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Legolas cannot account for himself. He has made a potentially fatal error at a critical moment. He has broken all his private vows of loyalty and pushed Aragorn’s leadership aside. He has drawn on a potential ally at a time when they are most in need of friends. It is embarrassing. It is shameful. It is the act of one without patience, without dignity, without self-control. Entirely beneath him.
He would absolutely do it again.
He has been simmering with rage and anxiety since they left the river, and the slow pace of their travel has tested his restraint. He is not angry with Aragorn or Gimli -- they have given their mortal all and more, and he is honored to be in their company. He has never seen the like of their effort and endurance. But it has not been enough to catch the orc band, and an explosion of frustration has been building in his chest. The Man of Rohan’s ignorance was the spark.
The insult to Galadriel was ludicrous, and the Lady is so far beyond Men's understanding that he could almost excuse the slander. But how dare Éomer mock heroic Gimli for his size? A little higher from the ground, indeed! Legolas’ hands moved faster than his mind – his entire furious self focused on the killing spot in Éomer’s throat. Aragorn stepping between them was riskier than he knew; it took every ounce of power in his incredulous glare to make Legolas back down.
They have not spoken of it, all these hot hours on the horses, pushing on to the forest eaves. Aragorn turned the tide of the encounter, and they parted with Éomer on much better terms than they might otherwise have hoped. Aragorn leads, focused on what is ahead, rather than behind. Still, Legolas burns with resentment, and he only feels worse the longer they ride.
Gimli has been silent since they mounted. The space between them is charged; there is none of their usual banter, only his tense grasp on Legolas’ belt and his weight pushing them forward to the dismal spiral of smoke from the burning ground. After days of wanting to go faster, the speed of their final plunge toward what appears to be disaster turns Legolas’ stomach, burns his heart.
Abruptly, he finds he is weeping, his chest heaving, tears soaking his cheeks as they ride. Behind him, Gimli stirs, clucking his tongue. He shifts his weight and runs his rough hands down Legolas’ back and sides, over and over, soothing him, drawing the fear and the anger down and away. Then he wraps his arms around Legolas’ waist, squeezes him gently, and leans his head on his shoulder, humming a deep rhythm low in his chest.
The air is soft again; Arod’s hooves drum in counterpoint to Gimli’s beat. Legolas draws a long breath and wipes his eyes. He catches Gimli’s hand, kisses its scarred knuckles, and folds it close against his heart.