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Sometimes, Legolas’ sorrow is akin to freezing from the winter cold – slow and deceivingly soft, but fatal nonetheless. Its chill will creep into his veins, moving ever upward day by day until it encompasses his entire being with frigid numbness that leaves him a hollow shell. He will be deaf to any words spoken to him for the time that his anguish lasts.
Other times, it will rush over him as an ocean wave would a pebble – swift, powerful, and overwhelming. These are the times he all but runs to his one safe haven, trembling as a new born fawn on its first legs. He will cling to the moss and bark – sobbing – as if he might fade away without their anchoring strength.
It is an ever present hurt for which he sees no end.
For how can he once again feel the ancient song of his homelands without betraying one who is a brother to him?
How will he be able to hear the soft whispers of his native trees if he does not first renounce his conscience?
He cannot, and thus there is no cure.
The rough bark beneath his fingers is no substitute for the ones his hands know well. Yet the elm tries its best to comfort him. It shares its song of warmth and stone with him and lets him soak in the quiet melody. It soothes his torn heart, if but a little.
“Hannon le, mellon nin,” he whispers to it.
A low grunt interrupts the quiet rustling of the leaves overhead.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Gimli says, hefting his solid bulk – so unlike the light steps of his brethren – onto the cleft Legolas sits on. His broad-shouldered friend straightens and brushes off a few stray bits of rock and dirt from his tunic. “It is bad then?”
Legolas turns his gaze away. How can he face such a stalwart companion with weakness like this? Already Gimli has surpassed what courtesy dictates. He opens his home, his family, to Legolas and asks for naught in return. He shows him the masonry skills of his people, secrets long kept from the elven kin. And yet Legolas still cannot but help to long for more. He sighs. “Aye, but it shall soon pass.”
Gimli drops beside him with a dry thud. “There is no time limit to pain such as this.”
“It has been six months.”
“And how long has Mirkwood been your home?” Gimli presses.
Legolas peers over at him and sighs. “I am poor company.”
Gimli snorts. “Today, perhaps, but I did not befriend you for good humor alone. That would be a wretched demand, not to mention tiring for us both. Nay, the grey clouds are allowed to dwell just as much as the flighty dances.”
This time it is Legolas who snorts. “I am not flighty.”
“Ah, but you do not deny the dancing.”
Legolas smiles. “There is no shame in that.”
Gimli reaches over and grasps his shoulder. “Just as there is no shame in this.”
Legolas swallows, but Gimli only tightens his grip. The new grass smells of fresh dew and life. Legolas focuses on it, instead of the serious words of the dwarf. At last Legolas nods. “It hurts, mellon nin, as if some part of me has been ripped out of my soul. I am…frightened by it.”
“You could always –”
“Nay!” Legolas snarls, fingers digging furrows into the soft ground. “I will not recant! Do not ask it of me.”
Gimli sighs. “It was only a thought.”
“A bad one.”
“…aye, perhaps, but it hurts my heart sore to see you so. Is there naught we can do to give you relief? Perhaps, we could write to Lord Elrond or the Lady Galadriel. Surely one of them will accept you into their fold.”
Legolas relaxes his hand, fingers straightening back out. “And demand they cut themselves off from the rest of our kin, as I am forced to do? Nay, it would be a poor show of friendship to ask such a thing.”
“I think they would not think it so.”
“No, mellon nin. Please, I will be all right. Soon.”
Gimli’s brow creases as he frowns. “Very well, but no more thoughts of your burdening on us.”
“Swalin told you.”
“Of course, he told me!” Gimli’s chest heaves as he waves his hands. “What put these silly thoughts into your head? You do more than your share of work, you obey our customs, honor our hospitality. Why would you be unwelcome?”
“Do I not sigh for more?” Legolas queries. “I am given much and still I pine for…”
“For home.” Gimli leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “You’re allowed to call it that. It is your home. It will always be your home. You miss it, just as I would miss Erebor. This is why – ”
“Nay!” Legolas strikes a hand against a stone beside him.
Gimli sighs. “Very well.”
“You see I am poor company.”
“But welcome nevertheless.”
They sit on the small cliffside after this, elf and dwarf, as the summer breeze rustles the leaves around them and the cicadas sing their soothing harmony. It is by no means perfect – it cannot be – but it is enough, for now. Theirs is a sad beginning, but perhaps it will end well. Mayhap it will not. They will face it together nonetheless, elf and dwarf, two parts that hold the other up – the solid earth that holds the tall tree in place against the winds that batter it.