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The pull has existed for a long time.
It has always been there, just at the back of his mind ― a mere childish curiosity, to see waves break against the shore, to feel fresh breeze in his hair. Still, it was never more than a passing thought, something that would always be drowned out by thoughts of other, more interesting things.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Legolas is not prepared for the longing the gull’s cry sparks within him. It hits him like a punch in his gut and for a second he can’t see anything, hear anything ―
The sensation retreats like the tide and when he finally manages to shake the feeling off, he feels like he just pulled his head out of the water.
Slowly, the surrounding noises seep through to him. Gimli nudges him carefully and everything falls back into place again. Legolas catches himself, mere miles away from a raging battle field.
Aragorn shoots him an alarmed glance and in turn, Legolas shakes his head reassuringly. The man’s posture is tense. His eyes narrow and the sharp sound of a sword being unsheathed cuts through the air. The Anduin flows fast but steady, carrying the ship towards the battle side.
The foul stench of blood stains the air. Weapons clash against each other, metal crashing into metal. The desperate cries of the people are indistinguishable from the hideous screams of the orcs.
Gimli's grip on his axe tightens.
With a roar, Aragorn charges into the bloodied masses, Legolas and Gimli hot on his trail.
The gull’s cry chases Legolas into combat. It takes him every single fiber of his body to stay focused, to stay present.
Not yet, he promises himself, Not yet.
***
It takes them the reality of an impossible victory to take what they've wanted for months .
Legolas doesn't know what he hears, doesn't know if it's the sound of his blood roaring in his veins or if it's the ocean calling out to him again, but he's feeling light headed and drunk from the air around them. His body is heavier than it has ever felt. Cuts he didn’t even realize were there start to burn like he’s slowly being set aflame ― but it doesn’t matter.
They're alive.
The dark tower is no more. They are both still standing and breathing and it can't be real but they're both here and Gimli has a nasty looking gash on his face and is covered in too much blood to be all his but all of this doesn't matter because -
Gimli yanks him down by his collar and presses his mouth on his.
***
With Sauron gone, the world is a brighter and merrier place. Yet, nothing will ever compare to the way everything seems to shine just for him when they lie intertwined, so close that Legolas can’t distinguish where he stops and where Gimli starts.
The world is crisp, sharper around the edge than it has ever been. There is awe in the way Gimli handles him, devotion in every kiss and every touch. He’s handling him like he’s a delicate craft, something to admire and worship, like he’s even more precious than the stars silently shining in the sky.
Legolas blooms under his care.
Gimli steadies him, anchors him to this moment. There is love in everything they do, love in the way they kiss, love passing through their gazes.
The veil is lifted from his eyes. Legolas breathes like it’s the first time he ever did. It's the most alive he's ever felt and he can’t get enough of this, of the almost impossible way their bodies fit together and he tries to press closer, even though it’s physically impossible to do so.
Gimli’s skin is burning like the furnaces deep inside the mountain. And Legolas is sure, there is so much more he wants.
The night is young.
Gimli laughs and tells him to slow down. “Don’t rush, we have the whole night for ourselves."
And after that, there is still a whole eternity waiting for them.
***
It is a fine morning.
The sky is clear and the plains of Rohan stretch in front of them, an infinite sea of lush, green grass.
With a soft click, Gimli attaches the clasp to the braid he’s been putting into Legolas’ hair. It has been masterfully crafted, with intricate details reminiscent of fine vines and leaves carved into the surface. Slowly, Legolas lifts his hand and feels the design with his fingers. The work is fundamentally dwarven, but the detailing is distinctively elvish.
Giddiness rises inside of him when he realizes that he has put the exact same clasp into Gimli’s hair only minutes ago.
Nothing else could have been more befitting than this to symbolize their union.
In the distance, the outskirts of Fangorn lie against the horizon. This time around, they have time to explore.
Legolas can't wait to show him the beauty that is hidden in between leaf and stem and wood, just like Gimli taught him to listen to the stones, to take in the radiance of gems and quartz.
As he hums a small, pleasant tune under his breath and gathers up their things, he feels Gimli’s gaze in his back. Without a word, Legolas turns reaches for his hand. The smile Gimli gives him in turn is radiant.
Yes, he is sure. It is a fine morning indeed.
***
They walk through the days and talk through the nights. After all, there is no need to hurry. They move with a leisurely pace, simply focusing on each other.
Fangorn soon is reached.
And even afterwards, there will be no hurry. Their parting will only be temporary. There will be time.
The water has died down to a low murmur, something barely noticeable.
Legolas is sure. As long as Gimli is with him, he will never succumb to the call.
And he is intent on staying with him forever.
***
Aragorn often invites Legolas and Gimli to dine with him and his queen, or old times sake, as he says. They sure aren’t complaining. Being a king brings its own benefits which among others, include having access to a gigantic wine cellar.
The moment he looks Legolas in the face, a knowing glint creeps into Aragorn's expression. His gaze shifts to the braid in his hair and then towards Gimli’s. The resulting, very un-kingly snort can only be described as smug. Arwen subtly, discreetly kicks him against the shins, but she, too, cannot hide the laughter in her eyes.
Legolas is feeling very awkward in his own skin, but he defiantly stares back.
“So you two finally stopped tip-toeing around each other”, Aragorn simply states,.
“So we did”, Gimli answers proudly, with a challenging note to his voice.
Aragorn stands up, walks up to them and pulls the both of them into a crushing embrace. The tension melts out of the air.
“Tonight, we celebrate”, he announces and Legolas’ face hurts from smiling so widely.
***
The sheets are warm. Or at least they should be. Sunlight is streaming in from the window onto the bed. Legolas shifts and sleepily lifts a heavy limb to reach for Gimli.
He is not there.
It’s not the coarse, fiery hair of his husband that his fingers find, nor the warm touch of his skin.
His hand splashes into freezing water.
Legolas yelps, flinches back like he’s been struck. Alarmed by the noise, Gimli comes barging through the door, axe in hand with a bewildered look on his face. “Legolas! What -”
Legolas’ expression is wild and open. His eyes are unfocused and he’s transfixed by something on his hand, clenching and unclenching it like he can’t believe what he’s looking at. Gimli immediately climbs up their bed and takes his hand into his to check for potential injuries.
His hands are pale and soft. Unmarred, although a little bit chilly. Gimli circles his thumbs over them soothingly and Legolas sheepishly tugs his hand free, covering it with his other one.
“I’m sorry I startled you, my dear. It was - it was nothing of importance.”
Gimli shoots him a curious look but doesn’t press further. Instead he leans forward to brush a stray strand of hair out of Legolas’ face. Legolas closes his eyes and nuzzles their noses together. Already the memory fades like a bad dream.
The water holds no power over him, not when Gimli is there to dispel it from his thoughts. “Really, it’s nothing”, he promises and Gimli nods.
“Breakfast is fixed”, he says and makes a small motion towards the door. “Are you going to join me?”
Legolas stretches languidly. “Give me a moment. I’ll come with you after I’ve made myself presentable.”
Gimli shakes his head in fond esparation. “Oh the vanity of elves…”, he exclaims which earns him a snicker and then walks out of the room to give Legolas some privacy.
Once he’s gone, Legolas examines his hand again. It is dry, as it should be. No visual reminder serves as proof that the sensation he felt minutes ago was real. Yet, when he takes a tentative lick, his tongue is greeted with the bitter taste of salt staining his skin.
***
The elves are fading.
Ithilien does not lie on the way to the west. There are only whispered rumors Legolas hears, from different folks passing his dwellings.
The grey wizard has sailed, they say. Mithrandir has at last passed over to the undying lands, to be never seen again in middle earth. The meddler will never be able to meddle in their business again. At least the children will miss him, if only for the brilliant and fantastic fireworks he made.
The golden woods are mourning. Lothlórien weeps for the loss of their queen. The lady, fair and golden will be taking her blessings far away where no mortal may reach them, and thus, the magic is broken. Lórien’s leaves fall one by one.
Lord Elrond, too, was seen sailing west, leaving the last Homely House east of the sea into the care of his son’s hands. Never again will anyone be graced by the hospitality of the Lord of Rivendell, never will his counsel be received again.
Thus, the light of the elves passes away. And with them, they say, were two curious little figures, cloaked in grey, scarcely taller than children…
The elves are fading, they say and it has never felt so real before.
Frodo is gone ― he just knows ― and it sends chills down his back. Already the fellowship starts to fall apart.
And some small, treacherous part of his mind can’t help to wonder, if he, too, should be chasing him upon these blue, blue waves...
***
Years fly past.
Legolas stays as he is, fair and smooth skinned, with light dancing in his eyes and song upon his tongue. He always was and will always be and Gimli will never grow bored of him. There will always be something new to discover, something new he could grow to love.
Gimli changes slowly, like a tree in autumn. White wisps of hair appear on his head, inside his beard. Legolas adores them, says they remind him of snow upon the Misty Mountains, remind him of mithril hidden between a golden hoard.
And they still have half an eternity to explore.
***
“Did you ever regret your choice?”
“To stay with him, you mean?”
Legolas nods.
“There are times", Arwen starts hesitantly, "where it saddens me deeply to know that I will never see my kin again. But going means never seeing him again and I knew wouldn’t be able to bear that."
"But, have you ever longed to sail -”
Her eyes are bright and clear when she answers.
“Never. My heart belongs with him, here in middle-earth. The sea doesn’t invoke anything in me. Legolas, do you -”
He stays silent. It is answer enough.
***
The message that Sam has sailed hits all of them unexpectedly.
When the last two hobbits of their fellowship arrive in Gondor, they laugh and cry and mourn the loss of their friends.
Merry and Pippin are different from when they were younger. Their bones are old and Pippin frequently complains about the way his joints pop whenever he moves. They look so small and frail , a word Legolas has never expected he would use to describe these two trouble-makers.
They look different, but their spirits haven’t changed at all and from time to time, there still is mischief flaring up in their eyes.
***
The tides fade into nothingness and in that split of a moment, it doesn’t seem impossible. Legolas will be able to stay. Just a little longer.
(When he closes his eyes, the sea closes back in again and the waves devour him whole.)
***
Time shouldn't be able to marr the beauty of elves. They were made for eternity. They were made to last .
It is a lie.
Gimli sees it in the haunted look in his gaze, in the way he's never quite present. Legolas is far away, somewhere where Gimli cannot reach him.
His elf used to radiate light. Legolas' hair used to flow like liquid sunlight, used to glitter like strands of precious gold.
His skin shouldn't be this pale. Nothing is left of the healthy, golden glow. Instead, it is gray, waxen. Almost transparent.
Legolas is fading.
It is something that he has noticed a long time ago. Even before they started to share the same home he has seen it, when Legolas used to visit him in his caves full of stars and he him under his trees of whispered songs.
Dwarves love but once. They might take different partners in life, but love ― love is a strong word and an even stronger thing to give.
Dying of heartbreak is not unheard of. And seeing Legolas like this, far away and dreaming hurts even worse than dying.
He knows the elves are sailing. He knows, once they are gone, there will be no return.
(Gimli starts to works. He operates secretly under the cover of the night. It is no elven craftsmanship he creates, but the simple wooden ship will do its job just right.
It will carry his elf somewhere where nothing can harm him.)
***
Merry passes away. He goes, surrounded by friends, smiling weakly through the whole process. Pippin doesn’t let go of his hand even long after the light ceases from his eyes.
Shortly after, Pippin follows him into death. Only three remain.
(The waves of Anduin breaking against the shore have never sounded so alluring before.)
***
“You have to sail”, Gimli says, eyes full of determination.
Legolas violently shakes his head. “No. We’ve been over this.”
“Please. Do it for me.”
“I won’t. I can’t leave you here. Please, just understand ― let me stay with you, don’t make me go ―”
Gimli carefully reaches for his head and gently presses their foreheads together. They’re close, so very close that they’re almost sharing the same breath.
“My love”, he breathes out and Legolas’ heart aches for the sincere and absolute love in his voice, “I am not trying to push you away. You have to sail. At this rate you will fade before I do.”
Legolas kisses him. Hard.
Gimli lets him shut him up, lets Legolas cling to him like he’s the only thing that is keeping him from drowning. They’re living on borrowed time. Already Gimli’s hair has lost all of its former beauty. There is not as much strength left in his limbs like there used to and moving around feels jarring, with his joints grating against each other every time he does.
He pretends to not notice the silent tears that drip onto his face, nor the desperate way Legolas presses against him.
He is shaking like a leaf in autumn and Gimli does everything in his power to keep him steady.
***
Has Aragorn always looked so...exhausted? Legolas doesn't remember.
***
The house of kings is chilly and dead silent. A few scattered torches are lit, in a futile attempt to combat the creeping shadows. Not that it would matter much.
Aragorn is dead. Aragorn is dead dead dead ― and nothing remains of the Fellowship beside himself and Gimli.
Even in grief the Evenstar is beautiful, brilliant, still the hope and light of their people. Here she stands, shrouded in dark veils and dark garments, unmoving. Legolas suddenly remembers the question he asked her a whole lifetime ago and wonders, if her answer has changed.
With half a mind to comfort her, Legolas unsurely steers his steps towards her. A small tug on his wrist stops him and when he looks, Gimli wordlessly shakes his head. The noise of protest dies down in his throat the second he catches his expression.
There is pain in Gimli’s eyes, as if he understands, as if he feels everything Arwen is feeling and more. Legolas doesn’t understand. It doesn’t make sense. He shouldn’t be ― why is he looking like that?
Why is Gimli looking at him like he’s already gone?
They turn to leave, the sound of their footsteps echoing against silent white stone.
Arwen stands there, still, hands folded together as if in a prayer. Her face is an unreadable mask carven from pale alabaster. Even so, she is the very picture of grief turned solid. And Legolas realizes, that she is dying right in front of their eyes.
It is the last they ever saw of her.
***
Sometimes, it is almost unbearable. When Legolas closes his eyes the world around him dissolves into nothingness. Only the hiss of the waves comes to him again, whispering to him in a thousand voices.
When he inhales, it is the salty tang of the ocean he tastes on his tongue.
The world shifts and the song of the birds turn into the cries of the gulls, the soft soil under his feet turns into cool sand between his toes.
There is no way in which he could keep his tears in. Not after all this time and when he breaks down with a long suffering wail, the tears gush out of his eyes like the ocean is trying to escape his body.
***
The fire in the fireplace is dancing merrily and casts a soft orange glow onto its surroundings. In these days, it is the only thing that is still good and warm. Winter is coming and there is nothing left for them.
Legolas is standing behind Gimli, clever fingers carefully brushing through his hair, separating them into even strands and braiding them into an elaborate braid. His own hair falls around them like a curtain, shielding them from the world.
Gimli’s hair is almost completely white now. What once reminded Legolas of snow upon the mountains or mithril in the deep now only makes him think of white crests breaking against the shore.
It is despair that makes him press his face against Gimli’s neck and despair that finally, finally makes him speak.
“I - I will listen to you. I will set sail to the lands of my forefathers.”
He can’t see his face, but he can feel him tense. Gimli shifts in his armchair and then turns around, the braid long forgotten. A mix of emotions flitter through his eyes. Pain. Regret. Sadness. But the most obvious ones are acceptance and relief. “I had hoped you’d say that”, he says, ultimately, “Your ship is ready. It has always been.”
He built him a ship. A ship.
Legolas almost stumbles because of the speed with which he bends down and clumsily catches Gimli’s hands in his, traces the lines on his palm, feels the calluses on his fingers -
“Gimli, you ‒ you daft dwarf! For how long, when did you ‒ ”
Gimli looks at him like he’s trying to take in every single detail of Legolas’ face, like he’s trying to etch it into his memory. His voice sounds sincere, raw when he speaks.
“My love, my One. I wish you didn’t have to.”
The unspoken I don’t want to let go of you hangs in the air between them and suddenly Legolas realizes that Gimli is looking at him like that because he literally is trying to memorize his face.
It all makes sense now. All of these stolen glances, the way he looked at him at in the House of Kings ‒
They will never see each other ever again once he’s gone. Legolas will be dead to him, only something his memory will conjure and Gimli has accepted that a long time ago. He is willing to cling to that, to cling onto the only thing that will be left.
A sharp pang of pain shoots through Legolas’ heart and his grip on Gimli’s hands tightens.
There are wrinkles upon Gimli’s face. His skin has turned soft and lax over the years but there is still a fire burning in his eyes. This dwarf is his, his ‒ and a wild thought starts to form in his head. Before he can stop himself, the words tumble out of his mouth:
“Please, sail with me.“
(Gimli’s eyes light up like the stars above their heads.)