Chapter Text
Legolas woke with a gasp.
His room was dark, the curtains drawn against the dawn and only a single lamp on his bedside table offering any illumination. He lay still for several seconds, staring up at the canopy of his grand four-poster bed, wondering why he would be dreaming about that of all things. It left a restless feeling in his limbs, and with a disgruntled huff, he flung the duvet off himself and swung his legs off the bed. Indecision froze him there, perched on the edge of the bed, but after a beat of hesitation, he nodded to himself and scooped up the lamp to light his way as he crossed the room to his desk.
It was old, large, and very expensive, made of mahogany with polished silver handles and hinges on all the drawers and cupboards. That was all that had been needed to convince Thranduil to buy it, but it wasn’t why Legolas liked it. He liked it because there were several secret compartments; false-bottoms on drawers and cupboards within cupboards. It appealed to his sense of adventure.
Now, Legolas opened the lid of the desk and pulled out the bottom drawer on the left, removing the journal and small collection of letters he kept within. Pressing a hidden switch at the back of the now empty drawer caused the apparent bottom of the drawer to flip up, revealing a narrow hidden compartment, in which lay a lonely and rather dusty locket.
Setting down the lamp with one hand, Legolas reached out with the other and lifted the locket out of it’s nest of dust. It lay cold in his palm, not warming from the heat of his skin, with the chain dangling from his fingers, the links clinking softly against each other. He ran his thumb over the angular knotwork etched on the front, clearing away the dust that had settled there, although it still sat stubbornly in the grooves and gaps between the complicated patterns.
Legolas knew he shouldn’t have kept it, but there had never been a good moment to return it to Gimli on the ship, and afterwards… Sighing, Legolas closed his hand around the locket and cursed himself. Afterwards, Legolas had been too cowardly to admit what he’d done. The longer he’d left it, the harder it became, until he’d stopped thinking about it. Perhaps that was why he’d dreamed of that day; a guilty conscience reminding him that he’d stolen this, from someone he now counted a friend, one of the very few friends he had.
His friend. Because all friends looked at each other the way Legolas looked at Gimli. He rolled his eyes at himself, and abruptly, anger at his own cowardice, in the matter of the locket and the other matter he couldn’t even think of without shying away from it, washed over him. He would return the locket to Gimli today, and if – it was a big if – Gimli didn’t hate him for his betrayal, then maybe, someday soon, Legolas would muster the courage to speak his heart.
A knock at the door made him startle, so badly that he nearly dropped the locket. Automatically, he made to tuck the locket away back where he’d kept it these last eight years, and stopped. If he did that, he might very well not have a chance to collect it again before the day began and he would be dragged hither and thither at his father’s heel. Legolas went to tuck the locket away in a pocket, only to remember that he was in his nightshirt, which had no pockets. “Legolas?” his father called from the other side of the door. Panic washed over Legolas, and he scrambled to close the open and incriminating drawer of his desk – never mind about the letters and the journal, let his father think he was getting an early start on the day – and for lack of anywhere else to hide it, hung the locket around his neck. “Legolas? What was that noise? Are you well?”
Legolas fumbled with the ties at the neck of his nightshirt, tightening them to hide the locket from sight before he called back. “Yes! Sorry, yes!”
The door opened, and his father strode in, looking as impeccably put together as always, and dressed in a coat far more ornate and complex than his usual, which was saying something. He was trailed by a couple of servants who immediately set about opening curtains and remaking Legolas’s rumpled bed. Thranduil eyed Legolas’s attire, or lack thereof, and raised an eyebrow at him. “Still abed at this hour?” he asked, somehow managing to convey worlds of weary exasperation with that one question. Legolas stuck his tongue out in response, because if his father was going to accuse him of being irresponsible, he was going to own it.
Thranduil gave a soft little huff of amusement. “I would have expected you to be up and about already, given how lovely the weather is today.” He nodded towards the window. Now that the curtains had been thrown wide, and the windows opened to air the room, Legolas could see that it was indeed beautiful out today. The sky was almost clear, a brilliant blue only matched by the excellent view of the ocean from Legolas’s window, and the crisp sea breeze promised not to let the day become too sweltering. “It’s not like you to lounge about when you could be running amok and threatening to make me prematurely grey.”
“I do not ‘run amok’,” Legolas protested, although even he had to admit it was weak. “You just have no sense of adventure.” It was a challenge, and they both knew it. Sometimes, on very rare occasions, it actually worked, and Thranduil’s eyes would narrow, and he’d begin to smirk, and before Legolas knew it, they’d be racing yachts around the island or dusting off Thranduil’s old navy sabres and sparring through the living room.
This time, however, Thranduil only smiled placidly, unmoved by Legolas’s goading. “Not today, son. Today, we have other matters to attend to.” He gestured another servant – his personal manservant Galion, as it happened – forward, and Legolas finally noticed that he was carrying a large box.
“What’s this?” he asked, starting forwards. Belatedly, he glanced at his father to check that it was for him, and Thranduil waved him on indulgently. Bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, Legolas lifted the lid off the box and set it aside. Inside were folds beyond folds of fabric. The colours were lovely – a pale green embroidered with gold, soft cream, dusky and shimmering gold, crisp white, warm leaf green edged in gold – but beyond that he could make no sense of it. “…What is this?” Legolas repeated, less curious and more baffled this time.
“The latest fashion from London.”
Legolas turned slowly towards his father. “Please tell me you simply want my opinion on the new drapes you picked for the drawing room?” he pleaded without shame.
“No. They’re clothes, and they’re yours,” Thranduil stated, blandly ignoring his son’s increasing desperation. “I ordered them for you especially for today, so you will be wearing them.” The look he turned on his son was one Legolas knew meant that any further protest would be futile.
He slumped, shoulders drooping, and began pulling the multiple layers of fabric out of the box. He laid them out on his newly remade bed in an attempt to figure out which piece was supposed to go where. Eventually, he decided that the plain white trousers and cream tunic – although why it was that long Legolas could not understand, it looked more like a very shapeless dress, and it would be unnecessarily tight about his thighs – were supposed to go on underneath, and scooped them up before retreating behind the changing screen. “What’s the occassion?” he asked grumpily as he stripped out of his nightshirt and began to get dressed.
“Captain Tauriel is being promoted to Commodore.” Thranduil informed him with a note of pride in his voice.
Legolas beamed. “Really? I had no idea! She never said anything, the sneaky weasel!” he complained cheerfully. Just as he managed to get his head out of the top of the strange undertunic, the rest of the outfit was slung over the top of the divider for him, presumably by Galion. “Thanks,” he murmured as he collected the pale green layer and began trying to figure out all the buttons and ties. Before he could make a total mess of it, Galion appeared around the edge of the screen and took the strange coat-robe amalgamation out of Legolas’s hands. The long-suffering manservant worked the clasps with expert hands, and soon Legolas found himself being manhandled into the outfit.
“She is far more nervous than she would ever admit,” Thranduil agreed mildly, “which is why I believe she avoided speaking of it. Regardless, as the son of her patron you must appear respectable. Hence I purchased this, instead of leaving you to dress yourself, since undoubtedly you would have turned up in leathers and salt-encrusted hemp if left to your own devices.”
Legolas felt a little dizzy by the time the pale green robe had been buttoned up, the soft gold jacket-cloak oddity arranged over his shoulders, and the large green sash belted around his waist with a complicated knot that left a wide tail in the front, hanging all the way down to the floor. He tried to walk over to the chair in the corner so that he could pull his boots on; took one step, and caught his toes in the tail of the sash. He yelped and stumbled, Galion steadied him, and he tried again, more carefully this time.
“Tauriel deserves your respect, and every honour we can accord her,” Thranduil went on, perhaps misinterpreting the reason for Legolas’s yelp. “She has come a long way from the girl who first petitioned me to allow her into the navy, and I daresay I have even come to view her as something of a daughter.”
Legolas grinned. “Have you told her that?” he asked cheekily. His moment of distraction cost him, and he tripped over the uneven hem of his robes again. Muttering a curse he had learned from sailors down at the docks, he simply hiked the whole ensemble up around his knees before striding over to the chair and flopping down into it with graceful melodrama.
“Not in so many words, but the subject has been discussed.” There was something strange in his father’s tone, but before Legolas could question it, his tone had changed to one of concern and mild suspicion as he asked, “Legolas, is everything going alright back there?”
Legolas snorted. “Galion seems to think I’m dressed, at least,” he remarked sourly, pulling on his boots with more force than was strictly necessary, “but I hope you don’t expect me to do anything more than stand around looking pretty today, because if I try to walk, I’ll embarrass us all by falling flat on my face.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Legolas,” Thranduil chided. Legolas knew his father had just rolled his eyes at him, and pulled a face back. “And don’t pull faces at me. It’s undignified,” he added, even though there was no possible way he could have seen Legolas’s face.
“M’lord?” a new voice called from the door. “You have a visitor.”
“About time. Legolas, do come down once you’re ready,” Thranduil instructed, and then left the room without giving Legolas the option to reply. Just because he could, Legolas pulled another face in the direction of the door, and grinned when he heard Galion attempt to muffle a snicker.
In the foyer downstairs, Gimli Durinson waited as patiently as he was able for Lord Greenwood to grace him with his presence. It was not that he had no patience, but the hall – and the door and the drive and the whole bloody house – were so grand that he felt quite out of place with his faded and hard-worn clothing, and any long periods of time spent idling there were awkward in the extreme. The ticking of the ridiculously fancy clock was loud in the silence, and Gimli wandered over to study it just to have something to do for a few minutes. The carvings were very fine and detailed, but it wasn’t enough to hold his attention for long.
Instead, he turned his attention to one of the candle scones bolted to the wall. The wrought metal was more interesting to his eye, being a metalworker himself, and he got so caught up in studying the workmanship that he forgot his discomfort at touching anything. So, of course, the arm of the bloody thing came right off in his hand. He stared at it for a moment, incredulous. “That’s some shoddy work, right there,” he grumbled, too shocked at the poor craftsmanship to be embarrassed. At least, he was until he heard footsteps approaching, and suddenly realised what a picture he must make.
Hastily, he cast about for a place to put the broken piece, and eventually settled for dropping it into the cane bucket sitting by the door. He dusted off his hand, and turned to face the room again, just in time to see Lord Greenwood come sweeping down the stairs. “Mr Durinson. Good morning,” he said coolly, dipping his head in greeting.
“And to you, m’lord.” Gimli replied, bowing more fully, as was appropriate for his station. “I have your order here.” He stepped forward to set the box in his arms down on the hallway table, and flipped the lid open to reveal the sword within. Wordlessly, he lifted it carefully from it’s bed and presented it to Lord Greenwood, who took it and drew the sword from it’s sheath to examine it. “The blade is folded steel,” Gimli explained, no small amount of pride in his voice as he spoke, “and that’s gold filigree laid into the handle.”
Lord Greenwood’s eyes slid down the length of the blade to examine the fine decoration on the hilt. A hint of a smile curled his lips, and his eyes were bright with approval. “If I may?” Gimli requested, holding his hands out. Lord Greenwood’s eyebrows rose, but after a stiflingly tense moment, he did return the sword to Gimli’s hands. Gimli rested it against one finger, a little below the hilt. “Perfectly balanced,” he declared. “The tang is nearly the full width of the blade.”
Then, because he couldn’t quite help himself, he flipped the sword into the air, caught it just below the hilt in one hand, and offered the hilt to Lord Greenwood. The Lord seemed quite unruffled, but his smile was a little more pronounced now. “Impressive,” he complimented, taking the sword to admire it one more time before returning it to it’s sheath. “Very impressive. Commodore Tauriel is going to be very pleased,” He decided with an air of great satisfaction. The sword was returned to it’s box, and Gimli closed the lid on it feeling proud of his work and the reaction it had garnered. “Do pass my compliments on to your master.”
Gimli froze. Slowly, he turned his head to look at Lord Greenwood, trying to parse that. It could simply have been as it appeared, an attempt to compliment a craftsman on his work, but Gimli rather thought the Lord Greenwood was shrewder than that. At Gimli’s look, he raised an eyebrow, apparently confused by Gimli’s silence. “I shall,” Gimli agreed through a very insincere smile. It was better to stay in the Lord’s good books, for his custom if nothing else. “A craftsman is always pleased to hear his work is appreciated.”
“Indeed,” Lord Greenwood agreed. There was a sly glint in his eyes that Gimli wished he could interpret better. Either the Lord was insulting him by redirecting his compliments even though he knew full well Gimli was the one who’d made the sword, or he was attempting, in a rather backhanded way, to indicate appreciation for Gimli’s subterfuge as well as his skill. He was fairly sure it was the former, but he couldn’t take offence without revealing the charade in the first place.
He was distracted from his desire to punch the Lord in his smug face when a muttered curse drew his attention to the top of the stairs. Legolas was stood there, brushing down the fascinatingly complex coat he was wearing. Then he looked up, met Gimli’s gaze, and beamed. Gimli could do nothing but stare, all the air leaving his lungs.
Legolas looked… amazing didn’t even begin to cover it. The pale greens and rich golds of the coat – robe? It was far too complicated to be called a coat, really – suited him well, making him appear ethereal, and the cut of the fabric, the sash and the drape of the strange overcoat, all served to bring attention to his trim waist and broad shoulders and lean arms. His hair was pulled away from his face in a collection of braids more elaborate than his usual, but they still left most of it to fall down his back in a sheet of brilliant white-gold.
“Legolas,” Lord Greenwood greeted, pleased and proud both. “You look very handsome.”
Legolas all but ignored him. “Gimli!” He called, hiking up his robes most inelegantly to hurry down the stairs to join his father and Gimli. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to see you today. I had a dream about you last night,” he said, completely oblivious to Lord Greenwood’s disapproval and Gimli’s rising embarrassment.
“About… me?” Gimli echoed, all his words vanishing off his tongue.
“Legolas, this is not an appropriate conversation to be having,” Lord Greenwood interjected.
Once again, Legolas blithely ignored him. It seemed as though he had eyes only for Gimli, and that was enough to make Gimli’s mouth dry and his tongue turn to lead. It wasn’t appropriate, it wasn’t proper at all, and Legolas deserved far, far better than the scorn that would be heaped upon him if there was any real proof of anything between them. Lord Greenwood’s reputation squashed most of the mutterings that arose from Legolas’s close friendship with Gimli, but not all of them. Legolas didn’t seem to care that he was on the edge of making himself a social pariah, but Gimli did.
“About the day we met, do you remember?” Legolas went on.
“How could I forget, Master Greenwood?” Gimli returned, trying for a teasing smile, and falling more than a little short.
Legolas jerked back, hurt and confusion flashing across his face. “Gimli… There are naught here but family and friends, you’re free to call me whatever you like. You know that,” he said, frowning at Gimli. It wasn’t true, there were servants in the room next door, and coming down the stairs, and all of them would gossip and giggle about the young Master’s unnatural fondness for the blacksmith’s apprentice. “And besides, I would still rather you call me Legolas, even in polite society.”
Gimli grimaced. “I’m fairly sure that wouldn’t be very appropriate, either, Master Greenwood.”
“Precisely.” Lord Greenwood interjected sternly, as Legolas deflated and then hardened. He pulled some of his father’s airs around himself to hide his hurt, and Gimli fairly ached with guilt and remorse at the look Legolas shot him. The coldness in his eyes didn’t fully mask the pained betrayal lurking beneath. “Now, we must be going, if we are not to be late, which I will not abide.” Lord Greenwood waved for one of the servants to collect the sword box, and then swept towards the door.
“Good day, Mr Durinson,” Legolas said dispassionately, before following after his father.
Gimli’s heart went with him, dragging him in Legolas’s wake until he paused in the doorway, oblivious to the servants and footmen shoving past his shoulder. “Ach… good day, Legolas.” He wasn’t sure if Legolas heard him over the sound of the carriage beginning to move and the grand doors of the manor being shut at Gimli’s back, but he looked back at Gimli either way. Their eyes met and stayed locked, although Gimli couldn’t read Legolas’s expression for the life of him, until the carriage turned with the sweeping driveway, and they could no longer see each other.