowing what else drove my own.  And I came to the conclusion that I could not.

“It is for this reason that I speak for the benefit of our guests.”  Again, Legolas felt eyes turn towards him, and it was all he could do not to cringe – but at the same time, he was riveted to Lis’s speech.  “As many of you know, I have recently returned from an extensive stay in Gondor, and a journey to the Glittering Caves, a settlement in Rohan to which Lord Gimli intends to lead more of our people.  I entered into this journey with the thought that I could at last discover what was missing from my life – and I am pleased to tell you all that I have succeeded.  I know now what my craft is, and I know how and where to follow it.  I returned to Erebor a changed dwarf, but more myself than I ever have been.

“And this dwarf I mentioned before, this dwarf patient and secure enough in themself to give me space to seek my soul, waited for me all the while.  They continued to pursue the craft they love, while always wishing me the best in finding my own.  And when I returned, fully myself, they were still waiting for me: eager to learn and understand the changes in my being, and able to love me for all that I am.  Because of this, I knew at last that I could be a true partner to them, even as they were and are to me.

“So it is with great pleasure that I announce to you that I, along with them, will be accompanying Lord Gimli on his return to the Glittering Caves, to take up a future and a life that belongs wholly and equally to both of us.  And now I invite you all to raise your glasses and toast to Althi: the generous, the talented, and the patient.”

“To Althi,” the crowd chorused, and there was much applause and drinking.  Althi rose to stand beside Lis, leaning over to kiss her, and the cheering grew louder.

Legolas could only sit, speechless.  Althi was the next and last to speak, and as they had switched to Khuzdul again, Legolas found that he was unable to pay attention.  He had never dreamed that Lis’s story ran so deeply, that the passion Gimli had found could mean as much to others as it did to him.  It humbled him, awed him – and he realized that the homes they were building were not only for them.  They were for other dwarves and elves who wished to discover worlds that they had not known before, who wished to find a new place and build a new world from the old.  And he could only wish that Gimli had been there to hear it.

Gimli.

For that moment, he had forgotten – but now the anxiety crashed down on him once more, full-force.  After that, especially, he had to find Gimli.

To his fortune, Althi’s speech was the last.  Then the feasting began, and in the commotion that followed, Legolas was able to slip, at last, out of the hall and go after his husband.

“You did not tell me it was so bad,” Gimli said.

Ain was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted back.  “It is not,” he said.  “When I do not have to see her.  But as soon as I catch sight of her, all the hope rushes in anew, and then I see him at her side and the disappointment catches up to me, and then the remembering” – He broke off, gritting his teeth and rolling his eyes up in the way he always did when tears were threatening.

Of course, perhaps he would not have told Gimli.  They had been apart long, and Gimli could feel himself drifting, could feel the ties of their friendship changing in a way he desperately did not want.  And he watched the way that Nali hovered beside Ain, protective but subtle, and he realized that it was the way he himself acted around Legolas.  As though his friends had formed a bond between them that was different from what he had with them.

Perhaps it was what love did.  It changed things.

But it did not have to destroy them.

“I am sorry,” Gimli said simply, reaching out to set a hand on Ain’s arm.  Ain let him, closing his eyes and visibly fighting for control.

There was little to be said, so they said little – only stood there for long moments.  They did not speak until Gimli heard light footsteps and turned to see Legolas approaching them, though he hesitated a short distance away.

“Is it – may I join you?” he asked.  “I understand if you wish for privacy” –

Gimli looked to Ain, and his friend opened his eyes and nodded again.  “Come as you will,” he said.  “I have nothing to hide, and nothing that could be changed even if I did.”

Legolas came closer, hovering awkwardly on the edges of their huddle like a bumblebee unsure if the flower’s pollen would be sweet.  “May I ask what has happened?” he asked.  “Are you well?”

“Yes, and also no,” said Ain.  Gimli looked over at him – he had wondered if he would tell his story, but Ain had never been close with information about himself and he was not surprised to see him look at Legolas and square his shoulders.  “There is little to tell,” he said.  “But I assume that Gimli has told you that we dwarves love once and only once?”

“Yes.”  Legolas reached out as though to take Gimli’s hand, but seemed to think better of it.  His hand hung useless in the air before lowering, and Gimli could not stand it; he snagged it in his own on its way down and marveled at the way Legolas’s shoulders instantly seemed to lose some of their tension.  “Is that your story?”

“It is.”  Ain’s lips gave a little twist, as though he would have smiled, but could not quite manage it.  “Love found and lost is the oldest tale, and yet it felt so new when it happened to me.  She humored me, for a time, but she would not have me, and I knew when she said me nay that I would never find another.”

“She – the sister of Althi?”

“Aye.”  Ain let out another sigh, a gust that Gimli could practically feel.  “Eina.”  Still his voice seemed to caress the name, and Gimli ached for his friend.  He remembered again his revelation of his own love; how he had thought of Ain’s feelings in his effort to interrogate his own.  “I can never forget, but I can put it out of my mind for a time – but the moment I see her again all my walls are stripped away, my heart left defenseless once more, and I must build it up again.”

Beside him, Nali had taken his hand, and Gimli thought again of the bond that had grown between the two of them.  Thought again of bonds he did not want to lose, and before he could stop himself, he was bursting out, “And if you did not have to see her again?”

Ain looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

“Come with us,” Gimli blurted.  “Come to the Glittering Caves with me and build yourself a new home – a new start.  I will always need warriors – and jewelers,” he nodded to Nali, “and although Lis and Althi will likely come with me, I doubt that Eina will leave her practice here.  Come with us, and free yourself from her.”

“I will never be free of her,” Ain said.

To Gimli’s surprise, it was Legolas who spoke up.  “Nay,” he said quietly, “but you needn’t be trapped by her if you have another way.”

“They are right.”  Nali had been quiet throughout the conversation, but he made himself known now, straightening up beside Ain and extracting his hand.  “Let us talk it over.  You need not answer now, but the sound of a fresh start is tempting.”

“Nali speaks rightly,” said Gimli.  “And I confess that though I will go regardless, the thought of a new home is not so appealing without you both at my side.”

“A new home,” Ain repeated.  “Perhaps.”

They all fell quiet then, thinking, perhaps, about what that would mean.  For Gimli’s part, he thought about that strange doubt he had felt even in his own parents’ home, about the knowledge of the beauties and discoveries in the world that awaited him.  Thought of Legolas by his side, fingers still laced with his own.  Thought of the old friends that he wished to bring with him into his new life.

And it was a mark of these friendships, these loves, that he felt no need to say anything more.

Chapter Text

That night, Gimli wrapped himself into Legolas’s arms as securely as possible, trapping one of them under his body and tangling his own arms around the other.  He always slept better with Legolas’s arms around him, as though the warmth of his body or the gentleness of his spirit seeped into Gimli’s dreams and made them sweeter.  And – well.

He woke early in the morning to his body rocking slightly back and forth with Legolas’s quiet laughter.  Opening his eyes, he turned in the circle of Legolas’s arms to face him, and could not help smiling back.  “Good morning,” he said, and tipped his head back for a kiss.

After obliging him, Legolas made to stretch, but Gimli snaked his own arms around him and held him close.  “Not yet,” he said.  “Please?”

Legolas laughed again, this time with an edge of sadness.  “You know that I must depart today, however long you hold me in bed?”

Instead of loosening his grip, Gimli held tighter.  “I know.  It is just – nigh on two years now I have slept nearly every night in your arms.  And knowing that I must soon return to the bitterness of sleeping alone, I would prolong this night, that the sweetness of it may linger on my tongue for nights to come.”

Legolas let out a long, deep sigh and curled forward, resting his forehead against Gimli’s cheek.  “I understand,” he murmured – and ah, when would it be next that Gimli felt warm breath gust so against his ear, the particular pleasant chills of Legolas’s whisper?  When would it be next that his hair would spill thus over Gimli’s face, black-brown silk layered over the coarse red of Gimli’s beard?  “I feel as you feel, my love.  Though my heart tells me that Ithilien will be my home in the years to come, I find that part of me yearns to toss all my plans away to be by your side.”  He kissed the side of Gimli’s ear, then straightened again with a small regretful sound. “But I know I cannot.”

“I know.”  Gimli extracted one of his arms to lay his palm against Legolas’s cheek.  “And I know that I will always have a home in Ithilien, and you in Aglarond, that we will always leave space for the other in our lives, but” –

“But it is hard,” Legolas said simply, and Gimli could only nod – for those words had summed up all that needed to be said.

Legolas had intended to depart at dawn, but he stayed instead in bed with Gimli until nearly midday.  And then when they at last roused themselves, Glóin and Geira insisted on seeing him off with a large dwarvish breakfast – and had already packed him extra food to take on the journey.

“Truly, I need it not,” Legolas tried to protest, overwhelmed in the face of their powerful generosity.  “I can subsist on very little until I return home” –

“Nonsense,” said Geira.  “No son of mine will begin a journey without proper provision.”  As Legolas wheeled at those words, she pressed the bag into his chest and nearly knocked him over.  “Take it; I insist.”

Legolas tried to thank her, but he could only stare down at the bag he clutched and try to blink back the tears gathering behind his eyes.  Gimli squeezed his arm, and when Legolas turned to look, he saw that Gimli was beaming.

Gimli accompanied him to the stables where Arod had been held, and Legolas believed he was not the only one whose pace was slower than usual.  Parting was always difficult, and it had been so long since they had had to do it in truth – and he felt as though part of his heart was already opening, softening, in preparation of being scraped out with the dull knife of separation.  They held hands as they walked, but spoke little.

“Lord Legolas!  Lord Gimli!”

The voice cut suddenly into Legolas’s morose thoughts; the sound of panting and running feet caught up to him.  Surprised, he turned.

Lis, of all people, was approaching: disheveled as though she had not gotten properly dressed that morning.  “Lord Legolas,” she panted as she drew nearer.  “I hoped I would find you before you departed.”  She stopped running and talking, taking a moment to draw several deep breaths.

He knew not exactly how to address such a situation, but he found he could not leave it unsaid.  “I am glad you came,” he said, “for I would thank you for your courtesy to me in your speech yesterday.  And I am – I am humbled and honored to know that I could have had some hand in your discovery” –

“That is why I wished to see you,” she said, looking straight at him.  “I cannot tell you enough how important your role in my life has been, and you did not even know it while you were playing it.  There was part of me that had felt always empty, and if not for you and your elves, if not for the cooperation in Gondor, I would never have discovered it.  It has meant so much to me that I wished to thank you personally.  And you as well,” she added, looking to Gimli, “but I knew I would have opportunity to tell you, and I wished to catch Lord Legolas before he left.”

“I take no offense,” said Gimli, and again he was smiling as Legolas’s tongue staggered in his mouth, tripped over itself, could form no words.  “You must forgive him his speechlessness; he is oft unable to respond when confronted with his own worth.”

Legolas glared, but he could not contradict Gimli’s words.  Finally, “Thank you,” was all he could manage.  “Thank you, Lis.  I cannot tell you what this means to me.”

“Nor can I.”  She smiled up at him, open and wide.  “So thank you for your part, and I look forward to seeing you once more, whenever we have all returned to begin our new lives.”

“And I you,” was all Legolas could think to say, and with a last smile, she had turned and left.

Legolas stared after her for a time, and at last turned to look to Gimli once more.  “All this,” he said, trying to think of a way to put his thoughts into words.  “All this – it makes me more sure than ever that we are making the right decision.”

“And me as well,” said Gimli.  “And I think that if we hold to that knowledge, it will make our parting easier to bear.”

Their journey to the stables took longer than they had planned, but Gimli was hardly about to complain.  He dragged each delay out as long as possible – for all that they had agreed that what they were doing was right, he still did not want to say goodbye.

But at last, they were at the stables, and Legolas was loading his bags onto Arod’s back as Gimli, half-unwilling, stroked the horse’s nose.  Arod nuzzled his head against Gimli’s, and Gimli could not help wondering if the horse, too, was reluctant to part.

And just as Legolas turned to Gimli, his mouth open as though to say something, another delay arrived – a most welcome one.

“Gimli, Legolas,” said Ain, making his way into the stable with Nali at his side.  “I am glad that we arrived before you departed, Legolas.”

“Another?” Gimli asked, half-joking, meant only for Legolas to hear.  Nali gave him a curious look, but he just shook his head.

“I know not what you mean by that,” Ain said, “but I thought it was worthwhile to tell you both, though this is perhaps more relevant to Gimli.  Nali and I have talked over your suggestions.  And while we do not know yet exactly what we will do, we think it is very likely that we will come with you, Gimli, to Aglarond.”

“And I, for my part,” said Nali, “wish to thank you for your assistance in convincing Ain to leave behind the site of his misery.  Gimli and I have been telling him to do so for years, but he does not listen to us.  It is my opinion that you provided the final hammer-stroke to our argument.”

“Ah.”

Gimli almost felt sorry for Legolas – and would have, perhaps, if he did not think that Legolas eminently deserved every expression of generosity, thanks, and love that had been shown him today.  As it was, all he could do was choke back his laughter at Legolas’s discomfort, though he could not force down the smile of pride.

“We have made you uncomfortable enough, I see,” said Nali, saving Legolas from having to reply.  “We will leave you now, so you may say your farewells in peace” – his face twisted a bit, and Gimli rolled his eyes – “but we wished to thank you.”

“Well,” said Legolas.  “I thank you in turn, for your kindness and your acceptance.  And I look forward to seeing you again, and often, in the years to come.”

Gimli insisted on walking with Legolas until he left the mountain, and even far along the rocky path outside.  Though Legolas would have mounted long before were he on his own, he did not protest Gimli’s presence.

At last, though, there was no delaying further.  Legolas sighed and stopped, turning to face Gimli and laying a hand on his shoulder.  “Gimli,” he said.

“Do not say it,” said Gimli gruffly.  “This is not farewell.”

“Of course not.”  Legolas went to his knees for a closer embrace, wrapping his arms around Gimli’s chest and pressing his face into his neck.  They did not speak for a time, only remained there, breathing together, for long moments.

“You will return to Ithilien within weeks,” said Gimli at last, into Legolas’s hair.  “And I will not be far behind on my way to Aglarond.”

“Yes,” said Legolas.  “I shall be glad to see what you make of the caves.”

Gimli tightened his grip.  “You must come visit when I build our chambers, so that you can tell me if you approve.”

“Of course.  Though I can hardly see myself disapproving.”

They lapsed into silence for some moments longer, but neither of them let go.  It was not the end for them, of course, but it was the end of something.  They would never again live as closely as they had in Gondor, would never again return to one another in the evening after work, share stories of their days.  Would never again sleep together every night and wake up together every morning, living their own lives but spending them side by side.

When finally, finally their grip loosened and Legolas rose to his feet once more, he could feel his lips trembling in the effort to keep his composure.  Gimli cleared his throat hard and drew a hand across his eyes.

“Well,” he said finally.  “I suppose you must go.”

“I suppose I must.”

Neither of them moved.

At last, Gimli forced a laugh.  “I see what it is,” he said.  “Of course you cannot leave without one of these.”  And he drew Legolas right back down.

No soft, sweet kiss was this, but long and hard and fierce, almost angry.  Legolas lost himself in it immediately, tangling his hands in Gimli’s hair and pulling, not gently.  Gimli made a growling sound and bit his lip, almost hard enough to be painful.  It was a kiss that carried all the pain at their parting, all the frustration at the differences between them and their people, all the stubbornness and determination of their love, and it did not end for a long, long time.

But, to his surprise, when he pulled back, Legolas felt better.  As though some emptiness inside of him had been temporarily filled.

“You are right, of course,” he said, a little breathless.  “That was just what I needed.”

Gimli looked as though he felt the same.  He snagged Legolas’s hand and squeezed it one last time, then let him go.  “That is well,” he said.  “Go now, then, and I will see you soon.”

“Soon,” Legolas repeated.  “I love you.”

“And I you.”

He mounted Arod then, at last, those words the last spoken between them.  The last, and the most important.

And when he rode off, he looked not behind him, but only ahead.