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It was bright. Loud. Humans, elves, and even dwarves flooded the castle square. The sun shone and reflected off the white marble of the castle.
Gimli stood there holding a crown for Aragorn, for his friend. If you would ask him a few months prior if he would have thought that this man would become the king of Gondor, Gimli would have laughed.
Not because Aragorn wasn’t a great leader, he was, but because he was the farthest thing from pomp, ceremony, and grand banquets.
Gimli knew him as the man who woke up with the sun, who went fishing when bored, who hunted orcs for entertainment. So Gimli would have laughed a lot.
Now he was at his coronation and he was proud of him. Gandalf took the crown with sophisticated etiquette and put it on Aragorn's head. He could feel, hear, how the crowd held its breath. It was as if the entire world stopped for a moment. Then Aragorn stood up, he looked almost tired, the dwarf knew he would rather be anywhere else. The second he turned to the people there was an uproar, everyone cheered, shouted, applauded. Gimli was impressed that the newly appointed king was in a position to not even flinch.
Gimli suspected there would be a lot of speeches, handshakes, and fake smiles. What met him, however, was a song. A song so beautiful that even the toughest dwarf would shed a tear. Gimli had heard Aragorn sing to himself sometimes, or around the fire, but he had not known him to be so moving.
They walked through the crowd. Recognizable faces gladdened his heart. He saw Faramir stand with Lady Éowyn. He had to admit they looked so happy together that it brought a smile to his face. They passed by her brother Éomer. Oh, he didn’t look that pleased. Poor one, the death of Théoden must have crushed him. Losing a father figure and getting a title from him when people congratulate you? Gimli could only imagine what this man has been through these past months.
They paused just long enough for a nod from Aragorn and a slight bow from Éomer before passing him and continuing on through the waiting crowd. People loomed before him, but Gimli would have known those blond hair, rippling in the soft wind, from a mile away.
Aragorn struggled to maintain a solemn, kingly composure, but his expression softened with the hint of a smile. They didn’t speak, yet their eyes said more than words ever could. They stood there, hands resting on each other’s shoulders, saying nothing — and they didn’t need to. That steady, familiar look held all the roads they’d walked: the battles, the long nights, the close calls. He’d seen them fight side by side, back to back, speaking with barely a word between them. This was no different.
Yet something about it still made the air feel heavier. Like this was the last quiet moment before something else began.
Legolas shifted his posture, tilting his head as if to draw Aragorn’s eyes elsewhere. Gimli could see that Aragorn had looked past the elf and furrowed at the Gondor banner that was there. The flag fluttered aside, slowly exposing the presence Aragorn had quietly yearned for.
For a long moment, Aragorn didn’t move. His face softened, the weight of years pressing down on his shoulders as they sagged in silent disbelief. He had believed she was gone — passed beyond the mortal world, among the undying lands, gone with the departing Elves and the last of her kin. Yet here she stood, real and breathing. They moved toward each other without a word, pulled forward like gravity had suddenly remembered them. The crowd melted into nothing. When they met, Aragorn paused, as if afraid she might vanish at his touch. He didn’t look away from her as he reached out and took the banner from her hand. Still holding her gaze, he passed it off to someone in the crowd without a word. He lifted his hand and his fingers brushed her cheek, as though needing to confirm her existence was no dream, his eyes searching hers — checking, confirming, daring to believe. She smiled, and that was all he needed.
Then he kissed her.
Not the quiet, reserved kiss of a king—but the kiss of a man who had waited too long, feared too much, and now stood before the impossible. He pulled her close, arms wrapped tight around her, and for a moment she was lifted off her feet, her laughter spilling into the space between them. He spun her once — just once — but it was enough to draw soft smiles from those watching, a hush of warmth that rippled through the gathered crowd.
In that moment, there was no crown, no war, no weight — just the two of them, found again.
As Aragorn and Arwen began to move forward through the parting crowd, Gimli let out a slow breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. He straightened a little, the weight of the ceremony sitting stiff on his shoulders. His eyes followed the pair as they walked ahead, then moved past them — drawn to the four familiar shapes waiting just beyond.
The path ahead cleared silently, as if the world itself was making way. Aragorn moved forward with steady steps, Arwen beside him like a quiet shadow. Around them, the gathered faces watched in respectful silence, waiting for what would come next.
As they approached, the hobbits instinctively lowered their heads in respect, bowing before the new king. Aragorn met their gesture with a gentle smile and steady gaze.
“My friends,” he said softly, voice carrying clear across the space, “you bow to no one.”
Then, without hesitation, Aragorn knelt on one knee before them — the king paying homage to those whose bravery had shaped the fate of all. The crowd held its breath, witnessing a moment that transcended crowns and kingdoms, a true honor earned only by those who have walked through shadow and come out whole.
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Once the crowning was done, the ceremony turned to song and noise. Cups were raised, voices bellowed, and the people of Gondor poured into the streets.
The feast was laid as though the city meant to feed an army, and Gimli could not fault the effort. Platters of roasted meat, wheels of soft cheese, fruits gleaming like jewels — all carried past on silver trays. The hall rang with song and the clash of goblets, a sound not so different from a good dwarven gathering, although with more refinement and fewer sincere smiles.
Gimli settled into the feast, sampling food, raising his cup, and watching those around him.
Merry and Pippin had set themselves the task of tasting everything within reach, piling food higher than seemed possible on their plates. Their laughter spilled through the hall like a victory song, a sound so free it seemed to erase the weight of all battles past.
Frodo sat quieter among them, a small smile playing about his lips. The lines of strain that had once marked his face seemed softened, eased, and every now and again Sam pressed another slice of bread or wedge of fruit into his hand, as though sheer stubborn care could make him whole. Even Sam allowed himself a proud, relieved smile, his eyes flicking toward the splendor around him, a silent joy in watching his friend restored, if only in part.
Gandalf lingered at the edge of the revelry, pipe in hand, smoke curling lazily above his head. His eyes held a spark of laughter and satisfaction older than the stones of the hall, a quiet witness to the rare beauty of friends gathered not for war or parting, but for peace.
At the high table, Aragorn and Arwen sat close, their quiet ease a contrast to the hall’s clamorous cheer. Gimli caught the occasional glance, the brief curve of a smile, small gestures that spoke of shared understanding and long — sought comfort. They seemed at peace in a way that made the room feel even brighter, a still point amid the feast’s lively motion.
Gimli’s chest stirred with something hard to name. They had walked through shadow together, yet here they were, alive, laughter rising where once there had been only silence and fear. It was a rare sight: all of them together, whole, the darkness behind them, the light ahead.
Between a second helping of roasted meat and a third mug of ale, Gimli noticed something odd — Legolas hadn’t returned since the first round of toasts. Well, maybe the elf preferred the quieter corners of a hall this size. Still, Gimli felt a tug to seek him out, to catch up beyond the noise and laughter.
Pushing back slightly from the table, he let his gaze wander over the hall, past laughing hobbits and shouting courtiers, searching for the familiar figure. The elf wasn’t in sight, and a quiet thought tugged at him: perhaps Legolas had slipped away for a moment of peace. With a shrug that settled more curiosity than concern, Gimli rose, giving himself excuse enough to stretch his legs and wander the corridors, hoping to find the other somewhere near the quieter balconies or shadowed corners of the palace.
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The night air was cool, touched with the scent of stone warmed all day by sun and fire. Legolas stood alone on the balcony, gaze turned not to the hall behind him but to the sky stretched wide above Minas Tirith. Stars glittered there, bright and sharp, yet they seemed farther away than they did beneath the leaves of Mirkwood. He breathed in, steady and almost tired, letting the distant hush of the whole city celebrating wash over him.
It was no sorrow that had driven him outside — his heart was light: Aragorn crowned, the Shadow overthrown, most of his friends alive and well. Yet beneath the joy, a quieter yearning stirred, a call of leaves and flowing water, of roots buried deep in earth. Of home.
He did not resent the feeling; it was simply a part of him, as much as wandering or archery. Still, he smiled, faint but true, at the thought that his path was not only woods and songs. There were friends within that hall who had bound themselves to him with ties stronger than oaths.
A sound reached him then — the steady tread of boots on stone. He did not turn at once, for he already knew the rhythm of that stride. Instead, his smile deepened, gentler now.
Legolas leaned against the stone railing, resting his elbow lightly — but nearly lost his balance as the polished stone slid beneath him, unlike any tree branch. The movement so slight it might have gone unnoticed — had his foot not skidded just enough to throw his balance. He straightened instantly, chin high, as though nothing had happened at all.
“Hah!” Gimli snorted at his side, folding his arms. “Grace of the Eldar, they call it. I’ve seen steadier goats on a mountain pass.”
Legolas turned, face schooled into perfect composure, though the tips of his ears betrayed him with a faint heat. “It was the stone’s fault,” he said smoothly. “These walls were not built with an elf’s balance in mind.”
Gimli folded his arms, grinning beneath his beard. “Aye, blame the stone. See if it listens.”
Their laughter ebbed into a comfortable silence, the kind that needed no filling. The murmur of the feast drifted faintly from within, a reminder of the revelry they’d both stepped away from. Legolas let his gaze wander outward, over the white walls and into the stretch of night beyond. The stars shimmered as they always had, the calm of the night carried a pull, a whisper of home that was both comforting and impossible to ignore.
“It is strange,” he said at last, voice quieter now. “Strange to stand here and know the war is done. My heart is glad, and yet… it wanders already. Back to the woods. To the rivers of home.”
Gimli gave a low hum. “And mine, to the mountains. Seems we’re both dreamers tonight.”
Legolas’s smile was faint but real as he turned toward him. “Do you remember, Gimli? Once, we spoke of showing one another these places, should we live to see peace.”
The dwarf’s eyes glistened as he huffed a laugh. “Aye, I remember. Thought it nothing more than words to keep our courage up before battle. Yet here we stand, alive and breathing — and I’ll hold you to it now.”
“Then it is settled,” Legolas said, and for all his grace there was a spark of childish mischief in his tone. “You will see the green halls of my people, and I the glittering caves of yours.”
“And mayhap then we’ll learn which is the fairer sight.” Gimli grinned half with mirth, half with obvious competitiveness.
“Sure, Master Dwarf, sure,” Legolas smiled, clearly sure of his win in the matter.
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The morning of their leaving dawned clear and golden, and the city gathered to watch them ride. The Fellowship stood together once more at the gates, no longer bound by duty or war but by friendship hard-earned. The Fellowship rode out together, Aragorn at their side, no longer Ranger nor captain, but King in all his bearing. The people of Minas Tirith gathered at the gates, calling their farewells and blessings as the company passed beneath the high arch. There was little fanfare beyond that; no need for trumpets or banners now.
Horses stamped and breathed in the chill air, and the sound of hooves striking stone echoed against the walls as they passed through the great gate. Though the war was ended and victory theirs, there lingered the hush of mourning in their company. The void that would normally be occupied by Boromir was filled by the King of Rohan's body, draped in green and gold.
Nearly three weeks of steady travel brought them to Edoras, where they bore Théoden King to his rest with all the honor he was due. A week was spent in the golden hall, sharing in the grief and pride of his people, feasting beside his nephews and the riders who had followed him so faithfully.
When at last the time came to depart, they turned their faces westward, riding along the paths until the mountains rose before them.
It was then that Gimli’s heart stirred with anticipation, for he would not pass so near without fulfilling his word. With a gleam in his eye, he pressed the others onward toward Helm’s Deep, determined that they — and above all Legolas — should see the wonder he had spoken of so often: the Glittering Caves.
Gimli’s prideful grin bloomed the moment the first gleam of crystal caught his eye. He had told them all, over and over, that no hall, no mountain, no forge could rival the wonders hidden in the Glittering Caves — and now, finally, they were here. His boots crunched on the smooth stone floor as he stepped forward, eyes wide and bright, scanning every sparkling wall and glimmering stalagmite.
“See?” he murmured, almost to himself, though Legolas was close enough to hear. “Nothing like it in all of Middle-earth.”
Even the elf, usually so calm and unshakable, paused, as if afraid to breathe too loudly. The light inside was unlike any he had ever seen, refracted and scattered by the crystal walls until the very air seemed to shimmer. Pools of water lay beneath the jagged stalactites, still and mirror-like, yet glimmering from within as if lit by hidden stars. He had known the world to hold beauty in forests and rivers, in mountains and sky, but never had he imagined a cave could hold its own kind of magic.
The colors danced across his face: soft blues like morning light on frosty leaves, golden sparks that caught the stone like sunlight on dew, and silver threads tracing the walls like veins in grass. He stepped closer to one of the glowing pools, peering down at the water that seemed to glow from some secret depth, its surface reflecting not just the crystals but something more, something alive. It was quiet here, but the stillness did not feel empty. It was full of light and history, a deep, patient wonder.
He felt almost unworthy to walk here, as though the caves themselves were a gift, laid open for eyes patient enough to see. And yet, there was Gimli, eager and grinning somewhere behind him, who would make it impossible not to share in the delight.
Legolas found himself smiling and shaking his head in disbelief. He tilted his head back, eyes tracing the jeweled light across stone and water. The cavern gleamed as if it held its own sky, still and eternal. For a long while he said nothing, then at last, softly,
“I thought caves were only dark and stifling… yet here—it feels almost like standing beneath the stars.”
Gimli’s mouth curved into a slow grin, pride warming his chest. He kept his tongue, though; there was no need to remind the elf whose urging had brought him here. Watching Legolas stand in wonder was all the answer he required.
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The days that followed carried the company steadily west and north, past rivers and forests still scarred by war. By the time they reached Isengard, it was clear that their paths would diverge. Words of farewell were exchanged, hands clasped and arms slung over shoulders in brief, heavy embraces.
Gandalf with the hobbits continued their journey west, skirting the mountains, the path gentle and untroubled. Aragorn, of course, turned back toward Gondor to take up the weight of his new kingly duties.
Once the Fellowship had gone their separate ways and only the two companions remained, Legolas and Gimli turned their steps toward the next part of their journey. The road led eastward, and before long their path bent toward the shadowed edge of Fangorn Forest, where ancient trees waited and the air grew deep with quiet.
Fangorn lay before them like a wall of green shadow, the trees towering so high they seemed to lean into the sky itself. The air grew cooler the closer they came, carrying the damp scent of moss and earth. Light filtered strangely there, caught in the thick canopy so that even the edges of the forest seemed steeped in twilight. Trunks as broad as towers stood close together, their bark gnarled with age beyond counting, roots spilling like great ropes across the ground. Every sound seemed softened — the distant cry of a bird, the rustle of leaves — as if the forest held its breath, listening.
To Gimli, Fangorn did not look like a forest so much as a fortress made of living wood. The trees loomed impossibly tall, their trunks thick as pillars and roots sprawling like walls across the ground, and he could not help but think that even the deepest halls of Erebor would look small beside such growth. The air was heavy, damp with the scent of soil and leaf-mould, so different from the clean bite of stone and mountain wind. He felt the weight of the place, ancient and watchful, and though he had walked through many woods in the company of the Fellowship, none had seemed quite like this — none had seemed to lean down and take notice of him as this one did.
Gimli shifted his boots against the roots that twisted across the path, muttering low under his breath. “Stone never writhes beneath your feet,” he said, half to himself. “At least a mountain stays where it is put. These trees—” He cast a glance upward at the towering trunks, “—they creak like they’re listening.”
Legolas walked beside him with a step so light it barely stirred the moss. His eyes lifted as if he could read the slow language of leaves. “They are listening,” he replied, but his tone carried no warning — only a strange reverence.
Gimli snorted, “Aye, that’s what worries me.”
At that, Legolas looked down at him, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. For a heartbeat, the usual teasing did not come. Instead, he tilted his head, as if weighing Gimli’s discomfort. “You trust the stone because it speaks to you,” he said gently. “And I trust the wood for the same reason. But fear not, my friend — Fangorn has no quarrel with us.”
The dwarf huffed, but there was a little less tension in his shoulders. “Easy for you to say. You walk here as if you’ve roots yourself. I’ll wager these trees would not notice if I vanished into the moss.”
“On the contrary,” Legolas said, voice low but steady. He reached out, brushing his fingers along the rough bark of an ancient oak. “Even the oldest among them would remember your tread. You have walked far in this world, Gimli, and stone or leaf, it is no small thing to have you as company.”
Gimli blinked up at him, caught between scoffing and swallowing the words whole. In the end, he only muttered, “Hmph. Elvish talk.”
The deeper they went into Fangorn, the thicker the silence grew. It wasn’t empty silence, though — Gimli could feel the forest watching him, the creak of ancient boughs and whisper of leaves heavy as a thousand eyes. He kept his chin up, his stride firm, determined not to let the elf at his side see him falter.
Until his forehead smacked straight into a low branch.
He stumbled back with a grunt, hand flying to his brow. The branch, however, did not simply sway with the impact. It shifted. Slowly. Deliberately.
“Durin’s beard—” Gimli began, but his words died when the great shape detached itself from the shadows. Bark peeled into the semblance of a face, two deep-set eyes glowing faintly like amber in the dusk.
An Ent.
For a heartbeat, Gimli could only gape, the blood draining from his face. He squared his shoulders quickly — no elf was going to see him cower before a tree — but his knuckles whitened around his axe out of pure instinct.
“Forgive us,” Legolas stepped lightly forward, hand pressed to his heart in a respectful bow. His voice was calm, melodic, the way one might soothe a startled deer. “My companion was careless of his step.”
The Ent’s gaze lingered on Gimli for what felt like an age, then rumbled like distant thunder. “Hoom. A dwarf. Strange company in Fangorn.”
“Strange days,” Legolas replied slowly, “but days of peace. We mean no harm.”
After a long silence, the Ent huffed like wind through branches and turned away, its vast limbs groaning as it melted back into the forest. The silence of Fangorn settled again, as though it had never stirred.
Gimli released the breath he had been holding, rubbing his forehead where the “branch” had struck. “Trees with eyes, trees that talk — what next? Roots that sing?”
Legolas’s lips curved, though his voice remained gentle. “You hid your fear well. Almost.”
Gimli scowled up at him. “I was not afraid. Merely… cautious. Any sane creature would be, when wood starts speaking.”
“Of course,” Legolas said lightly, though his eyes were warm, as if he saw through Gimli’s bluster. “Stone does not move unless a dwarf wills it. Yet Fangorn has its own guardians. You are safe with me, Gimli.”
Gimli scowled, but there was no bite in it. He turned back to the path, muttering under his breath about stupid, talking trees. Legolas followed, hiding a smile, though Gimli could feel the elf’s gaze on him — it wasn’t judging, it was reassuring, telling the other he had nothing to prove, nothing to fear.
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That night they made camp at the forest’s edge. The shadows of Fangorn stretched long behind them, but here the ground opened into gentler hills where the stars could be seen. Gimli set about building a place for the fire, piling stones with the practiced hands of one who had slept outdoors far too often of late. Legolas lingered nearby, picking up wood and dry branches.
When the flames finally caught, Gimli leaned back with a grunt, drawing out his pipe. “Now this,” he said, gesturing at the open sky, “this I can bear. Stone beneath, fire close at hand, nothing overhead save what belongs there.”
Legolas’ lips curved. “You did not enjoy Fangorn, then?”
Gimli shot him a look over the pipe’s rim. “Enjoy it? Hmpf, I’ll grant the place its charm — aye, and its age. But trees that whisper in the dark, roots that try to trip a fellow, and branches that creak as though they disapprove of one even stepping a foot in that forest…” He shook his head. “Give me caves, and a mountain roof that never shifts.”
For a moment Legolas said nothing. Then he lowered himself gracefully beside the fire, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yet you looked upon the Ent, and you did not flee. You walked beneath Fangorn’s boughs though it wasn’t easy for you. That is no small thing, Gimli.”
The dwarf grumbled, smoke curling from his pipe. “Aye, well. Couldn’t let you think I’d be cowed by a tree.”
Legolas’ laughter was soft, almost swallowed by the night. “No, I never thought you would.” He turned his gaze to the firelight.
Gimli huffed, having no idea how to respond. “Well then, since we’ve survived your blasted trees, what’s next on this fool’s journey of ours?”
Legolas leaned back, stretching with an easy grace. “You know well enough, Master Dwarf. North and east, toward the Greenwood.”
Gimli grumbled low in his chest. “A forest after a forest. I’ll turn into a blasted squirrel before we’re through. I suggest we go along the path to Erebor and then get to your forest. Fair trade I believe.”
Legolas inclined his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Sure, I think it might even do us better to switch the environment.” He laid down and covered himself with a blanket, snuggling closer to the fire. “Then it is settled. Fangorn behind us, Erebor before us, and beyond that — my home.”
The dwarf knocked out his pipe against a stone, muttering. “Aye. One step at a time.”
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The Lonely Mountain loomed ever larger as they approached, its pale stone catching the first rays of the morning sun. Gimli’s steps grew quicker, boots crunching over gravel as he nearly skipped toward the gates. “By Durin’s beard,” he muttered, eyes wide, “I’ve never seen her so grand from this side of the hill.”
Legolas walked beside him, quieter, but with a steady gaze that drank in the carvings and runes etched into the stone. “Your mountain… it bears the work of ages,” he said softly. “Every line, every curve, it speaks of care, of history.”
The gates themselves were immense, towering slabs of carved stone that dwarves had shaped with skill and patience beyond reckoning. Gimli went closer to trace the intricate designs, to touch the carvings that had survived centuries.
Legolas followed, careful not to crowd him, and yet every step seemed measured to drink in the artistry without disturbing the perfection. “It is beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself, voice carried by the cool mountain air. “I see now why this place is so cherished.”
Gimli paused at the base of the gate, brushing his fingers along the cold stone with reverence. “Cherished? Aye, that’s one way to put it. I’d say ‘loved’ fits better.” He glanced up at Legolas. “And I am glad you can see it as I do.”
Legolas’ eyes softened, a small smile playing at his lips. “Perhaps not as you do, but I can appreciate it, and more than that, I can understand your pride. That is enough.”
The dwarf’s smile widened, and together they stepped closer to the gates, ready to enter the halls that had been Gimli’s home, a place fought for and won over and over.
The great doors of Erebor opened with a groan that echoed off the stone, and the Mountain seemed to breathe them in. Gimli stepped first, boots ringing on the polished floor, and his chest swelled as the familiar air of dwarrow halls closed around him. The pillars soared high as trees, carved with patient hands over centuries, their roots buried deep in the rock. The glow of torches lit the veins of gold in the walls, until it seemed the stone itself was burning with a quiet fire.
Legolas lingered at his side, gaze drawn upward, tracing the arches and carvings. “So this,” he murmured, almost to himself, “is the heart of your people.” He sounded not disdainful, nor surprised, but quietly reverent — a tone Gimli had not often heard from an elf when speaking of stone.
Before Gimli could reply, the heavy tread of boots echoed down the hall. A guard in mail came striding toward them, eyes narrowing at the sight of the tall figure in green and silver beside Gimli. His hand twitched toward the haft of his axe.
“An elf?” the dwarf barked, suspicion sharp in his voice. “You dare bring one of them past our gates—”
Gimli stepped forward, planting himself squarely between Legolas and the guard. His face immediately furrowed. “Aye, an elf. And one who stood with me through every field of war these past years. You, will watch your tongue.”
The guard blinked at the tone, about to retort— then his gaze caught Gimli fully: those red hair, beard, markings of his kin on the armor — and recognition broke through his scowl. His jaw slackened.
“Gimli... son of Glóin?” The edge in his voice melted into awe. “The same who walked in the company of the Ring-bearer? One of the Nine?”
“Aye,” Gimli said gruffly, though a spark of pride lit in his eye.
The dwarf’s entire posture changed; his axe lowered, his shoulders stiff with sudden respect. “Forgive me. I meant no offense. I’ll fetch your father at once, Master Gimli.” He bowed — awkwardly, for he kept darting wary glances at Legolas — then hurried off into the depths of the Mountain.
Gimli turned, just in time to see the faintest twitch of amusement on Legolas’ lips. “Protective, Master Dwarf?” the elf asked, voice teasing, but light, though his eyes softened in gratitude.
Gimli opened his mouth, some sharp retort already on his tongue, but the words tangled before they could escape. Blast it all, he hadn’t meant to throw himself in front of Legolas like some guard dog — it had simply happened. And now, with the elf’s gaze fixed on him in that steady, knowing way, Gimli could feel the warmth creeping up his neck, betraying him beneath his beard.
“I only—” he began, but it came out more like a growl than speech. He scowled, searching for something sensible to say — something that didn’t sound like he was some kind of a short-tempered, overprotective child.
.
But before he could gather his wits, the sound of quick steps echoed through the hall. A familiar voice boomed, proud and disbelieving all at once:
“By Mahal’s beard— Gimli!”
Glóin strode into view, beard gleaming with silver, his expression split between astonishment and fatherly pride. His eyes swept over his son, drinking him in, before catching on the tall, fair figure at his side. The warmth in his face froze.
An eyebrow arched high. “And what,” Glóin rumbled, “is this horrid creature doing in my halls?”
Although Legolas didn’t recognize Glóin from the start, that phrase made his eyes go wide with sudden understanding. The memory hit him like a swift arrow: years ago, in his own woods, he had let slip a careless comment about none other than Gimli. And now… here he stood, that same Gimli at his side, and Glóin’s voice carried it across the hall.
Legolas’ lips pressed into a thin line, a faint flush tinting his ears. Oh no. I’ve said that about him… His mind raced for a way to smooth it over, but the words refused to form. Instead, he simply lowered his head slightly, eyes meeting Glóin’s with a flicker of apology, silently telling: It was long ago, and I have learned better.
Gimli, of course, had caught none of the internal turmoil; his attention was fully on his father, ready to defend Legolas before he could even think of what this was about.
His eyes narrowed, and he planted himself squarely between Legolas and his father, fists clenched at his sides.
“Now hold on just a moment, Father,” he barked, voice firm but low, carrying the weight of every battle they had endured together. “He’s no ‘horrid creature.’ He’s stood by my side through every scrap of this journey, through more danger than you could imagine. I won’t have you—”
Legolas, standing beside him, felt the heat of the moment press in from all sides. Please don’t, he thought, heart hammering. I could never outlive the shame if you defend me now. His mind scrambled for words that would do justice to Gimli’s unwavering defense, but his tongue refused to form anything coherent. Instead, he merely lowered his head further, letting his eyes meet Glóin’s with all the quiet sincerity he could muster — a plea for understanding, an apology he would have never thought he would give to this dwarf. I have learned better. I swear it.
Gimli kept his stance, fierce and immovable, while Legolas’ begged all the Valars to just let him disappear into thin air. Glóin’s gaze lingered on the elf, and slowly, recognition dawned: the poised, apologetic bow of his head, the faint flush across his ears, and the way his eyes held a careful deference. This was no impudent guest; this was an elf who had been with his son through hell and made sure he got back.
The weight of that realization softened Glóin’s expression. His brows unknotted, and he gave a slow, defeated exhale.
“Well…” he said finally, voice gruff but carrying the faintest edge of reluctant amusement, “whatever makes my son happy, I suppose.”
Gimli’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction, though his fists remained clenched a little longer, and Legolas allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible nod, muttering a quiet ‘thank you’.
The rest of their time in Erebor passed in quiet wonder. Gimli guided Legolas through familiar halls, showing him the great dining chambers, the polished stone corridors, and the hidden rooms he had used to spend time in as a child. They shared stories, laughed over old dwarven legends, and allowed themselves a few moments of rest by the fire, simply sitting together. The meals were hearty and long, and though not really what Legolas would eat, he still appreciated it when he saw more berries and vegetables on his plate, then he saw at Gimli’s.
And then, with the gates behind them, they set out once more, the road winding back east, toward the Greenwood and the forests that Legolas called home.
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Gimli trudged along the winding path, kicking a loose stone. “So… what was that thing with my father back there, huh? You’ve clearly struck a nerve.”
Legolas stiffened ever so slightly, a faint flush tinting his face. “Let’s say it was… a misunderstanding. I’ve said some regretful things in the past, that I wish your father would not remember.”
“Him? Not remembering something? Very unlikely, Legolas.” Gimli chuckled lightly. “So.. tell me, who was it about, what you’ve said? Had to be someone important if it got to both you and my father.”
Legolas almost choked on the air at the question and started coughing. Gimli furrowed and stopped in his tracks to help him.
“Alright, alright, no need to tell me, I get it.” He patted his back soothingly, trying to get the elf back to breathing.
After that, they walked on, the earlier teasing fading into a companionable quiet.
The trees of Greenwood rose before them like a living wall, ancient and vast. Gimli slowed his pace, boots crunching on the leaf-strewn path, eyes darting upward to the endless roof of leaves above. Legolas however moved ahead with effortless grace, gliding along the path as if the forest itself bent to his steps. He glanced back at Gimli, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t worry, Gimli, there are no Ents here.”
“Better safe than sorry.” He muttered, not taking his eyes off the trees.
The trees stood as pillars of living stone, their crowns stretching so high that the sunlight itself seemed to break into threads before touching the ground. Moss carpeted the roots, thick and soft as velvet, and here and there streams of silver water trickled past like veins of light. The air was cool, fragrant with pine and earth, alive with birdsong that echoed faintly, as if the forest itself had a voice.
For a while they walked in relative silence, the sounds of the forest filling the spaces between words. Birds flickered like sparks of color between the branches. To Legolas, each sound was a melody long familiar, his steps falling light as though he belonged to the very roots beneath them.
Gimli, though less graceful, did not complain further. He kept his eyes moving, wary, though now and then his gaze softened at a burst of wildflowers growing along the path, or the sudden gleam of a squirrel darting between branches.
“Strange,” he admitted after a time. “I’ve seen forests aplenty on our journeys, and none sat well with me. But this one…” He hesitated, unwilling to praise it too freely. “It has its own strength. I can feel it.”
Legolas’ eyes shone, though he only nodded, letting him know he appreciated the words, even if they were skeptical.
Soon, the trees parted, revealing a valley cut deep into the land. A great bridge stretched over a rushing river, its foam catching the dim light like silver fire. Beyond the bridge loomed tall doors, carved into the rock-face, their edges etched with runes and winding vines. Torches glowed faintly in sconces, though the daylight had not yet waned — a sign that these halls were not built merely for Men or Elves, but for the blending of both stone and forest.
“There,” Legolas murmured, a quiet pride threading his voice. “The halls of my father.”
Gimli let out a low whistle despite himself. “Aye… I’ll grant you, that is a sight. Stone and tree together. Strange, but fits well.”
Legolas’ lips curved, pleased at the rare concession. “It is a place of both memory and endurance. You will be received—” He paused, casting Gimli a glance, thinking. “—perhaps not warmly, but fairly.”
The dwarf snorted. “So long as none try to lock me in a cell, I’ll call it fair enough.”
Legolas’ laugh rang lightly, but faded as movement stirred near the gate. Shapes emerged from the shadows — guards clothed in green and brown, their hands already on their bows, eyes narrowing at the sight of a dwarf at an elf’s side.
Gimli felt their stares like arrows themselves, bristling under the weight of them. But before he could do anything, he saw Legolas step subtly closer, his hand, same as with the Ent, placed on his heart.
“Îdh,” the elf called to his kin, his voice steady, but deprived of previous happiness. “This is Gimli, son of Glóin — a companion of mine from the Fellowship of the Ring. If you won’t let us in, you can as well get my father to do so.”
The guards hesitated, their eyes flicking warily to Gimli. “Very well, you two may come in. I will take you the King anyway. He’d be delighted to see Your Royal Highness home.” Said one of the guards, nodding to the rest to go.
The halls of the Woodland King were lit with lanterns of soft, almost white flame, their glow reflected in polished stone and flowing water. The throne room itself was vast yet quiet, the vaulted ceiling seeming to melt with the leaves of the forest above.
Upon the high seat sat Thranduil, crown of carved branches and autumn leaves set upon his brow. His gaze was cool, piercing — a stillness before the storm.
Legolas stepped forward first, inclining his head. “Adar.”
Thranduil’s eyes softened only slightly, a flicker of warmth breaking through his kingly composure. Then his gaze shifted, falling on Gimli. It sharpened again. For a long, tense heartbeat the dwarf and elf-king measured one another.
“I believe I knew your father, Gimli, son of Glóin.” remarked Thranduil. His voice was cold, one could feel the chill of it in your own bones. “I think he managed to escape my dungeons with his company, didn’t he?”
He was clearly testing Gimli and he was not going to let that happen. He would not fight with Legolas’ father.
“Not an easy thing to do, from what I’ve heard, but I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m only here because your son asked me to.” Gimli said as calmly as he could. He knew showing any emotions would not help him.
Thranduil looked over at him once again, brows furrowing. He hummed and turned to Legolas. “I like him, he’s diplomatic and knows what to say. Stay how long you want. My halls are open to him, as long as he doesn’t wander alone.”
Gimli would give anything to see Legolas smile like that every time. The sheer joy on his face, the relief.
“Thank you, father.”
The days in Greenwood passed gently, a rhythm of quiet walks beneath the endless canopy and soft laughter shared between ancient trees. Legolas guided Gimli along hidden paths, showing him clearings where the light fell golden as honey, and streams that sang with voices only elves could hear. Gimli, though often grumbling about tangled roots and the unnerving whisper of leaves, never strayed far from his companion’s side.
One evening, they climbed a rise where the forest thinned, and the distant mountains came into view, their peaks dusted with snow even in summer light. Gimli lingered at the edge, arms crossed, eyes tracing the familiar outlines.
“You’re thinking of the caves,” Legolas said quietly, watching him.
Gimli gave a small nod. “Aye. They need me. And I… I need them, too.”
“I suppose we all have our places,” Legolas replied, eyes on the horizon. “Even if it means leaving something behind for a while.”
Gimli glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “And I suppose some of us have forests to tend to, whether some want to or not.”
Legolas hummed sadly, agreeing, knowing what he meant by that.
“Promise me, Gimli.” He turned to the dwarf, eyes steady and full of quiet intensity. Gimli felt the solemnity in that gaze, and it made his chest tighten. “Promise me, we’ll meet again, and not part for long.”
Gimli’s hand found his, firm but gentle. His voice was almost breaking.
“I promise you.”