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1. Durin IV's eyes sting with bitter tears. The rumble of rock from that fated day, ages ago now, still rings in his mind. He remembers it so clearly: when he first gave Elrond the mithril — nothing more than a crystal, really, and yet their biggest yield of the ore so far. The Elf's gentle but sure hands cupping the impossible light, expression of one utterly mesmerized and not quite managing to conceal it.
Today, Durin condemned him to death.
He curses his father's words, his comparison of the Elves' decline, their doom, to fire. Something delicate and slow, subtle enough that he failed to notice it before, cannot even be considered similar to the fierce, fast-fading nature of flame. To try and boil down the former into sentiment easier to digest only served to sink the weight of shame further in his stomach.
Both are meant to destroy, though.
Elrond comes suddenly strolling in, gait heavier than usual. He easily meets Durin's stare.
The moment he realizes the King's decision shows on his face.
He breaks their shared gaze, slim lips pressing into a hard line and elegant brows furrowing. Durin tries ever harder not to cry, but the expression is unforgiving, pulling on his heartstrings like a smashed fiddle.
"Don't suppose I can elbow you into staying for dinner?" His voice is too shaky, wrought with frustration.
Elrond shakes his head. "I must inform Gil-galad. Soon, he will no longer be a king... for there will no longer be a Lindon."
Durin clenches his fists at his sides, swallowing against the lump in his throat, a thousand apologies stuck on the tip of his tongue. "So this is goodbye, then?"
Elrond straightens, mouth quirked. "We do not say goodbye," he murmurs. He steps closer, looking upon Durin with that beautiful, disarming smile. "We say—"
"Namárië," Durin finishes for him.
The corners of the Elf's eyes crinkle. "Yes. It means more than simply 'farewell'." He grasps Durin's shoulder firmly, and the Dwarf's breath trembles. "It means 'go towards goodness'."
His other hand opens, revealing the mithril, resting unassuming on his palm. He holds it out to Durin, face drawn once more. Their fingers brush as the crystal passes possession.
Then Elrond turns on his heel, robes swishing behind him, and leaves.
Durin finally lets his tears fall.
2. Kíli, son of Dís, screams. His brother, Fíli, pushes the damp hair from his forehead, a steadfast presence he has known since birth. Meanwhile, another prods at his thigh, sending fresh waves of agony through his body, tainted indefinitely by Orc poison, or so he catches Óin muttering. He thrashes, trying to flee from the touch, but is held down like some sort of wild animal.
"You'll be alright, nadadel," Fíli whispers, as if to convince both of them. "I promise. She wants to help."
She? There is little who that could be, but he won't allow himself to believe Tauriel is actually here, instead of the grand halls of her fair kin, merely a witness to their desperate quest — never a part of it. The figure standing over him, proud and tall and getting ever blurrier by the second, must be a Lake-Man. Must be.
But they speak in a musical tongue, and their voice is fey, threatening to haunt his every waking moment and dreams. The prospect should be more frightening, except maybe it already does.
His eyes roll back into his head when the pressure somehow increases, going nearly numb. He yells again. Fíli sucks in a sharp breath, looking down.
Kíli follows his line of sight as the voice rises in volume, carving out syllables into words into prayers he doesn't understand. His head lolls on his neck, vision abruptly clear and halting once he sees... well.
Her. A goddess. Light incarnate, piercing him to his very core, until he feels laid bare before her, only to be met with searing kindness. Framed by long licks of auburn, she looks almost scared to be trusted that deeply, yet after a moment’s hesitation, takes it in stride, wondrously disregarding centuries of fear and antipathy towards the unknown. For those were the lies of their forefathers, and you cannot wake up if you don’t fall asleep.
Oh, he thinks, dumbfounded. I love her. Of course.
(Later, his thigh is wrapped and secured with a piece of fabric, knotted tight in order to let the athelas seep into the wound. Fíli is gone from his side. He drifts like a man at sea, coming down after a devastating storm, leaving both his raft and safety torn.
"Tauriel," he rasps, barely audible.
She turns, a small curve to her mouth, revealing a dimple there on her left cheek. "Lie still."
His disbelief persists. "You cannot be her."
She freezes.
"She is far away. She..." He chokes, biting back a sob. "She is far, far away from me. She walks in starlight in another world." He is in awe remembering her beauty, breath stolen as if punched. She was as beautiful as the full moon — no. Tenfold.
"It was just a dream." In his soul, he perceives this to be true. He reaches for the stranger, with her straight hair and familiar dimple. Her fingers curl into his, feather-light and warm. "Do you think she could have loved me?"
She says nothing, but her lips part in a silent gasp.)
3. Gimli Lockbearer gulps. His hands, tucked behind his back, shake almost imperceptibly. He stares at Legolas, unblinking, as the Elf tends to their fire, and tries to memorize each detail of his face, in case this doesn't go exactly according to plan.
Their quaint camp consists of two bedrolls, pushed close together, a collapsible steel fire pit, and a small table where they take their meals, meager as those are beyond their packed rations. They have returned — and are preparing for sleep — from the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, where Gimli found something... interesting, to say the least.
Chest flooded with nerves, he opens his mouth. Closes it. Repeats the motion a few more times.
Naturally, Legolas notices.
He is keen, especially concerning Gimli. He breaks their comfortable silence thus far, venturing, "What is wrong, mellon nín?"
Gimli takes a deep breath, telling himself to just rip the bandage off and be done with it. He shakes his head. "I have a gift for you."
Legolas raises a brow. "Oh?"
Gimli thrusts his palms forward, unfurled. In them sits a gemstone, white-grey like Legolas' eyes, and when it catches the firelight, amber like his. Next to a body of water? As blue as cornflower. When they leave tomorrow, the soft green of grass finally regrowing in the Gore will be reflected by the facets.
A whole plethora of color. He thought it among the most beautiful things he has ever seen when he first found it, dislodged and lying loose on the uneven floor, though never surpassing the marvels of Lothlórien.
"Thank you," Legolas says, sincere. "I am curious. Are all Dwarves usually so generous yet taciturn when courting, or is it only you?"
Gimli grunts loudly in shock. His friend simply runs his fingers through his hair, withdrawing and wordlessly settling a plait on his shoulder, no longer neat.
He flushes at the memory that the sight conjures. They were visiting Fangorn, stopping seemingly for a moment to refill their waterskins beside a stream. Yet Legolas had removed his cloak and braces, merely justifying: "I wish to bathe." There was barely a second for Gimli to turn around before the rest of his clothes followed. He soaked until midnight, the Dwarf staying stubbornly dressed and standing guard near the tree line.
Then, beneath the marred moon, he humbly asked Gimli to redo his braids.
Now, Gimli is presented with his treachery. It is unquestionably a Dwarven braid. He recalls, clear as day, the plait mirrored in Legolas' smooth locks as the one his mother would braid into his father's hair.
A claim, and a sign... of your One.
He is caught, through and through. "I—" He stutters, lost for words. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"
Think, he means to say, otherwise he never would have so easily betrayed Legolas' freely-given trust. But he is interrupted.
"I jest." Legolas looks smug. "Perhaps a bit cruelly. Yes is my answer."
Unsurprisingly, they meet each other halfway.
It isn't perfect, by any means, nor worthy of tales to be told for generations to come. Legolas wouldn't want to become a part of the songs he loves, despite the fact that with the destruction of the One Ring, they have likely already earned themselves a place in history. But it is a kiss thousands of years in the making, and theirs all the same. Simultaneously gentle and heavy, passionate and sorrowful. Legolas strokes Gimli's cheek reflexively, like a promise, one he is willing to sail to the ends of Arda to keep, and a great deal more of unspoken deeds.
An Elf and a Dwarf, kindling a flame within both their hearts, desperate to meld them together, into the same, come what may. And maybe heal in the process.
So nothing new, honestly.