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It is a folly, Gimli knows, to pack a book for a World-Changing quest. A frippery more suited to picnicking in the woods than accompanying the most dangerous tool of Sauron to its ruin, across mountains and forests and strange elf lairs.
Nevertheless, before they leave Rivendell, Gimli slips a novel between his rations, for he has never done too well with silence and boredom.
There is no silence to be found as the fellowship trek towards Moria - in a group of nine travellers, where four were hobbits, silence is a commodity rarely earned and often spent in silent contemplation, for it is usually a harbinger of trouble. None of his companions seem to have brought any literature; a shame, Gimli thinks, for some of their minds could use with an education, and a nice gentle book might teach an elf or a man how to be less irksome beings.
It is strange, indeed, to find that the first opportunity to read comes at the most arduous of times. Gandalf and Boromir are lost, and poor Frodo and Sam are half way to hellfire; Merry and Pippin may be subject to a worse fate, though only Aulë truly knows.
The three hunters, on their quest to find the stolen hobbits, cannot travel by night, for Saruman sends foul and wicked distractions their way, which would force them from the path; thus, once the sun sets, a dwarf, an elf, and a man, sit about a fire and rest.
There are no hobbits here now; no laughter and merriment, no teasing nor storytelling. The three of them are stern and often silent in the darkness, all too caught up in their worries to speak light-heartedly of things that do not matter.
It is at this time that Gimli retrieves the novel from his pack. Aragorn raises a brow, and Legolas looks to him incredulously, but neither are so bold as to say anything, and so Gimli opens the first page, angling it to the light of the fire so that he might begin his reading.
He is glad that the spine of his novel remains blank, for though he feels no shame at it, there are those who might look down their nose at a dwarf reading romance, especially one with so fluttering a title as Wild Peonies Upon the Boulder. It is an old habit he had picked up from his aunt, which brought him great comfort in times of strife, for the characters were single-minded to a fault; no matter what else might occur in their lives, the only important aspect was their love, and it made Gimli hope.
He would not expect a mere elf or man to understand such nuance.
He skim-reads the first few chapters, for it is all world building, and he has read this tale many times before. He needs no back-story now; all he wishes is to read of love.
The male dwarf, Bardur, is a King in disguise; his lady love, Sigra, a princess from a distant land. Bardur hears her voice from afar, deep like a lake and as smooth as spun silver, and is drawn towards it, though his destiny lies in the opposite direction. He crosses mountains and gorges, for her voice carries far, as if carried to him by unnatural winds, and finally, at the end of the long and arduous second chapter, Bardur climbs up a mud-laden mound, crawling on his hands and knees, and finds the source of so pleasant a noise.
Bardur was certain he had never seen a sight so lovely as this fair maiden, as she sat upon the rock formation, resplendent. She was curved like a vase, and tall for a dwarf, but no less lovely for it, and he longed. Wild peonies curled around her bare feet, though they had no right growing in such arid soil; it was as if they grew towards her voice, as if such beautiful tones coaxed them straight from the earth towards her.
She wove braids into her beard as he watched; intricate little things, ornate and bold, which shone like mithril in her silver hair. The golden light of evening cast bronze ribbons on her dark skin, and her lashes, long and full, batted against her reddened cheeks as she sang and swayed. On occasion, she would pluck a flower from the ground and weave it between the strands, which did not make her more lovely, for such an achievement would be impossible, as she was already immaculate without measure.
Bardur longed to step forward, to reveal himself, but in his rags he felt unworthy of such beauty, and wondered if he might spirit away, unseen, until such a day where he might have achieved his destiny and be able to present himself in this kingdom once more, worthy of her light.
But then, she looked up, straight towards him, and nature itself held its breath.
Gimli sighs happily at the chapter’s end, and closes his book for now, content. He looks across to his companions, who sit about the fire, and a strange deja vu takes hold.
Legolas is braiding his hair, long pale locks being tied tight, up and away from his ears. It is not a pretty task that might be done for the love of braiding; it is practical, warrior’s braids to keep his hair from distracting him should they come across a pack of orc, and he does not make a show of it, working swiftly and thoroughly. Beneath his breath, barely audible, he sings to himself, a fluffy little elvish song, which lacks the breadth and fullness of dwarfish ballads; his voice is deep for an elf, and Gimli is moved a little by the song, for though he cannot understand the words, the tone is filled with nostalgia for a far sweeter place than this.
Across the fire pit, Aragorn watches the elf with a lowered brow, eyes heavy, and Gimli frowns for a moment before he recognises the emotion.
Longing.
Gimli cannot stop his brows from jumping to meet his hairline, for this is a most unexpected development. The elf is oblivious to the mannish gaze that rests upon him, too intent on tying a loop about his hair so that the braid might hold. One braid done, Legolas tilts his head fully to the left to separate out the hair above his right ear, exposing his throat, and Aragorn’s mouth drops open, just a little, eyes intent upon the long neck.
Legolas remains entirely oblivious to it, gaze in the middle distance as he continues singing to himself, and Gimli wonders how often their mannish friend looks at Legolas so; if this is a new development, or if such looks have been frequent over their long and storied friendship.
Legolas nears the end of his second braid, as well as the end of his song. For the last couplet, a second voice joins his own, quiet and rough but no less pleasant. Legolas smiles at Aragorn as they sing the final lines together, and they share a look that speaks of a long-held companionship. The longing in Aragorn is hidden now; but Gimli knows that it had been present, that he did not imagine the strange gaze of Aragorn on a certain golden-haired elf.
The pair share a smile, and it is Legolas who looks away first. His gaze slides to Gimli, and his brow furrows. “Gimli, are you well?” Legolas asks, alarmed, and Aragorn pulls his own gaze from Legolas to look towards him.
Gimli supposes his face is a picture, for he was never known for keeping his emotions to himself. He fights to lower his brows, and huffs out a long breath. “Tis nothing, Master Elf. It is only that my book has taken a most unexpected turn.”
The next night, there is no time for reading, for Gimli finds himself weary, and is asleep as soon as they stop to rest, before the fire is even lit.
He is glad of the long sleep - especially when they are confronted by the Rohirrim the next day, for he needs to be alert before the main horsemaster, a strange and wild man with a flame in his belly that burns so bright that it could roast a hog. That evening, Eomer is on his thoughts, and he wonders if the man will spare a thought for him in return.
Gimli is on watch when dawn beckons, and enough light breaks through the trees that he might read a few pages before the other two awake from their bedrolls, which are placed close together, like rabbits in a warren. Legolas sleeps on his back, as he always does, but Aragorn has turned to his side, facing the elf, and it closes the gap between them even further.
Gimli retrieves his book from his sack, and begins where he left off.
Bardur was filthy from the mud, and no part of him was more laden in dirt than his hands. He felt as if he should tuck them behind his back as he approached the dwarven maiden, though there was truly no hiding them.
Indeed, she saw the mud upon his palms, but she did not flinch away, for in spite of her beauty, she was wild too, and no stranger to mud. Before they had even shared a word, the lady from the rock took him by both hands, heedless of how the mud clung to her own fingers, and led him to a river, not far from her rock. Her hold upon his hands warmed his being wholly.
She dipped his hands in the river, holding them beneath the swell and letting nature do her work, until their hands emerged cleansed. It was then, and only then, that she turned her hand in his grip, so that their hands were linked in a traditional greeting shake. “I welcome you to my lands, stranger. Sigra is my name.”
Gimli turns the page, but it is fruitless, as Legolas is sitting up and stretching, and Aragorn follows, so Gimli closes his book with a sigh, and within minutes they are running once more.
Some hours later, they are in Fangorn when Legolas brings their group to a halt, beside a thin stream. Gimli takes it as a chance for water, for he is parched; Aragorn is tense with impatience. “For what reason do you slow?”
“You run with a limp,” Legolas says in return. Gimli looks to Aragorn, and can see it; how the man has shifted his weight to one side, and how his foot is flexed, as if stepping through the inside foot pains him. “It will be faster if you let me look upon it now, instead of we two arguing until you accept that I am correct.”
“We do not have time for this,” Aragorn huffs, and Legolas waits. Gimli watches the battle of the wills play out; Legolas is calm and certain, and eventually, Aragorn capitulates to it, capitulates in a way he would to no other being, sitting on a rock and huffing with eyes closed.
Legolas kneels before him, placing the booted foot upon his knee, and sets about freeing the ailed limb. He unlaces the boot quickly, in deference to Aragorn’s impatience, and Aragorn’s face is for the most part impassive, though he does flinch at the final removal.
Gimli does not envy Legolas the task, for they have been running many days, with little chance of washing, and he pities the poor elf’s nose, though Legolas's face remains neutral. Over the shoulder of Legolas, he can see the foot is blackening with swelling, and he winces. “That looks ill.”
“There are two breaks,” Legolas deduces.
“The foot?” Gimli asks, for he shall not get close enough to see nor smell the foot fully.
“The toes - and a dislocation, also,” Legolas replies. His hands ghost over the skin, and then he looks to Aragorn’s face. “Were you in the healing rooms of Elrond, I expect he would tell you to rest up a month to allow it to heal.” They share a wan smile, and then Legolas looks to the foot again. “I shall bind it with a splint.”
“You will need to -“ Aragorn starts, but then is cut off by a strangled sound that emerges from his own throat. A strange click echoes from his foot, and Legolas pats his ankle soothingly.
“-reduce the joint,” Legolas finishes. “Apologies, I believe you once told me that it is better if unexpected.”
Legolas washes the foot with due care, draining the last of his own water-skin to rinse it, and Gimli is amused to note that it is the cleanest limb any of them own, in spite of the bruising skin. For all his bolstering, Aragorn allows the attention now, and sighs when it is time to rewrap the limb. While Legolas wraps the digits, Gimli does him the favour of filling his water-skin once more, and Legolas nods his thanks.
The toes are splinted, and Legolas re-laces the boot - though Gimli suspects Aragorn to be perfectly capable of lacing his own shoe. Aragorn stands with the aid of Legolas, and shifts his weight to his wrapped foot, nodding when it bears his weight. "Come Legolas, Gimli. Let us follow our friends once more."
The return of Gandalf is a welcome distraction from the strange undercurrent between Legolas and Aragorn - as is the release of Theoden from Saruman's grasp, in the halls of Edoras.
The Horse Lord they had met on their travels, Eomer, is still absent, and Gimli laments it, for he suspects it might be fun to debate with so unruly a man. Instead, Gimli entertains himself once more with watching his friends, as they aid with the packing of Edoras and begin the journey to Helm’s Deep.
During the days, they speak together infrequently - there is often no need, for a gaze shared between the pair seems words enough, as if they have spoken essays together. In the evenings, when they think Gimli asleep, the words spill out like a flood. It is elvish, but in their tone there is a familiarity; a longing, though they are each too insensible to recognise it in the other.
Gimli reads when he can. Bardur and Sigra journey towards her homeland, dancing their way between the forest trees and singing with deep and clear voices. Aragorn and Legolas are, in comparison, far less jolly, though no less enamoured of one another, and Gimli is certain that soon, soon, they too might find their way towards one another.
Gimli thinks that he may never have seen so sad a sight as that of Legolas, as Theoden shepherds him away from the precipice of the cliff that Aragorn fell from, minutes earlier. The elf is despondent in a way Gimli has never seen before; not at the loss of Boromir, nor when they thought Gandalf lost, nor at any point in their hunt for the hobbits. Gimli feels a similar despondence echoed within his own chest, for Aragorn had seemed unassailable; for such a man to fall to his demise was a harbinger of doom, for the lands would forever seem a little dimmer without the strength of his arm and the breadth of his heart.
Legolas is without hope, and it ages him. Upon that precipice, it is as if he suddenly looks as old as his years might suggest, the weight of the loss dragging him down, and from his lips pour elvish runes. Gimli wonders what they might mean, though that moment seems not the time to ask it.
Legolas does not break from his stupor for the whole ride to Helm's Deep, elvish spilling out under his breath as Gimli rides behind him. Gimli shares a worried look with Theoden, but neither of them interrupt Legolas, for grief is an unforgiving master, especially to one so unfamiliar with it.
At Helm's Deep, Gimli feels he must find a way to separate himself from the grief, for otherwise he shall not find peace, not in these times. He finds a quiet corner; finds his way to his book.
Bardur wished he had more strength to resist the beauty of Sigra, for as soon as he was within the castle gates, he knew that their time together would soon come to a close.
The guards grabbed at him as if he were a common criminal, despite the protestations of his lady love, her dark eyes glistening like obsidian with unshed tears. They levied accusations at him for being alone with the Princess, and the foul things he must have done to her. They dragged him far from her, even as she protested their separation fervently, and proclaimed him a sorcerer, to have bewitched the Princess so.
The dungeon Bardur was thrown in was dank and cold, and the foul guards promised that banishment would be the lightest of punishment for his crimes, for he was a dark and wretched being.
In the dark of night, he sat alone. At first, it was silent, but then, from afar, he heard the first notes of Dwarven song, calling him back to the light.
The distraction is no good, for the banishment of Bardur only serves to remind Gimli of the loss of Aragorn, and so he goes out in search of Legolas.
Gimli finds Legolas in a small chamber, sat upon the makeshift bed. His elbows are upon his knees, and his head is bowed. He is muttering to himself - the same strange and haunting elvish prayers that began falling from his lips moments after Aragorn fell. Gimli frowns, for it cannot be healthy for an elf to be so bereaved. ”Come, my friend, you must cease with this."
Legolas falls silent for only a moment. “I cannot stop,” he mutters, and then the runes begin again. Gimli cannot bear to hear them, so he departs and makes for the courtyard, where a great many men are causing fuss. He moves forward, until he can see what all the noise is about.
Aragorn. Breath in his lungs, colour in his cheeks. Alive. A miracle, Gimli supposes, and wonders if perhaps the elf’s runes had amounted to something after all. Aragorn heads for the main hall, only for his path to be interrupted.
Gimli watches from afar as Legolas postures before Aragorn, as if he had not been devastated minutes earlier, as if this were all a folly. They are close together and intimate, bodies curling towards one another as they so often do.
Aragorn enters the building, and Legolas remains where he is a moment, closing his eyes as the breeze brushes his hair. When his eyes reopen, he finds Gimli in the crowd, and nods at him with a smile, as if to say we have him back.
Gimli wishes there was a nod he could reply with that might signify I am glad of his return but it is you that he returns to, but alas, mere head movements are too basic for such nuance.
The battle of Helms Deep is bloody and long, but as dawn breaks and victory beckons, Gimli finds himself with more strength in his arms than he's ever possessed before. The night is conquered, and in the bright sun, with Gandalf and Eomer on the horizon, Gimli knows that they will win.
The adrenaline of victory is short lived, for so many have died in the fight. Gimli's hands are not meant for healing, so he helps with cleanup where he can, and then lets himself be corralled to a rest area with the other soldiers, so that he might recover his strength.
His book is in his pocket, and so there, leaning against a small wall, he plucks it from his pocket and finds where he left off. He reads on as Bardur is freed from prison, and invited to a ball.
Sigra's beauty was beyond measure that evening, adorned in gold and silver, a thin gossamer veil doing little to disguise her majesty. She was untouchable, like a marble statue, though many hovered around her, none dared to touch.
Bardur realised, with sudden clarity, that he was a fool to think such beauty would ever look to him with love.
He turned his face away, and found another beauty in the dining hall. Still too good for him, but within reach and real. He danced and dined with her all evening, and when he looked to Sigra, he found she had turned away from him, shining her light upon another dwarf.
Jealousy boiled in his stomach, hotter than acid.
A shadow passes over the book, obscuring Gimli's vision, and when he looks up, he finds Eomer above him, tall and sturdy and handsome. “Reading after battle is a most strange occurrence,” Eomer says, curious.
“It soothes me,” Gimli says. He tucks an old scrap of parchment between the pages to hold his place, and puts the book aside, giving Eomer his full attention. Eomer, in full armour, lowers himself to a seat beside him, and together they survey the scene before them.
A hundred men, young and old, are packed into the small hall, all quiet in the first exhale after battle. Legolas sits alone amongst them. He should be with the few remaining Lorien elves upstairs, who are preparing to leave for their homeland, and yet he is here, cleaning the dull Rohan sword that he has been gifted. He still wears Rohan mail upon his shoulders, and looks broader for it - in the dim light, he looks more like a handsome man than a pretty elf.
Aragorn is not with him, and Gimli hopes that the strange tension between them, the aftermath of harsh words shared before battle, will dissipate soon. Gimli lets his eyes search around the room, and finds Aragorn sitting with Eowyn - her star-struck, him oblivious.
Eomer follows the gaze of Gimli, and smiles. "My sister is enamoured."
Gimli nods. “I worry that her heart may be broken, for Aragorn has eyes for another.”
Eomer smiles, shrugging a shoulder. “I would not worry too much, Master Gimli. Our bloodline falls fast and hard in love; and yet, when our affections are rebuffed, we accept our fates quickly and are soon on to our next love.”
Gimli looks to him; Eomer meets his gaze. It is intriguing, Gimli thinks, the gaze of this brazen man. “You speak from experience?”
“I must confess, I find myself thinking of falling once more,” Eomer confesses, looking away. “Let us hope this one is something more permanent,” he mutters, longing clear in his voice, and then leaves, clapping Gimli upon the shoulder as he passes.
It is no fun sitting alone, and so Gimli heads for Legolas. He sits beside the elf, and casts his eyes around once more, landing again on Aragorn and Eowyn. Aragorn is talking quietly; Eowyn is rapt upon his every word, eyes warm and wanting.
Gimli mentions Eowyn’s gaze to Legolas, who smiles, small and wistful. “Ai, Eowyn would be a firm match for him,” Legolas agrees, and Gimli considers throttling some sense into him.
“Perhaps you should go over there and interrupt their chatter.”
“I am no saboteur. Aragorn will soon be in want of a wife.” Legolas’s eyes grow sad with a strange and distant longing, and Gimli is suddenly certain that the elf would deliver Aragorn to Eowyn upon a silver platter with nothing but a sad smile, for Legolas has no intention of claiming the man for himself. “Eowyn is brave and beautiful and intelligent, and a noble lady no less. A fine, fine match.”
“Confounded elf!” Gimli huffs, and before the elf’s brow can even crinkle in confusion, he stomps off, hoping to find a moment of peace from infuriating elf and man.
He stomps the corridors for an hour, until his irritation begins to fade, and he wishes to be amongst his friends once more.
When he returns, Aragorn and Eowyn are still conversing, and Legolas sits across the room, surrounded by Rohirrim, none of whom seem quite bold enough to flirt outwardly, but who look upon him covetously as they converse with him. They are not the greedy eyes of unruly drunkards; there is a piety to the gazes, like the flush of first love, or like seeing, for the first time, the jewels of the glittering caves. Though Legolas is young of face, he looks ancient to be among them, as if an eternal statue, still and untouched, so unlike the almost-man that had been there when he was alone.
Across the room, the gaze of Aragorn often flits to Legolas, and Gimli wonders if he even sees the men around the elf, or if he is simply bewitched by Legolas alone.
Gimli sits himself down beside Eowyn, and smiles at her. Despite her obvious affections for Aragorn, Eowyn does not begrudge the interruption, and is merry and light to converse with. It is only after a little idle chatter that Gimli broaches the subject of interest. “Legolas seems to have attracted some admirers.”
Eowyn looks over and laughs. “You can hardly blame the men, for they have never seen a being so lovely. He is a worthy distraction from what has passed,” she replies, and Gimli waits for Aragorn to say the requisite line, to compliment Eowyn on her own beauty; but Aragorn is silent, and when Gimli looks across, he finds Aragorn consumed in his own thoughts, eyes dark and brow lowered as he focusses solely on Legolas - more specifically, the gazes of the men around Legolas, which covet.
Gimli instead brings forth his charms. “Ai, my lady, they have indeed seen a lovelier being, for you are in their presence daily,” Gimli says, and Eowyn smiles at him, warm.
Aragorn shakes his head. “Legolas does not enjoy such attentions. Please excuse me.” He nods to them both, and then moves swiftly away, towards where Legolas sits.
Gimli looks to Eowyn. She is as jewel-struck as the Rohirrim, though the object of her affection differs. It saddens Gimli to see, for if Aragorn were a man of better taste, they might have been happy together; but alas, Aragorn’s affections are singular, and fully focussed on a maddening elf.
Aragorn is with Legolas now, standing close enough that Legolas must crane his neck. Legolas is looking at Aragorn as if the other men around them had ceased to exist, and Gimli sighs. Maddening, the pair of them.
The reunion with Merry and Pippin is a joyous occasion, and the pipeweed they all indulge in is more pungent and beautiful than anything Gimli has tasted. Legolas turns his nose up at it - the elf has no taste - but the rest of them have a merry time together, imbibing in the weed.
Gimli reads a little of his book after - Bardur and Sigra are enjoying a drunken party, and finally beginning to fall towards one another - but the weed makes his head cloudy, and so he puts his book away and pledges to read more tomorrow.
The party they have that evening is a jolly knees up, and after a solid victory against Legolas in a drinking game, Gimli makes his way to Aragorn, determined to make the man see a modicum of sense.
"Laddie! I have a question for you," Gimli starts, sitting down heavily beside his friend. He leans in, and ignores the twitch of Aragorn's nose as he leans close and whispers, “Have you ever kissed an elf?”
"I have not, Master Dwarf," Aragorn replies.
Gimli chortles, slapping his knee. “A man as travelled as you, and you’ve never kissed an elf!” He cries out, and then leans in again. “Perhaps you should change that tonight.”
Aragorn raises an eyebrow. “There is only one elf here.”
“Indeed - go on then,” Gimli implores, raising his own eyebrow in return. “Or are you afraid he will bewitch you with a single kiss?”
Aragorn falls silent for a long while. “I have never kissed a dwarf either.” Aragorn eventually replies, glancing to him from the side of his eye.
It is a deflection; a clever one, Gimli thinks. “Let us save that one for when one of us is upon our death bed,” Gimli responds lightly. “I shall kiss you with tongue and we’ll have a jolly laugh about it.” He looks around, spots Legolas wandering towards them. “Here comes the elf.”
“Good evening, Legolas.” Aragorn nods, and Legolas responds in kind, and Gimli finds himself wishing they would cease with such nonsense and kiss instead.
Gimli turns to Aragorn. “Legolas is drunk, for I bested him in a drinking match,” Gimli declares, and Aragorn smiles back. “I fear my victory has left me tired.”
Legolas nods, and reaches for his arms. “Come, Gimli. I will help you to bed.” Gimli is fit to protest, for he does not require aid, especially not from a drunkard elf, but then another pair of calloused hands are there, holding Gimli firmly by the shoulders.
“It is Rohan ale that has turned his bones to lead, and Rohan takes care of its own,” Eomer says, warm against Gimli's side. “Come, Master Gimli. To bed with you.”
Eomer manhandles him towards his chambers easily - too easily. It should be embarrassing, but Gimli finds it only warms his cheeks, even when he lowers to the bed with an oof. He watches Eomer extinguish the candles, leaving him with only one for light, and suddenly worries that he has distracted the man from far finer ventures. “You should be romancing your new love,” Gimli says, a little morose.
Eomer shakes his head. “They have toasted victory too heavily for romance on this night, for they would have no defence against my charms.”
Gimli nods, and thinks perhaps that is why Aragorn did not romance Legolas on this night, for the elf had imbibed heavily.
Eomer helps him into the bed, sits beside him. Pushes the hairs back from his forehead. It is confusing and pleasant. “I heard your conversation with Aragorn earlier,” Eomer says. “I kissed an elf once. We met on the boundary between Rohan and Lorien. They were far too smooth to the touch.” A strange look passes over Eomer’s features. “I have not kissed a dwarf before,” he mutters, and Gimli feels the his cheeks redden at the unspoken implication, but then Eomer is coming to stand. Eomer pats his hand once, and then withdraws, though his eyes linger a moment longer. “Good night, Gimli.”
“Hm.” Gimli replies, and then before he can think more of it, he is asleep.
Another day of riding is upon them, and around Gimli, the men prepare their horses. Arod needs no preparation, for Legolas rides without a saddle, and so Gimli takes the chance to read a little snippet of his book.
Sigra sat behind Bardur, her comely legs pressed against his sides as they crossed the meadow on their sturdy horse. The fans of the willow trees tickled at their brows as they rode, and Bardur swore his heart overflowed.
He had never been so close to his love before. It was more than he had ever dreamt of.
Gimli closes the book, glances around the army. Aragorn is already atop his steed, while Legolas stands beside Gimli, talking to Arod. Gimli coughs to get his attention. “Perhaps today you should ride with Aragorn.”
Legolas looks at him as if he had suggested making love to an orc. “Have you ridden a horse alone before?”
“How hard might it be? After all, you manage it every day.”
Legolas's frown deepens further. “Arod is no horse for a beginner, especially with no saddle,” he warns, turning to face Gimli and coming close, speaking quietly. “If I have upset you in some way, I am certain that Aragorn would accept you riding pillion upon Hasufel.”
Gimli softens a little, for truly, he is not angry at Legolas, no matter how infuriating the elf can be. He goes to say as much, but is interrupted by the booming voice of Eomer. “Master Dwarf! If you wish for a new companion for today, might I suggest you join me upon Firefoot!” He offers down a hand. “Let me show you how the Rohirrim ride.”
"It would be rude to turn down such an invitation!" Gimli chortles, taking Eomer's hand and letting himself be lifted onto the horse with surprising ease. Legolas frowns up at him, and then returns to Arod, hopping onto the horse lightly and leading it towards Aragorn.
Though they do not share a horse, Aragorn and Legolas ride alongside one another, speaking in quiet elvish. From the glances they send his way, he supposes his seeming upset is the topic of conversation. It is no matter; he will smooth it over with Legolas that evening, and for now, he is glad to give them something to talk about.
Eomer is warm, between his thighs, and a smooth rider. Gimli tries not to think on it too long.
Some days, Bardur worried that Sigra did not hold the same flame for him as he did for her; for who could meet her majesty, who could inspire the devotion that came so naturally to those who looked upon her? Bardur was nothing, he was less than a worm in the ground, in comparison to her splendour.
And yet, in the glade, after he had run across a full acre of land, he caught her gaze straying to his arms, sheened with sweat, and it grew heavy.
Gimli closes the book, pondering its meaning. In truth, though he has long suspected that both Legolas and Aragorn are enamoured, it is only Aragorn's yearning he has witnessed in full.
Gimli wonders, with horror, if perhaps it is only Aragorn that holds a flame for Legolas - for the elf does not look to Aragorn with the same open affection, and cannot be prompted to jealousy. Gimli is unfamiliar with Mirkwood elves; perhaps all their friendships carry the intensity that others might mistake for love.
It is a sad and sorry thought, for there is no doubt in Gimli’s mind that Aragorn looks upon the elf with romantic love, and for such affections to be unreturned would be a horror story straight from the scariest tomes of Moria. Gimli dwells on it for a few days, until the opportunity presents itself for Gimli to find out the truth.
Aragorn is rinsing at a basin, his shirt unbuttoned to the mid-chest, and Gimli watches Legolas. The elf’s face is neutral as always, as he watches Aragorn idly from his perch upon the bed.
But then Aragorn tips his head back, squeezing the cloth across his collarbones, sending rivulets of water down his chest. Gimli keeps his gaze on Legolas, like a hawk, and though it is subtle, it is there.
The slightest opening of the mouth, as Legolas stares at the wet skin, and the water droplets clinging to pink nipples.
“Ha!” Gimli exclaims, and Legolas flinches at the sound. Aragorn pauses his washcloth, and looks to them both. “Ha!” Gimli repeats, finger wagging at Legolas, who frowns back at him. The elf looks to Aragorn, and the pair share a baffled look, a full conversation taking place between them with no words exchanged. Gimli points at Aragorn now too, making the same sharp sound towards him. “Ha!”
“Gimli -“ Legolas starts, speaking as if Gimli is the one who is strange and infuriating, and Gimli does not wish to hear it.
“I am off to drink a pint of ale. Do not follow me!”
His ale is sweet, if a little lukewarm. He drinks it slowly, savouring each mouthful from the mouth of one of the dining tents, until eventually, his infuriating friends cross his eye line. They do not spot him, deep in conversation, and so he watches some more.
Aragorn and Legolas stand too close for decency, close enough that with the slightest turn of the head they might kiss, and yet neither turns their head, content to remain close and not touching.
Even the romance of ents must be faster than this.
“What do we look upon?" A voice from behind asks, and Gimli looks up at Eomer.
“They are in love.” Eomer follows his nod, and watches Legolas and Aragorn in the courtyard; how they stand, almost touching, and how they look upon one another, when the other is unaware. It is easier to recognise Aragorn’s longing, for it is painted across his features as if with a thick yard brush; Legolas’s desires are more hidden, but now that Gimli is certain what he is looking at, he can see it on the elf too.
A strange smirk overtakes Eomer’s face, though he fights to suppress it, and Gimli frowns. “What strangeness passes through your features?”
“Tis nothing, dwarf.” Eomer replies, though his voice drips with a strange satisfaction. “Only that I shall dream well tonight.”
Gimli prods him in the belly with the handle of his axe, and Eomer laughs, but does not leave. “What brings you here, horsemaster?”
“I have been thinking of you, with your book,” Eomer says, his cheeks a little pink. “I thought to give you this. I do not read much these days, and the scrap of parchment you use is falling to shreds within your hands.”
It is crafted of fine leather, soft as butter, with a horse carved into the top and fringe upon the bottom; a worthy accompaniment to his book, Gimli decides. "I shall treasure it," Gimli promises, retrieving his book and tucking it between the pages.
Gimli spots the elf as soon as he enters the tent, and curses the Firstborn and their nosiness.
Legolas’s nose is buried in Wild Peonies Upon the Boulder, unashamed as he paws at the stolen goods. For a being that might live for millennia, he makes for a surprisingly impatient reader; he is skim-reading the pages, taking no time to appreciate the intricate nuance that makes up a dwarfish love story. Gimli coughs, pointed and annoyed, and Legolas pays him no mind.
“I understand now why you spend your spare time reading this novel, for it is fascinating,” Legolas allows, turning to the next page. “Are all dwarfish love stories so chaste? By this point in an elven or mannish novel, they would have at least fondled one another’s rears.”
“I think that untrue, for elves and men are as dense as metamorphic rock.”
“I have begun to understand what your strange moods of recent are about,” Legolas says, certain, lowering the book. “My friend, you need not be ashamed.”
“What shame might I have?”
“You are Sigra, are you not?” Legolas asks, lifting the book up once again. “Only I cannot tell if it is Eomer or Aragorn that is cast as Bardur.”
Gimli is glad that Legolas still holds the book, for if it were within his own hands, he fears he may have launched it at the elf’s head - though who knows, perhaps that might knock some sense into the infuriating creature. “I am most certainly not Sigra!”
“Gimli -“
“Do not speak another word - and give me my book!” Gimli snatches it back, holding it close to his chest and storming away.
“There is no shame in it!” Legolas calls after him, and Gimli ignores him entirely.
Gimli tries to read a little more of his book, but he is too frustrated, and so instead finds himself sulking upon a makeshift bench, book resting between his crossed arms and his chest.
A shadow passes over him, and when he looks up, it is Eomer, who so often seems close nowadays. "Master Dwarf. What has you so morose?" He asks, lowering to sit on the bench beside Gimli.
"My friends." Gimli answers, short. “They are so pig-headed I do not even know if they realise that they are in love.”
Eomer reaches over, fanning the pages of Wild Peonies Upon the Boulder between his fingers until it catches on the gifted bookmark, which is nestled two thirds of the way through. “The protagonists in your novel. Have they confessed their love yet?”
“No.” Gimli admits. He has read this novel countless times, and yet never found himself so frustrated with Sigra and Bardur before.
“Well then,” Eomer starts, clapping his hands upon his knees and coming to a stand. “Do not lose hope, Master Dwarf. Perhaps their thick skulls might soften yet.” He smiles, a sweet and gentle glance, and then is away to tend to the horses.
Legolas stands to the side, watching with eyes that see too much.
“I have changed my mind,” Legolas says, no hint of an apology on his lips. “You are not Sigra. Are you familiar with the ballad of Giviniel and Mardowen?” Legolas asks, and Gimli shakes his head. “An old elvish tale about a man and an elf who were too stubborn to see their love.”
“You would call myself and Aragorn stubborn?” Gimli asks, deliberately obtuse.
Legolas looks across at Eomer’s retreating back. “Not Aragorn, no.”
Gimli does not respond to that, and instead asks, “How does their story end?”
“They fell in love, and then Giniviel died, as men are wont to do,” Legolas responds, taking Eomer's place upon the bench. “Mardowen was too stubborn to follow, and instead sang to all that would listen the story of their love. They say that that is how the birds first found their voices.”
Gimli nods, slow. “Elvish stories are always so morose in the ending.”
“If you live long enough, all tales become tragedy,” Legolas says, surprisingly serious for one so light. He nods at Gimli's chest, where his novel rests. “Your book, it has a happy ending?”
“I do not like to think on it.”
"All things must end, my friend," Legolas says, nudging Gimli with his shoulder. "Now come. I believe Aragorn intends to depart without us."
Bardur was loathe to leave Sigra, but for his people and her own, he must. There was no other way. He took her hands in his own, kissing at the knuckles. “I must make this quest, for my people, and my crown.”
Sigra nodded, dressed in her royal best. “If this might be the last time our eyes meet, then I must tell you my truth,” she said, beautiful and somber. “The future for me holds no happiness if you are not by my side.”
Morannon is hours away when Gimli puts down his book in Minas Tirith. He's already dressed for battle, waiting for the call to ride out. He had planned to sit here until the battle began, but reading those words in the book lifts him to his feet, in search of a certain elf once more.
He has never been idle before in his own desires; why, indeed, should he find himself idle now, though it is not his desires that are in question? Gimli heads to the hall, where hundreds ready themselves for battle.
Legolas is balanced on the end of a bench checking his arrows, silent and contemplative in his task. For Helm's Deep, the elf had worn the shoulder armour of the Rohirrim, however now his shoulders are bare of protection, and he looks more himself for it. On Gimli’s approach, he moves along the bench, and Gimli lowers himself to a seat, side by side with his friend.
Gimli casts his eye about the room, looking upon the hundreds of solemn and determined faces ready for war. In amongst it all is the future leader of men, sat with his people as if he were still a mere ranger. Aragorn sharpens his sword with practiced ease, moving with the rhythm of a meditative task as opposed to a practical one. Gimli glances to Legolas, to see where his gaze might rest, but the elf is intent upon his arrows, single minded.
“We might all perish tomorrow,” Gimli says.
“You are in a cheerful mood,” Legolas replies, light as he so often is.
“It would be a shame to leave things unsaid, should the worst happen,” Gimli continues, and this draws his friend’s gaze away from his arrows. Legolas frowns at him, so Gimli elaborates, “Perhaps now is the time to tell those we hold dear what they mean to us.”
Legolas nods, and returns his arrows to their quiver. His face is serious now, and Gimli cheers, for perhaps finally he understands the gravitas of the situation, how he must tell Aragorn of his love immediately. However, instead of running across the room and taking Aragorn in his arms, Legolas reaches over to clasp Gimli firmly by the shoulder. “You have been a good friend to me, Gimli - a good dwarf. I would be much saddened if our companionship were to end tomorrow.”
It is a nice sentiment, and Gimli warms to hear the words, even if they were not his intention. “I did not mean myself.” Gimli nods towards where Aragorn sits. The man is alone, suspended in quiet contemplation, and Legolas looks to him for a moment before understanding Gimli’s meaning.
The elf’s cheeks redden, and Gimli smirks, for he did not know elves capable of such a reaction. Perhaps if they were less close to death, Legolas might have deflected, but now, he does not, for truth is always close to the surface when death’s scythe draws near. Legolas looks to the ceiling. “Such a confession would be unwelcome.”
“I think you are wrong,” Gimli replies back, gentle. “And if you are not, and he is unhappy with your words, worry not. At least one of you will likely be dead by tomorrow, and then no one shall know of your embarrassing confession.”
“Ai, that is a comfort,” Legolas intones.
“You have been a good friend to me too, elf. I would not set you on this path if I thought it might lead to your unhappiness.”
Legolas looks back to Aragorn, and his gaze shifts to a look more open than any gaze that has come before; the longing that is present is no different to that of Aragorn, the first day Gimli noticed it, before they reached Fangorn. “He deserves to know he is beloved.”
“You deserve to hear the same in return,” Gimli reminds, and the elf’s gaze grows fragile, as if hope is sprung anew.
“If I come away embarrassed, and then survive the coming battles, will you do me the favour of burying your axe within my skull?”
“It will not come to that,” Gimli promises, and yet still Legolas waits. Gimli sighs. “I shall put you out of your misery if need be.”
Legolas nods once, and then steels his spine and stands. He does not look back as he crosses the room.
Gimli watches as Legolas approaches Aragorn, sitting by the man’s side, close. Gimli cannot hear the words they share from this distance, and he expects they are in elvish anyway, but he keeps watching, heart filled with a strange hope, as if the destiny of battle is wrapped up in what happens between his friends in these next minutes. He is suddenly filled with a fear that he might have lead Legolas astray; that perhaps he imagined Aragorn’s affections, numerous as they were, but Aragorn looks at the elf fondly, as he always does, and after the requisite pleasantries, Legolas begins to speak, uninterrupted by Aragorn. His gaze is lowered to the middle distance, and his mouth moves quickly, the words tumbling out.
Aragorn’s brow creases and then releases, and he places his sword aside, turning fully to face Legolas, who still does not look at him. Gimli considers yelling across the room, commanding the elf to look at Aragorn, for what he would see in return is affection, unadulterated and wondrous. The final tinge of worry in Gimli’s heart fade away, for Aragorn looks at Legolas as if he had strung the stars in the sky; they are Bardur and Sigra, under the moon, alone together, even in this crowded hall.
Aragorn’s hand comes to Legolas’s arm, and Legolas’s mouth stutters on the next word. Finally, finally, Legolas looks to Aragorn, and Gimli smirks to see the elf finally speechless. Aragorn nods, as if to say continue speaking, and his thumb rubs back and forth over Legolas’s wrist, where his pulse likely hammers against that soothing pad. Legolas continues, as bid, but now his eyes are glued to Aragorn, skittering between his eyes and his lips.
A man clad in thick armour clatters down beside Gimli, interrupting his thoughts, and he turns his head to see that it is Eomer, who now looks on Aragorn and Legolas with interest. “It all worked out, then?”
“Ai, it seems they are not so pig-headed after all - all they needed was a little push from a dwarf.”
“You meddle more than all the aunts in Rohan,” Eomer replies, warm. “I am glad they have found their way to one another. The road ahead is bleak indeed, but the promise of happiness after might see us all through these dark days.”
Gimli nods, and looks back to his friends. They are smiling together now, eyes warm and fragile. Aragorn’s hand rises and then falls back down, tracing its way down Legolas’s bicep slowly as it goes. Legolas tilts forward, then back, as if he thinks better of it; Aragorn’s gaze falls to elven lips, and when he raises his gaze, man and elf have a whole conversation without words.
Gimli expects they will spirit themselves away for what is to follow, but then Aragorn is filled with that strange and wonderful excitement that all men seem to possess, rarely seen in the future King but always present; he lunges forward, hands wrapping around the jaw of Legolas as he kisses him firm and thoroughly - thoroughly enough that Gimli feels his own cheeks redden. Legolas grasps Aragorn back, and returns the kiss, as if they two were alone, instead of in a crowded hall. A few passersby glance at the pair, but most ignore them, too caught up in their own worries to notice the embrace, and no one comments nor interrupts, though Gimli suspects they would be well within their right to, for he did not know that a mere kiss could look so obscene.
“I have seen whorehouses less vulgar.” Eomer mutters beside him, and Gimli snorts a laugh. He looks to the Rohirrim, who laughs too now, and the pair of them laugh together, though they surely must look as if they had lost their wits. The impossible embrace of man and elf makes Gimli feel alive and invincible, and now he is ready for war - more ready than a thousand hours of training could ever make him. Eomer stands, and offers him a hand. “Come, Master Dwarf. Let us go prepare the horses.”
Gimli nods and takes the proffered hand, and is surprised but not upset to find it does not release its hold, even once he is stood. Before they leave the hall, hand in hand, Gimli looks back to his friends, who have stopped attempting to steal the breath from one another, and now instead sit still, foreheads together, both with small and wondrous smiles upon their faces. It is a scene more suited to a painting than a war room, and Gimli smiles one final time at them, and hopes that they will all live to see another dawn, for he wishes to see them wed. He wishes, too, to find out what it might mean, for the hand of the Rohirrim to be encased within his own.
In the depths of one of the horse stalls, Gimli is glad to find that Eomer is less public with his kisses than Aragorn had been - though no less passionate nor thorough.
His kisses taste of victory.
Bardur grew ill first, as was often the way for the folk who lived under the mountain, for the male’s hearts were weak; Sigra bore him to the woods, laying him upon a bed of moss, and then lay down beside him. His breathing faltered, and grew slow, and would soon stop. Though Sigra was still hale, when the final breath of Bardur was done, she breathed her last also, through sheer force of will - for a world without Bardur was bleak and grey, and she wanted no part in it.
Animals picked at their flesh, but they did not mind, for the mortal frames were of no use to them any more. Squirrels tore scraps off their clothes for their nests, but they did not feel the cold, not where they lay. Even their bones were parted in time, for the wolves of the woods grew hungry, but it did not matter, for time had stopped when they lay down together in the moss, and the entwined imprint of their love would remain there long after their bodies were gone.
Sunlight glistened on their one-time grave, and wild peonies grew from the moss.
Gimli closes the book with aching hands, for his joints no longer do so well, even in the mild Spring weather. He has read the novel a hundred times or more, though in the last hundred and twenty years, he had always put the book away before he reached the final paragraphs, for he did not wish to dwell on such things.
Reading the final page for the first time in over a century hurts, in the way such things are designed to hurt; but such stories, if told in full, must always end the same.
That such a story must end does not mar the tale that came before.
Gimli wipes his eyes with shaky hands, and places the bookmark, as beautiful as the day he was given it, into his chest pocket. It will stay there now, he thinks, until the end; he wishes for the gift to be close to his heart when the time comes, sooner rather than later, so that he might pat it and remember leather brown eyes and firebrand kisses.
He thinks to put the book back upon the shelf, but decides against it, and tucks it in his pocket, next to the bookmark, for there is someone else he would like to own the novel now.
Hand upon his cane, he heads for the door, and sets off to find King Eldarion.