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Standing in front of the mirror, Legolas let his gaze linger on the dark marks standing out against the fair skin of his own chest.
Ink.
Who, who among the Elves would have willingly submitted to such a thing? To harm one’s own body so, one’s own Hröa- inextricably linked to the Fëa, to that soul that was so resilient and all the same so frail.
It was a most common practice to mortals, yet for the Elves it was as sacrilegious an act as one could imagine. By an ironic twist of fate, it also happened to be one of the most sacred traditions for the sturdy People of Durin.
Legolas had stoically stayed still while Gimli, slowly , was writing his name in Dwarven runes on his skin- no, under his fair skin, near the heart. Not only that! The Elf had given his full attention to the procedure, so that he could repeat it on Gimli soon after.
Yet, a part of his mind had begged him to make it stop. An instinct as ancient as the World had tried to force him to flee; then to halt his hand when he was imprinting his own name on the Dwarf’s chest. Yet, he had not flinched as Gimli’s capable hands were putting that permanent mark on him, nor had he hesitated in tracing the elegant elven letters.
His gaze fell on the vial placed on the desk. Gimli had insisted that he apply the balm in it on his skin several times a day, but as much as Legolas had tried, he had never managed to do so. However, the redness around the inked area would not allow him to ignore that requirement any longer.
Sighing deeply, he took the small bottle and opened it. The balsamic scent was pleasant, and yet to Legolas it was by now worse a smell than that of rotten orcish blood, to the point that it made him feel sick.
He took some of the oily mixture on the tip of two fingers and, holding his breath, he put it on the flushed skin.
As every other time, it happened in a blink.
The burning that had tormented him through the whole day and that had forced him, as soon as he had gotten home, to take off his tunic, became unbearable at the first, lightest touch. Despite his effort, he could not help but jerk his hand away. It was not merely about the pain: he had been through worse on the battlefield. No, it was something from within. An incapability of touching with his bare hand the result of an offence he had given to himself and to the Valar, and at the same time a deep, consuming need to scratch and scrape his skin until no more trace of those symbols was left; even if it mean tearing it away to the bone.
Still, no matter what his instinct told him to do; his heart would have never allowed it. Never could he repudiate that name. Never could he regret the decision he had freely and willingly made.
With a swift gesture that betrayed his surrender and annoyance, he put the vial back on the desk. When he looked back at the mirror, his image was no longer reflected alone: Gimli stood behind him, a hint of disappointment in his warm eyes.
“I’ve been speaking to Aragorn,” he started before Legolas could muster an excuse for his gesture.
“About what?”
“The ways of the Elves.”
“King Elessar is indeed well-informed on the matter of Elven custom; I dare not doubt it. You could have asked me, though.”
“I daresay, if you wanted to tell me what tattoos mean to your people, you would have spoken before you let me give you one. Am I mistaken?”
“Ah.”
The Elf sat on the edge of the bed, aware of the fact that the conversation was not going to be a simple matter. Another might have found Legolas’ choice moving, but the Elf knew that Gimli was not that shallow.
“Legolas. Never have you asked me to be something I am not. Nor would I have asked you.”
“You haven’t. I myself suggested that we follow your people’s tradition, once I learned how sacred it is.”
“On what grounds is the sacredness of my traditions more important than that of yours? Why, pray tell, have you arbitrarily decided that it is?” asked Gimli, moving in front of Legolas. Standing before the sitting Elf he could look him right in his eyes, and for several moments they held each other’s gaze, trying to read each other as they usually would. This time, however, Gimli simply could not understand.
“Legolas,” he repeated softly, “why did you not tell me that such a thing is against your very nature?”
“I doubt you would have let me do it, had you known.”
“Of course not! Legolas, may Mahal help me understand you. Were you planning to hide it from me forever? I was going to find out eventually, in Ithilien or Eryn Lasgalen.”
“I did not mean to keep it from you much longer, Gimli, believe me. I meant to tell you once I had grown used to this myself, that is all.”
“Legolas, you shouldn’t have done this. How is it worth it if this is the extent of the pain it gives you?”
“Gimli, you don’t understand, and I can hardly blame you. But listen carefully to my words and perhaps you will see; you know what fate awaits us. You know you will leave me, someday, to go where I can’t follow. I am doomed to stay behind, with only the memory of the days with you. Still, I have been offered the privilege of taking you with me eternally. Impressed upon my skin, your name, at least your name is immortal. I thought it was going to comfort me, to place my hand upon my chest and find you, trace with my fingers the lines you have bestowed. But…”
A long silence followed. Gimli, after several moments, nodded; what Legolas had explained… that, he could understand.
“But?”
“But I cannot touch it,” Legolas admitted. “I am sorry, meleth, I only need some time-”
“You haven’t used that yet, then?” The Dwarf interrupted him, alarmed, pointing at the bottle on the desk.
Legolas shook his head.
“It might get infected,” Gimli said patiently. “I would say we do not want that, do we?”
The Elf went slightly paler at that. If he had to bear that, too… and show up to a healer with a mark on his chest-!
“Would you like me to do it for you?”
“ Please. ”
Gimli washed his hands carefully before taking the balm and climbing on the bed, on his knees beside Legolas. The Elf was staring in front of him, but he went rigid as soon as he heard the cap open. Again, he felt nauseous as soon as the smell reached his nostrils.
“It’s got a good scent at least, does it not?”
“Indeed, Meleth-nín.”
The Dwarf took a good scoop of the ointment with his fingers. Legolas could not help but think that it was going to take forever for such a generous amount to be properly absorbed.
He closed his eyes and clutched the sheets when Gimli started his kind, slow massage. His broad, strong hands could be unexpectedly delicate. It was nothing new to Legolas, yet in that moment Gimli seemed more careful and attentive than ever.
What indeed surprised the Elf was to find out that the pain was, after all, bearable. Beyond it lingered a sense of completeness, a pleasure almost physical in the feeling of Gimli’s fingers on the skin, on his own name. Legolas bent his head, resting his forehead against the Dwarf’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, it’s almost over.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.”
It was a feeling Legolas could not name. The pain, the instinct to tear everything away, was still there, but if it were Gimli to touch it, he felt nothing mattered that much anymore. Even the smell of the balm seemed less terrible.
It all was terribly intense, overwhelming. When Gimli was done, Legolas held on to him like his very life depended on it. They embraced for a while, quiet except for Legolas’ heavy breathing, still except for Gimli’s hand that was caressing Legolas’ back gently.
Eventually, Legolas pulled back and, looking at Gimli, smiled.
He took the Dwarf’s hand and placed it upon the runes on his chest; then he put his own hand above Gimli’s. It was the closer he had ever been to touching the tattoo himself. It would get better with time- it would get better with Gimli by his side.
“Thank you,” was all he whispered; but there were not enough words in Westron, Sindarin or Khuzdul to express the gratitude he felt.
It is fine. I am fine.