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Legolas finds Gimli standing atop the steps outside Théoden's Hall, smoking his pipe, so still he looks to be made of stone.
"I have not yet seen you so pensive."
Gimli starts and then calms when he identifies friend rather than foe.
"Elves! Always sneaking up on you when you least expect it," he grumbles, then returns to his pipe.
"Might I lend an ear to lighten the burden of your thoughts?"
Gimli sends smoke rings towards the sky and Legolas waits, looking out upon the sprawling plains of Rohan, the scorched earth where Orcs had pillaged and burned, land that was once green and fertile. He thinks of his own woods, of lush canopies and clear, sweet water, age-old beauty now polluted with darkness. He has not the heart for war yet he wishes his father’s kingdom restored; wishes it above all else.
“The Battle of Five Armies was the last time Elves and Dwarves fought side by side.”
“Your memory serves you well. I was there, by my father’s side.”
Gimli coughs violently around his pipe and Legolas smiles inwardly, imagining the blow he has dealt to the dwarf’s pride.
“Much blood was spilt on that day.” He remembers the luster of Elven armor colored red, the battle cries of Durin’s folk, and the stench of Orc carcasses piled high by the mountainside.
“And there Thorin and his line were laid to rest. Three of the finest dwarves I’ve ever known.” Gimli’s voice is thick and gruff with emotion.
“It was my father who laid Ocrist on Thorin’s tomb. May it gleam ever in the dark when foes approach.” Thranduil’s words had been both a blessing and a curse, heavy with tears that would never be shed.
Surprise shows on Gimli’s face. “I never knew the Elvenking did such a thing. All the tales tell of distrust and ill will between Thorin and Thranduil.”
Legolas’s smile is laden with his father’s regret. “Not all.”
This time Gimli waits, staring off into the distance towards the growing dark as Legolas searches for the beginning.
“My father has always cared, above all else, for the welfare of our people and sought to ensure the safety of our borders, that nothing would ever threaten our peace. He has no taste for politics, for bartering and currying favors, but accepts it as a necessary evil, recognizing that no kingdom can live in isolation.” Legolas remembers the lavish feasts that were once held in Thranduil’s halls, musicians that entertained through the night, and bargains struck over their finest wines. “Even so, he was never inclined to leave his beloved woods. The first time he set foot in Erebor, Thrór was King under the Mountain. He knew that as Thrór’s hoard of treasures grew, so would his influence. Yet it was not necessity alone that drew him there. He had heard the rumors of the Arkenstone, the heart of the mountain that glowed with a beauty rivaling that of the moon and stars. And anyone who knew Thranduil could attest to his insatiable curiosity.”
“Aye, I have seen the jewel with my own eyes, lying on Thorin’s tomb. It was a sight to behold.”
“A sight it was. Yet what caught my father’s attention turned out to be something else entirely.”
Gimli frowns. “What could be more enchanting than the jewel of Erebor?”
“The young dwarf prince, Thorin.” Legolas only smiles when he’s met with an outburst of disbelief, so violent as to turn the heads of passersby. “To be sure, it was beyond Thranduil’s wildest imaginings, that one he would more readily consider an enemy than a friend could affect him thus, and shake the very foundations of the life he led.”
“Impossible! Absurd! I wasn’t born yesterday, laddie. You’ll have to do better than that to trick me into believing this—this nonsense!”
“I mean to tell a story to pass the time, nothing more. Whether or not you take it to heart is your choice.”
Gimli’s spluttering diminishes to grumbling, and then to silence. Legolas returns to the memory, vivid in his mind as though it was only yesterday, of cavernous halls, a feast fit for kings, and Thranduil’s eyes as they followed Thorin, at once compelled and troubled by what they saw.
“Until then my father was accustomed to guarding himself against sentiments that would make him weak, anything that might distract him from his duties as a ruler. And, perhaps, having lived for so long, he believed there was little that could tempt him and test his will.”
Legolas was young then. He had already seen battle and death, but still had much to learn of love and lust. And yet he sensed the change that swept over Thranduil that day, like a strong wind through leaves that had long lain idle.
“But he was not one to act rashly. He and Thorin exchanged but a few words before we bid farewell at daybreak and returned home. There my father kept vigil in his hall, pacing for days on end and speaking to no one. He oft confided in me but on this matter he stayed silent. Still I knew that a battle raged within him, wreaking havoc, though his face gave nothing away.”
Legolas imagines it now, how violently Thranduil’s mind must have warred with his heart.
“On the twentieth day he extended an invitation to Thrór and his kin. It would be the first time since his father’s rule that dwarves set foot in the halls of the King of the Woodland Realm.”
“Madness. This is madness,” Gimli mutters, lacking bite.
“My father would not have disagreed.”
Reason had abandoned Thranduil that day, and what had remained was an obsession that threatened to consume him, as though the weakness of Men coursed through his veins. When he recounts the tale now, he confesses he understands it no better than he did then, a mystery that could not be unraveled even with all the wisdom of the Eldar at his disposal.
“He was not certain of what exactly he wanted, only that he needed to see Thorin again. Perhaps he would find that it amounted nothing. A passing fancy. A misjudgement. But the prince took him by surprise a second time.”
“Surely Thorin did not return the Elvenking’s—” Gimli struggles valiantly against the thought.
“Desires? Affections? Even I do not know what truly passed between them. My father left the task of entertaining the King to his court while he and Thorin wandered the wood, deep in conversation upon their return.”
He remembers the sight of them comprising a study in contrasts, the unlikeliest of pairs. And yet—the curve of Thranduil’s body as he bent towards the dwarf, the attentiveness of Thorin’s gaze, and the absent manner in which they matched their strides suggested an intimacy that did not discriminate.
“When Thrór returned to Erebor, Thorin remained, ever a presence by Thranduil’s side. My father had long earned the love and respect of our people, but there were whisperings that spread far and wide through the wood, whisperings of a change that had come over the King, and whether it was for good or for ill was still to be seen. Friendship between Elves and Dwarves was unheard of. The enmity between them had long run deep, a ragged scar obscured by Time but never healed. Yet in the days that passed Mirkwood felt renewed, taking on a brightness that many feared was lost. As if it cast off the gloom just as my father cast off the shadows in his heart.” Legolas murmurs the last thought with a pang of sorrow in his breast, a reminder that it is shadows that engulf Thranduil now, within cold halls bereft of comfort.
“Never, in all my years, would I have thought such a thing possible.” Gimli speaks softly, eyes looking suspiciously damp.
“Perhaps it was the impossibility that made their bond all the more possible, a strangeness they sought in each other, their differences so stark as to seem all the more beautiful.” There had been a fire in Thorin that was hard to ignore, with heat enough to bend the hardest of hearts to his whim. And bend Thranduil did, to a youth who had yet to see the world while he had already seen too much.
“But it was not to last. This part of the tale you have heard of. Not long after Thorin’s departure from Mirkwood, Smaug descended upon Erebor, seeking the treasures under the mountain to slake his lust for gold. Thranduil was quick to answer the dwarves’ call for aid, leading his warriors out of the wood for the first time since the Last Alliance. But when he arrived and saw the havoc Smaug had wrought, he remembered what it was he had fought to protect, what he would continue to protect after all else passed into memory, and he knew then it was a cost he could not bear.” Legolas recalls the sight of his father turning his back on Thorin, how his eyes mourned what he had forsaken.
Gimli makes a sound of discontent but says nothing.
“They would not speak again until Thorin’s quest brought him to Thranduil’s halls for the second and final time.”
“Gentlemen!” Théoden’s guard, Gamling, stands behind them when they turn. “The King requests an audience.”
Legolas forgets that he has not finished his tale, preoccupied with thoughts of war and the fate of two little hobbits, until they’re standing before the Black Gate, anticipating a less than warm welcome.
“So how does it end?” The question rings loud amid the quiet unease.
“How does what end?”
“You know.” Gimli shifts from one foot to the other. “Your story.”
In grief, Legolas thinks, knowing it is not what his friend wishes to hear, though he would never admit it.
“When they last met in battle, Thorin admitted he had come to understand Thranduil’s decision. The duty they bore to their people was one and the same, and it was this duty that had brought them to where they were. He admitted that pride had kept him from repairing the rift between them, and the cost came to be far more than he should have allowed. Even so, my father was not without regrets.” Legolas knows that Thranduil wonders still if he had coveted too selfishly and surrendered too easily, mistakenly believing that what he had won he was not meant to keep.
He looks down at Gimli and smiles. “They made their peace before the end.”
The dwarf heaves a breath, as if ridding himself of a weight upon his chest. “A fine ending I dare say. A fine ending indeed.”
It’s an opinion that startles Legolas, until he finds that he couldn’t agree more.