Archive of Our Own

Elves keep long into the night and wake earlier than the sun, but they do sleep. Legolas slept. With his fawn colored hair bright against the dark of the stone he was resting on. Gimli was proud of himself for having awoken to see it. 

They would be in Minas Tirith before tomorrow's end. The massive city already loomed large in the distance. He hadn't seen it since Aragorn had been crowned king. The blood on the Pelennor Fields had not yet washed out, but a new age of the world had started. 

“Does sleep elude you, my friend?” Gimli had been staring but not seeing. The brief amount of sleep that Legolas needed has now passed. 

“Aye, but this feels like when we were back with the fellowship, so my lack of sleep is washed in nostalgia.” Gimli sat up and pressed his back to the stone. No point in feigning sleep when he can look in the daylight. Or what would soon be daylight. 

“It does. It’s funny how we can look back on such terror with kinder eyes.” Legolas agreed, sitting up and stretching his long limbs. He never seemed to notice his wandering eyes. So observant as he was, he wondered if he chose not to be aware of it. To spare him, perhaps. 

“It’s been twenty years. Time is as good a weathering stone as any.” Gimli laughed. 

“We see time very differently. It’s a blink for me. I can recall every detail as if it were yesterday. I’m not sure how much time constitutes long enough when you have forever.” Legolas reached into his bag and drew out some jerky for them both to share. 

“It’s why your people call mortality a gift.” Gimli took it and did some stretching of his own, with far more joint cracking. “Before he passed, my father used to tell stories of the company as if he missed it. Very different stories from the ones he told when he was freshly home.” 

“What I hear is that there is hope for both of us to find some meaning in a place that has held darkness.” Legolas laughed, and it sounded like springtime. It sounded almost better than Galadriel's if he was allowed to make such a comparison. Twenty years apart made it sound new to him all over again.

“What is darkness in the face of your optimism?” Gimli deadpanned, hiding his smile behind his beard.

He was glad to have this ease back. Glad that it hadn't faded. He had never met another being that was so easy to be around. Long amounts of his presence brought no fatigue; if anything, he felt brighter for it, if a little foolish. 

Erebor’s thoughts on elves had not improved in the last decades. They grew no more hostile, but it was by Legolas's grace that his contingent was allowed to pass on the elven road to reach the Anduin.   

They packed their simple camp and were on the way again before too long. He hoped a hot meal was at the end of this ride. He had put up with enough elven bread and cured meats. His people were not on horses as the elves were, and most were far too proud to share a horse. The elves had gone on, and of them only Legolas completed the journey with them. 

If the wide berth the other dwarves gave him was a bother, it didn’t show on his fine features. 

At last, they arrived at the many gates. Time certainly didn't make it look any better, nor did the stonework around it. He was glad they were in a time of peace. One mediocre ram would crumble it to dust.

“Do they have a quarry near here?” One of his dwarves asked behind him, seeing the same thing he did. 

“Aye, they do, but it’ll be a hard job. This fortress was carved, not built.” Gimli looked up to see walls that had been safeguarded from further wear with boards and crude masonry. “We’ll have to teach them how to keep it as well. No point in fixing it just to leave it with no one to tend to it.” 

His delegation was met graciously, as an assembly of men greeted them with deep bows. 

“The King extends his gratitude for your coming and has made arrangements for you in the deepest part of the city in hopes that you will be the most comfortable there.” The man motioned for the delegation to follow. They all did, he and Legolas bringing up the rear. 

They didn't make it far inside before they were stopped. 

“My lords, I’m sorry for stopping you, but my King would like an audience with you now.” The man was dressed far better than the one who had catered to the delegation. His robes were of fine make, with the white tree brightly shining on their tabards. 

Unable or unwilling to say no, they turned and went up a different path. They passed very few people this way, but far more parts of the city that seemed to be less touched. The scope of the damage done was, to a degree, something he had not been able to comprehend until this moment.  

He looked for Legolas to share in his revelation. He found him lagging behind him, standing at the threshold of a crumbling arch and looking beyond it. Gimli went to him. 

“This was a garden once,” Legolas whispered, and he didn't think it was for him to hear, but he heard it all the same. “Loved and tended to and aching to come back to life.” 

“It should be pleased it has you here then. To bring it back.” Gimli bumped him in good humor, but he hardly moved. 

“Yes…but it still pulls at me. Does the stone not speak to you the same way?” Legolas asked, stepping away from the arch to follow him once again. “I remember when we were at Helm’s Deep. The caves there captured you. You called them marvels.”

“Not all stone speaks to me like that. The stone of my home always will, and the rare places, hidden and newly discovered, might capture me. In places such as this, it is the craftsmanship that shakes my sensibilities and holds me to account. A city this grand should not suffer under mediocrity.” Gimli wasn’t sure that every elf could understand the meaning of what he said, but Legolas smiled and nodded. 

“Would that you could have met some of the elves of old who trained under your creator. They would agree with you. It’s a blend of both, I think. Creation comes from a place of passion. Had you no love for this place, then you would not be so pressed to improve upon it regardless of its importance.” Legolas abandoned him to jump up the side of some ruins and look out upon their path. Their guides didn't seem phased by this. 

“Say what you mean plainly. Not all races have the ears or patience to read between the lines.” Gimli huffed, looking up at the elf who dazzled in the sunlight like he knew it was his birthright.  

With effortless grace, he dropped from the ruined wall, landing beside Gimli without so much as stirring the dust. "I mean that this place must call to you in some way for you to render it such aid."

“The call of this place is fine friends. It is no Glittering Caves, just as that garden is no Fangorn. A legacy is not always secured in the place one calls home.” Gimli let Legolas go first through the next section of the city. They climbed upwards at a gradual pace, and their surroundings grew less ruined.  

“Do you mean to make the Glittering Caves your home?” Legolas said after a while, turning his nose up at yet another place he likely intended to make green again. They were approaching a garden a few levels down from the top of the city, where the halls of the king still stood strong and untouched by the war.  

“My home is no cave or mountain. It likes to wander far from me.” Gimli said, stepping into the lush area. It was the only place in the city touched by elven grace, and he felt a current of that magic that also lived in Lothlorien breathe over him. 

“Aragorn!” Legolas cried out, looking into the distance at a figure that was not yet in his sight. The elf vaulted over the low fence that led into the gardens properly and joyfully greeted their friend as he rose from his seat under a domed pavilion. 

Gimli would be doing no such vaulting and elected to take the stairs, greeting his friend with open arms a few minutes later. 

“You’ve got more lines on you than the last time we saw you.” Gimli laughed, slapping him on the back. “But you had the wisdom to grow something proper on that face of yours. Good lad.”  

“Age, as it seems, is catching up to me, but I attribute that to the stresses of rulership more than I do the ravages of time.” Aragorn smiled wildly and grabbed them both by the backs of their heads, pulling them forward until their foreheads touched. “I have missed you both greatly. Thank you for meeting me here separately. My time is not always my own, and I would have us catch up without distraction for as long as I am able.” 

“We’re at your call for our time here, Your Majesty. Bring some proper ale and wine, and we can talk until the stars greet us.” Gimli said, full of cheer, his weariness from travel lifting in an instant. 

“Call me by my name, I beg you. I rarely hear it anymore, and we are only in each other's company.” Aragorn bid his people bring food and refreshment as he led them under the pavilion. Gimli got a taste of the first true wonder he had seen since entering this place. 

The mosaic that greeted him was detailed, each piece carved with care and placed with precision. It was the image of a Western tower he had never seen, though he suspected it lay in Arnor. The other tower was Osgiliath. Twins shining on distant shores marked by the moon and stars and held in brotherhood by the white tree of Gondor.  

“We were greeted by Arwen when we passed through Lórien”. Legolas set down his wine, produced an elegant pouch, and placed it on the table in front of him with a smile. “She sent her love, as did your daughters.”  

“These will do me well on nights when my spirit could use lifting. She has promised to return by next spring, but that leaves me with an empty house, and my sons have gone to join the Dunedain. They would return at my bidding, but I haven't the heart to call them back when I know what strength of character those lands afford youth.” Aragorn rested back in his chair with an easy but lonely expression.

“Then you called us at the right time!” Legolas announced, his cheeks pink from the cheer. “For if they're going to return, let them return to a city more splendid than when they left.” 

“I admit that I worried I waited too long to call you. I would not have been surprised to learn that your endeavors had taken you far from these lands and buried your interest elsewhere.” Aragorn didn’t let the attendant pour his next cup of wine. He thanked him for the bottle and gathered all their cups to pour it himself. 

“My soul would have to greet my maker for me to be buried so deep as to not keep a promise,” Gimli announced, taking his cup with too much gusto and wetting the table with drops of red. 

“As I reminded our dwarven friend, time has not passed so slowly for me,” Legolas put his hand on his shoulder. A feather's touch, but he felt it through his leathers as if it were on his skin. “Lest I pass into the West, I could be counted upon for my friends.” Legolas picked up his cup and held it aloft. “To the reunion of the three hunters and a merry gathering!” 

“To good friends sharing my halls once again.” Aragorn picked up his cup to hold it high.

Gimli pushed his cup into theirs with a clink. The wine spilled into each other's cups without overflowing. His gaze found Legolas as it always did. “To old fellowships and the building of something new upon the foundation of what’s familiar.” 

Legolas could see Gimli from where he worked. The gardens of Minas Tirith were terraced and afforded a sloped look at the city. The dwarves were not working closely with the elves in any meaningful way. They were by the gates as one would expect. Half of their number set off for the nearest quarry and brought in fresh stone for use. The other half, Gimli included, had stayed to start forging the other materials they would need. 

He had not visited the gates save for overseeing the delivery of soil that arrived a week after they did. Just in time for the beds to be finished. He was grateful for his elven sight as he looked down on the city and into the open blacksmith where Gimli struck steel again and again with remarkable power. 

He had lied when he said that time passed quickly for him. It should have passed quickly; it seemed to pass that way for others, but every step he took alone felt like something was missing. A warm stabilizing presence that he might have once lived without, but it was only for lack of knowing. Now that he knew what it was like to know such comfort, the stars seemed dimmer without it. 

He said goodbye to his father before he left the Greenwood. A proper goodbye. He would not see his kin again in Middle-earth, for they traveled across the sea, and he was unwilling to venture with them to the home of Eldamar. He would see the white shores one day ere the sea birds called him forth to his final doom, but should his heart rest on pale shores, then he would dwell with it lest Eru reclaim him himself. 

“Do you seek to be rid of this place already, My Prince?” Variel laughed, standing to block his sight. “Your attention strays ever from the work you spoke so highly of accomplishing.”

“It’s rare we see a fair horizon not blocked by trees.” Legolas smiled and stood, burying his trowel into the soil. “I have not grown accustomed to it.” He was grateful that Variel didn't care enough to follow his line of sight and did his best to hide his blush. 

“I dare say it’s a better view than when I last saw it, but not so great as before the shadow’s return.” Variel was not an old elf but old enough to have seen the splendor of kings before the stewards took over the city's safekeeping. 

“It’s a shame that no elf will be on these shores long enough to see it return to the splendor of old,” Legolas said with a half smile. 

“No human might either if we can't get tools good enough to do our work with.” Legolas and Variel turned to see Aerin throw down a broken hoe that snapped at the base. “Half has wood rot, and the only tools maintained for this work are the ones to tend the tree.” 

“There is only one whom I trust to make better tools,” Legolas said, picking up the hoe and the half-rusted hand rake beside it.

“Ask your dwarf then. If he is one of the good ones.” Aerin said offhandedly. 

“The halls of Menegroth and Eryn Lasgalen were delved and modeled from dwarven craftsmanship. Few of even the Noldor could match any of them, good or bad by your thin standards.” Legolas might have laughed at her joke once. He made no effort to excuse the snapping of his words. 

“Apologies, your highness.” Aerin swallowed, bowing her head. “I know you fought beside Gimli, the elf friend. I chose my words poorly.” 

“Yes, you did,” Legolas replied. He retreated from the tense situation with the tools in hand. The humans of the city followed his movements as he passed with whispered awe. They were the last few generations that would be able to say they saw an elf in person. They knew that as well as he did, he suspected. 

By the time he got to the forge, Gimli was resting against the side wall, wiping the sweat off his face with a cloth that left soot along his cheek and nose. His arms were unprotected, and he wore only a simple tunic and trousers. He didn't see or hear him approach.

“Have they worked you to your limits in only a week?” Legolas teased. He hopped up to sit along the side wall and stretch his legs out. 

“Nay, not to my limits. This forge was in rough shape and abandoned. It had a lot of work that needed doing in order to be capable of smiting good steel, let alone mithril.” Gimli put his hands on his hips, surveying his work with pride. “She’s ready for proper creation now.” 

“Could I be the first to burden you with an order then?” Legolas said, swinging his legs inside the wall and producing the subpar gardening tools.

“You would ask a forging master for gardening tools?” Gimli scoffed in good humor. 

“Only if I will not offend him. For he is the only one I know capable of the skill I require.” Legolas said, putting on his fairest face to gain some sympathy. 

Gimli stepped forward to take the tools he had brought. He smelled of sweat and smoke. Legolas found himself leaning forward into it before embarrassment struck him. He leaned too far and had a moment of panic where he thought he might fall. Without looking up from the tool, Gimli took another step forward, steadying him at the hip and letting him regain his balance. 

“I can make you a few sets. It’ll be a good way to test that the forge is heating correctly.” Gimli tossed the tools into a scrap pile in the corner of the forge and wiped his hands on his pants. “The king has taken care of materials and payment, so I can bring them to you when they’re done.” 

“Could I pay you in my company?” Legolas asked, reticent to go now that he was here. “You comfort me, and it seems a shame to share a city at last and see each other seldom.” 

“I would never deny your company, but I’m not one for conversation while I work. I’m prone to song if that’s enough to keep you here.” 

“I miss the songs you hummed on the road. I will not find my boredom in enjoying their tune.” Legolas sat back and got comfortable once again. 

This was what the passing of time should sound like. Gimli’s voice was low and sometimes off-key as it changed with the flow of what he was working with. You could tell in the manner of the song if the metal he was working with was cooperating with how he was trying to shape it. 

He could not keep his eyes shut the entire time. Not when sight afforded him a better view than his imagination could conjure. Dwarves were not built to the designs of elves and men; that was certain. Every part of them radiated sturdy strength and power effortlessly. 

The steam that rose from each dip into the water hissed and bubbled. His eyes saw through the steam. It silhouetted Gimli in a moment of strength and composure he rarely got to see. He held himself with pride. Sometimes it was oil that he would dip the tool into, causing fire to burst around him, heating the entire forge enough to make Legolas need to lean back. They were little more than a nuisance to Gimli, who bore the tongue of flame as if it were an annoyance. 

He had seen a touch of that power in the dwarves that reclaimed the Lonely Mountain. He knew little of Dain Ironfoot as the dwarves were content to keep to themselves and their Dalish allies, but if some of the regal prowess he saw in Thorin Oakenshield was still present in the world, he was certain it could be found working in a forge at the gates of Minas Tirith. 

“Here is the first piece done.” Gimli put a hand rake in his hand and, in doing so, spread soot over his palm and wrist. “I’ll get you a rag for that,” he said apologetically. 

Legolas reached out to stop him, grabbing his hand and only adding to the soot on it. “The soot doesn't bother me. If I tarry in a forge, what else can I expect?” 

He got a chuckle from his dwarf at that. Gimli squeezed his hand, his thumb swiping over his knuckles absentmindedly. His hand was not bigger, only longer and more fragile-looking in comparison. He was being touched like glass. Gimli broke away from him to scrub his hands and brought him a cloth, taking his hand once again.

“What would your elven fellows think of you dirtying yourself here? Words are like whips, and I would not be able to stand by the slander against you. You do us both a favor by not being touched by it.” Gimli pulled his hand forward and wiped it down. When he was done, he returned to his smithing. 

Boredom was far from his mind as he continued to observe. The dwarf renewed his humming and stayed focused on his task. Legolas pressed his legs together and felt the heat of the forge spread all over his body. What did it matter what the rest of his kin or Eldamar itself said when they were diminished so. Reputation is a poor solace when the price is affection. 

“There you are.” Gimli finished the last of the tools. It was well into the afternoon now, and a breeze had picked up. The dwarf wiped his face with a towel and ran his fingers through his beard. His tunic clung to his damp chest, outlining his stocky frame. All the tools he made looked remarkable. Sturdy enough that they would certainly outlast their reason for making. “Take what you can now. I’ll get a cart to send the rest.” 

“These tools will be the envy of those who use them, though they may be loath to admit it.” Legolas picked one of the tools up and turned it in his hand. The words that Aerin so callously spoke before he came still sat in his blood, heating up every time he thought too hard on it. If he had told Gimli what she said, would he still have gone out of his way to make such splendid work? 

“Let them loathe,” Gimli said tersely. “I did not make them for their hands. You can not see the vision for this city realized without the tools to do so. I will not rob this city of your passion to settle age-old squabbles.”  

“Then my lament will be that I have to share your good work with those who could never truly appreciate it but will benefit nonetheless.” Legolas ran his finger down the hilt of a trowel and placed it back down. He gathered the tools Gimli had set aside for him and paused only long enough to gather the courage to grab the dwarf's hand. “I will come visit you again when I can. Do not be a stranger; even dwarves with all your stamina need rest.”  

He walked back to the gardens with soot staining his hand. Charcoal was very good for gardens, if anyone asked.  

He didn’t hear from Gimli for several days, though he saw him from afar and was content with that at least until the day he looked down the city and found a different dwarf had taken up the work of a smith. His mood soured, and the dirt felt gritty and warm in his hands. 

“Prince Legolas!” One of the elven runners stopped at the entrance to the garden. “A package has been sent for you!” The young elf held something wrapped in dark blue cloth. 

He was quick to receive it and stepped aside. Impatient hands still speckled with dirt pulled at the binding. A set of gardening tools was revealed to him. Their make was well beyond that which he had brought back for the others. 

The steel swirled and pooled as if ocean waves had crashed upon it, and sea foam gathered along its edges. He ran his hand down it, expecting it to feel coarse or jagged, but it was completely smooth. His finger met the handle, and he held it in his open palm. It was made of beech wood. How his dwarf had managed to procure the wood that dominated the forests of Eryn Lasgalen was beyond him, for it didn’t grow in this region of the world. The wood was patterned to resemble long diamonds. At the top, where the tang met the wood, and at the very bottom, red gems he suspected were rubies were held by gilded steel. 

Beautiful and elegant was its make, and all the other tools in the set were made with the same attention to detail. He held one in his hand as a warrior held a sword. They fit the size of his hands down to the divet in his palm. It caressed and corrected all the places a normal tool would have pained him as it chafed against the callouses made by the centuries of using a bow.

He was known in that moment more deeply and intimately than ever he could remember being known. He wrapped the tools again in their cloth, nearly unwilling to use them for fear of tainting the gift. As he did, a note came loose. 

          You need not share my work with any, for this would not feel right in the hands of others. It is made for the one most deserving of it. Do not dishonor it by turning it into a mathom. 

He hopped along the low garden wall and walked it like a cat to get to the roughest area of what would be a victory garden like no other. Sinking to his knees, he gripped his new tool and unvirgined it in the hard soil. As if Kementári herself were wielding it, the earth obeyed.

He looked up from where he knelt, over the wall at the forge, and saw the flash of red hair he had missed that morning. He could not see him, and he knew it, but he looked in his direction with a soft smile. 

“I heard they arrived together.” 

“A dwarf and an elf? Where’d you go hearing that nonsense?” 

“The other dwarves were talking about it. The dwarf leader, the bloke with the big red beard, is one of the heroes of Gondor, the same as the elf. They walk together every day. I’ve seen it with my own eyes!” 

“That explains it, then don’t it? They’ve fought together. They’s brothers in arms and all that.” 

---

Gimli propped his feet up on the table as the elves gave their report to the king. Mannish chairs were all too tall. His legs dangled off the edge and cut off the blood flow to his feet. He had already given his report. The gate was nowhere near done yet, but they had amassed all the materials needed to make it.  

The elves had decided to work from the top levels down and were done with the first few levels. The smaller two levels he helped clarify with amusement as he sucked on a pipe. It earned him a withering look from his elf, but it was too good a moment to pass on. 

The king's hall was decorated in memorial with the old standard of kings flying and the throne of the stewards wreathed in flowers. The anniversary of the battle was close at hand. He traveled with the king of men for over a year. That proximity meant he could tell that, while the meeting was important, something else filled Aragorn's mind. He was just waiting for a reason to say it. 

“The flowers are perennial and will slowly-” The elf was cut off by the loud tapping of his pipe into the solid metal dish on the arm of his chair. 

“Apologies, I didn’t realize that the update came with a botany lesson. I would have spent more time speaking about the quality of the granite.” Gimli puffed, his beard hiding most of his smirk. The elf who had been speaking scowled at him, but a few of the others seemed reluctantly relieved. Long thin fingers slid over his arm that rested out of sight, squeezing once, then letting go. 

“It’s quite alright, Gimli,” Aragorn said, standing. “I will confess to being eager to speak about something of my own with you all here. The people of Minas Tirith have spoken of little else than your coming. I think that on the twentieth year since the tragedy of the Pelennor Fields, we would do well to honor the lives lost by celebrating the life they gave us in their sacrifice.” 

“You want to hold a party.” Gimli chuckled. Dwarves had no issue having a party for any reason. Battles were as good as any, and the dead could be honored through joy as well as grief.

“I want to hold a celebration while we have allies within our walls to remind us who added us in our time of need.” Aragorn clarified. Twenty years made a politician out of him. 

“I don’t remember being told that more than one dwarf fought in the battle.” The elf who had been speaking of flowers before said as he drank. Legolas moved to stand and reprimand him, but Gimli brought his hand to his shoulder. 

The familiar gesture was noted with many eyes, and he removed his hand as subtly as he could without making it seem obvious. Tried not to let his affections get the better of him in front of Legolas' kin. Dwarves were much freer with their affections than Elves, who seemed to touch only when necessary. Legolas had explained it once while in Lothlorien. The nature of elven marriages and the combining of souls. It was more personal to touch than when men or dwarves did the same. It never stopped Legolas from showing friendly physical affection to him, but other elves were not as open. 

“Perhaps you remember the second wave of Easterlings with bone necklaces riding horseback that charged into the bulk of the vanguard and wiped out the remains of Gondor's forces?” Gimli said, clearly looking for a real answer. 

“I was not at the battle, but I don't recall that happening.” The elf said, cowed. 

“That would be because while your people made the march of Dol Guldur, my people rode out against a siege of those very forces and ran the River Running red with their blood!” Gimli’s voice rose not to a shout but to a volume that ended any possible argument. Other elves looked at their companion with pity. Legolas looked at him with contempt. 

“Enough of this,” Aragorn said, pinging his forehead. “In one week's time, I will empty the great chamber of Gondor and invite the people of this city to celebrate and mourn. So long as old grudges do not persist, I hope all your people will be there.”  

“Dwarves don’t miss a party,” Gimli confirmed.

“Neither do elves when we can help it,” Legolas added.  

A week passed swiftly. He was not needed at the forge as often now that the work on the gate had halted in favor of moving building materials to the parts of the walls that needed mending and towers rebuilt. He chose work that put Legolas in his sight. 

Galadriel, for all her beauty and grace, was like marveling at a statue. Proud and cold. All the warmth within it is what you give it yourself. Legolas was beautiful in the way that water cuts through stone is beautiful. The way gems form in rock is beautiful. Beauty built through pressure and the slow cutting of time. A smile crafted in purposeful song and shined with the warmth of a being born under the sun.  

He averted his eyes when he saw Legolas sit up on his knees to stretch. There was no way to look upon such a fair form showing itself off without thoughts that felt unwelcome to the relationship they had. Such thoughts were for his night hours, when he thought about the beautiful noises he could draw out of him were he under his hands and body. 

He had little to wear save the armor that he polished the night before. He spent the night braiding his hair back away from his face and straightening the ones in his beard. He had good hair oil with him, and they made the beads that held the ends shine. 

Humans, or at the very least Dúnedain kings, knew how to throw a proper celebration. The hall was unrecognizable with tables lining the sides. Human ale and elvish wine. Half a barnyard was slaughtered, and a wheat field leveled for the rest as roasted meats and sweet pastries that would fill the city's belly. 

The king in question stood at the head of the hall, watching from his throne with a goblet in his hands and his finest robes. He tapped his foot to the orchestra playing. Beside him was Gimli’s sun, dressed in elven greens and golds with a circlet of twigs in his hair. 

His tunic had a high neck embroidered with the Greenwood emblem. It was free-flowing and cinched at the waist with a soft sash. He still wore his armored shoulders and a cloak he was sure hid at least one knife strapped to his back. He was in deep conversation, but broke from it with a smile as he approached. 

“Finally, he arrives!” Legolas teased, looking him over. 

“I had little to wear to such an event.” Gimli shied away from elven eyes and found an unattended cup of ale to wash down his nerves. The orchestra changed the tune to dance music, and the room grew loud as people jostled to find a partner and take their place. 

“You missed little other than a boring speech,” Aragorn laughed a little further into his spirits than the rest. “And you look well.” 

“Human ale taking your senses already?” Gimli downed the rest of his cup and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Ha! This stuff is weaker than what we give pebbles.” 

“It’s not ale he drinks; it's elvish wine.” Legolas took a sip from his glass and put it in Gimli’s hands. He regarded it with distaste but could still see the fog on the inside where Legolas' breath had touched it, so he drank it anyway. The sip left him blinking as he struggled not to cough. It was much stronger than the ale, stronger than some dwarven spirits he had had, not that he would ever admit it.

“The stories my father tells of how the Burglar of Thorin’s company managed to steal the keys from under the nose of guards make sense if the guards were passed out after drinking this.” Gimli took another sip and hissed. “You’ll have people sleeping in your halls tonight.” 

The solitude of the three hunters didn’t last long as diplomats and common folk alike asked to pay their respects to their king. He thought to ask Legolas to step aside with him to get air before the elves came to do the same, but he was late in asking. 

His people were scattered among the crowd and grouped around tables with ale stacking up like a game. They primarily kept to themselves. He had something to say about how singular dwarves had become over the decades. Suspicion not without reason but distant nonetheless. They looked at him and waved their tankards. 

A good many of these humans would never meet a dwarf again. If this was to be their last audience, then he had best give them a taste of Dwarven celebration while he could. He raised his cup too and took to the revelry. 

He paid only half attention to every conversation he was a part of after Gimli left his side. He was dressed in reds that suited his hair and moved with free motion despite the weight of his armor. He would never confess to having tried to lift his axe to wield it and almost swung it into a wall. He knew Gimli was strong, but that put things into perspective. 

The music playing was heavy and thunderous instead of musical. The dwarves' boots met the ground at the stomp of the beat in a powerful display. When the song ended, the humans clapped and cheered, some mimicking the dance as if to join in. 

Gimli had his arm wrapped around another dwarf as he laughed uproariously, drinking from any mug he was handed. Lines of age and good cheer spread from his eyes and around his mouth. Lines that would never appear on his features, no matter how the years passed. 

He had seen what mortality did to those immune to it. He feared it in a selfish and rotten way; he kept his attachments to it at arm's reach. Water breaks along rock the same way that affection breaks upon the heart. It seeps into the smallest cracks, sundering resolve.

The only other person who could speak to that impending pain was currently in Lothlorien. Like her grandmother, Arwen saw much, and her eyes had held pity when she looked at them. 

“I thought you liked dancing?” Gimli’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts and into the present. 

“I don't remember saying anything to the contrary,” Legolas replied, seeing now that the song had changed and many of his kin had joined the festivities properly. “Unless you’re asking to dance?” 

Gimili’s cheeks went as red as his hair. He looked back at the dance floor. “I don't know the first thing about elven dancing. Too much floating about for my feet. Dwarven dancing reminds us that the earth is still under our feet. Elves dance like you’re barely standing on it at all.”  

“This is a human dance, so I think we can find some common ground,” Legolas laughed. “Unless you would prefer I make a fool of myself dancing alone?” 

“I would not have that, but I won't apologize for stepping on toes if I’m being coerced.” Gimli offered his hand to lead them down. 

“Then you lead, and I will follow and keep from under your boots.” Legolas laughed and took his hand. He was swept into the crowd of bodies and held tight as they weaved through the crowd. Their height was less of a factor than he worried it would be. Human dances seemed to worry less about the moves themselves and more about the way they felt. They were not the only mismatched pair, as other dwarves danced with humans, both races down the bottle without a care in the world. 

“The tools you made have rarely left my side since you had them delivered. They’ve gotten good use.” Legolas said, raising his hand to spin around the couple next to them. 

“They’ve treated you well and aided your craft?” Gimli had his hand on his back, bracing him through their movements, and they came back to each other. Their other hand was clasped together, allowing Gimli to decide where they went. He pondered the merits of changing their position or even just trading their clasped hands for threading their fingers together. 

“I’ve not used better tools,” Legolas praised. With a hammering heart, he threaded their fingers together before the next leg of the dance. His dwarf's hands tightened on his back at the gesture, and in a moment of doubt, he relaxed his grip. Gimli closed his fingers around his, stopping them from unthreading. He sank in relief. “How did you get the wood for them? I’ve not seen a beech tree since I left my woods.” 

He didn’t receive an answer right away. The dance demanded he let go of Gimli’s hand. He returned to a dancing partner who was not his dwarf at all. It was one of his companions. This part of the dance was brief, and he watched in anger as Gimli performed the steps alone in front of him. 

“My Prince, I thought I would check on you to see if you would like to join another conversation,” Emenel whispered under his breath. 

“I have had enough of talks today,” Legolas replied, taking the controlling role of the dance so it was easier to step away. When he returned to Gimli, he threaded their fingers immediately. 

“Am I keeping too much of your time?” Gimli asked. 

“Yes, and I would prefer you continue to keep it,” Legolas answered, falling in step and barely watching where his feet landed and trusting Gimli would lead him well. His eyes were watching to see that Emenel had gone. 

“I found a felled tree on the edge of the greenwood while we traveled from Erebor before we met you on the road. Most of the wood we used for the fire, but part of it I saved. I had a mind for its uses.” Gimli tucked his chin and made some pitying noise. “Ah, tell me if it was an unwelcome gesture and I can change the handle to something else you would like better.” 

“There is no finer wood!” Legolas nearly shouted, his outburst lost to the chorus of other voices. “Not even the oak favored by the dwarves. Not to me.” He pressed closer and leaned down to look him in the eyes when he said it. He was always happy to see they glinted with fondness. He loved looking at them so. As brown as the soil he loved so much. He could see his own reflection in them and wondered what Gimli truly saw when he looked at him. 

“Will my lord prince grant me the favor of the next dance?” Variel inclined himself in a courtly bow, one hand extended in invitation.

Legolas did not so much as glance at the offered hand. “No,” he said, his voice cool and unyielding. “I have already given my word.”

“I see that. I thought perhaps you would like to do an elven dance,” Variel pressed. “Something to remind you of home.” 

They thought they were doing him a favor. Saving him from a dance he couldn't politely refuse. “I will not forget my home in the span of a few songs,” Legolas said, biting the ends of his words. 

Variel left with a small bow. He wished they were not in a crowd and he could rest his head atop Gimli’s and give in to his frustrations. Word had spread about his traveling with Gimli. He had been made an elf friend by Elrond, but Noldorian elves were not the same as the Sindar, and while the title was observed by all in ceremony, the grudges of the elves ran deep. 

Perhaps if he had not dallyed so long before leaving his side after the battle and had gone home right away, then less suspicion would have been put on their friendship. Perhaps if it had not been known that he had walked Gimli almost to the gates of Erebor before turning away. 

“One friendship wasn't going to overcome centuries of distrust,” Gimli said, with nothing but care in his voice.  

He squeezed their fingers together before untangling them and returning them to a clasp once again. The dance demanded they hold their hands high, and a few unbothered humans had to duck to get under them, but he dared not let go. 

“They’ve spent too long in my father's courts.” Legolas trusted his weight to Gimli’s hands, who lifted him effortlessly. When his feet were back on the ground, his dwarf was not looking at him but instead behind him. He turned his head slightly and saw another of his company making their way to him. 

“Aye, and with him gone across the sea, it seems they want your attention. I shouldn't be greedy with your time even if I wish it.” Gimli finished the dance with a bow. “We can speak later. Without so many eyes.” 

He slipped through his fingers like sand and made his way out of the crowd towards the ale and his people. The next dance was elven, and he suffered it with grace before deciding that he was done with it for now.  

He sought Gimli out immediately, uninterested in the festivities now and wishing only for quiet and the comfort of his presence. He didn’t see him in the hall nor beside Aragorn. He made for the doors, wondering if he took to the night air. 

“I think he must be craft wed!” 

Legolas slowed as he passed the conversation, curious about who they were speaking about. 

“You think so? I suppose that's a fair assumption given how many Lord Gimli has turned down. I can't think of anyone more eligible in all the dwarven realms.” The dwarf said, looking down his dry tankard as if it would refill itself. 

“Mahal was cruel to make someone so fine a feature so unwilling to entertain anyone.” The other dwarf lamented. 

“You're both wrong.” A third voice made the others, and Legolas turned his head. He had stopped walking as soon as he heard Gimli’s name. “I heard he had someone.”  

“What makes you say that?” One of the dwarves asked.  

“My cousin tried to give him a courting gift, and he turned her down. Said it wasn't fair to accept something when his affection lay elsewhere.” The dwarf shrugged, putting fresh tankards on the table. 

“Well, who are they? Someone from the Blue Mountains, maybe? If they were in Erebor, people would have taken notice.” The dwarf who had been lamenting his dry drink took up another one and drank deeply. 

“He's not going around and making that information public. I imagine that, given how many offers he gets, he wants to keep them secret during the courting process. Keeps away prying eyes.”  

Legolas sprinted away out of the doors and onto the long parapet, greeting the sun like an old friend, though it did nothing to warm his face. He had wavered in his ambitions, and because of that, the fear he had tried to make peace with for so long might be true. Gimli was a sought-after dwarf who likely wanted to spend the twilight of his life with someone who could do so with him. 

They sent so many letters to each other over the years. Never did he mention that he had anyone special in his life. Did he hide them even from someone he called a dear friend? He was clever, and perhaps he had not been so covert in his affections, and Gimli wished to spare him. More the pity. 

Was he so afraid of the sting of mortality that he would deny himself the joy of having known him, all because he feared the impending loss? Were a few hundred years of joy worth an eternity of sorrow? 

“Something weighs on your mind, dear friend?” The crisp Noldorian-accented Elvish didn't make him turn, for there was only one person who spoke that way within these walls. 

“You abandon your own festivities, Elessar?” Legolas replied in kind. 

“My people will not want for their King while they enjoy their revelry. You, however, look as if the world has landed on your shoulder. What do you ponder so gravely?” Aragorn asked, joining him in overlooking the kingdom. 

“You're close to the truth of it when you ask if I ponder gravely. I ponder the grave but not my own.” Legolas stood like a statue, sweeping his eyes over the landscape   

“If we're going to talk of the doom of man, then let us do it in the comfort of privacy and with a nicer drink than quick ale.” Aragorn cocked his head in the direction of the palace proper and waited for him to follow. 

Setting his crown on the table in his room, Aragorn brought out glasses and a dark bottle. The small amount of amber liquid was potent and went down like fire, but he didn't feel better for it. 

“I realize it’s Arwen, and not I, that you would do better to speak with,” Aragorn said, taking a sip with a hiss. “I would be lying if I said that we had not spoken of this before. She will outlive me even in her newfound mortality.” 

“I have no such solace…I will outlive my love to be parted until the remaking of the world if the old tales hold true.” Legolas put the drink down and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling one leg up to his chin. 

“Some say dwarves do not die as men but return to their creator in Aman,” Aragorn said, smiling knowingly and patting the top of his knee.  “You will not be so far from him as you think.” 

Legolas felt the hairs rise on his neck and panic nip at the tips of his fingers. “You assume I speak of a dwarf?” 

Aragorn barely contained himself for a moment before bursting out laughing. “Please do not think that all this time I have been a blind fool! Or lest you thought your shy smiles and lingering touches were subtle to someone who was confined with you.” 

Legolas pinched his eyes shut and groaned, falling backward onto the bed with a hand over his eyes. “I fear that it’s becoming harder to keep my affections known from my kin as well. They would not approve, and I don't need them to.” 

“Then why bring the question of mortality to task at all if your heart and mind are already set?” Aragorn asked. 

“I had a friend once. Someone I loved as a sister who fell in love with a dwarf. He died tragically in war, and she was not able to cope with the loss. She chased her end until she found it.” Legolas saw flashes of her red hair dance in his vision. Was she carried to Aman to rest in the halls of Mandos, or did she choose to be re-embodied? 

None of his people had ever seen the white shores and come back to speak of them. Sindarin elves have ever dwelt in Middle-earth, and part of him thought they always would. Tauriel had looked peaceful when she passed. Smiling even after slain on the steps of Dol Guldur, or so his father said. She clutched the smooth stone Kili had given her on the river in one hand and her knife in the other. 

“Tell me, Legolas.” Aragorn fell back onto the bed beside him, staring up at the canopy. “If you decided not to pursue things any further, would that change anything? Would you be less torn apart by his passing?” 

The question demanded no answer. He would speak it not, but knew whatever threshold there was to his pain was passed long ago. A decision that he had little hand in making and regretted not. For all that he was, he walked side by side with a dwarf of all beings. 

“I don't know the customs of dwarves, but they are a forward people. Do not spend your time regretting your indecisiveness.” Aragorn said, eyes closed and a self-assured expression on his greying cheeks. 

“You’re a wise and benevolent king,” Legolas said, springing from the bed and using the post to land on his feet. “I need to visit the river.”

Aragorn gave him a peculiar stare, but didn't ask anything further. “Strider gave that advice, not Elessar. The same Strider that prayed to the Valar that you two would just sha-” he didn’t complete the sentence as a pillow landed on his face.

Legolas was already in the clear air when he heard “Have a nice wedding,” muttered through laughter. 

Gimli had no interest in lingering to watch Legolas dance with others. He found his exit. The fresh air was nice on his warm skin. Before traveling with the fellowship, he had never paid much mind to a breeze or the color of the night sky. He had to admit that it was a nice thing to have, and he pitied dwarves who never left the mountain to see it. 

Dwalin would join him on the battlements of Erebor from time to time after he returned home. The dwarf was not known for his words, but he knew they were there for the same reason. Different but similar memories. 

What right did he have to want Legolas so much? He could offer little other than a shorter life and scorn from dwarves and elves who were both so stuck in their ways that nothing in this twilight age could break them from it. If he went by the elves' telling, then he was a covetous creature by nature, but his vice was no jewel or crown but a person. It was in his nature to want what he could not have. He gave up the notion of fighting the feeling many years ago. 

He pressed his hand to his chest. It was the same one that they had intertwined. Small precious moments, and he would hoard them in his mind like a dragon does gold. His thoughts brought him to the garden that Legolas had stopped at when they first arrived. It was yet untouched.

He had said this garden was loved, and in the midst of their pedantic conversation, he had not had time to truly look at it. The crumbling stone arch had held under heavy siege. He stepped under it and onto the packed soil that was growing little more than weeds. The entire garden was lined with stone. 

This garden was loved just as Legolas had said. More than one hand had a part in its making unless the gardener was also a mason. The stone was well selected. He ran his hand over the etching and patterns chiseled into the sides. Some of the stones had cuts in them that he had thought were just holes made by war, but as he got closer, he saw that ivy had hidden sections from him, and they were places to rest. The work had practicality. Places that held tools and made the gardeners' work easier. 

Gimli sat on the bench, not bothering to clear the covering away. It reminded him of Yavanna and Mahal. Whoever loved this garden was loved in return. Were Yavanna’s gardens lined in such a way as to make her work easier? 

He laughed hopelessly. He was his creator's creation, truly, if that were the case. He couldn't stand that Legolas had to share his tools, that he didn't have the best he could make. A fool in love, his father would call him. Then, likely curse him in the same breath when he realized who it was he spoke of. 

He decided to forgo the rest of the party and head to his rooms to while away his time and wait for Legolas to return. 

He didn’t expect to see the king's door cracked and was more surprised to hear elvish whispers. Bracing a hand on the wall, he looked through the gap made behind the door by the hinges. An icy prickle danced over his heart. Legolas looked forlorn, one leg tucked up to his chin with Aragorn's hand resting upon it. 

Good sense told him there was no reason to see their closeness and fear what it was. Somewhere between the ale and the persistent interruptions to their dance, good sense abandoned him. 

Legolas fell back onto the pillows, still speaking, and Aragorn was not far behind. With tears of frustration in his eyes, he went to his room and tried to steel his temper. He had never been known for one, but he felt it burn in his throat like bile. 

The door down the hall shut. It was too quick after he left for anything of substance to have happened, but like a stomped-on fire, smoke still rose from him, threatening to ignite the first flammable thing it could find. 

He waited outside his door, leaning against it and sharpening his axe so his hands had something to do. His blade was gleaming and sharp enough to cut the air around it when Aragorn left his rooms, humming to himself. 

He started when he turned around and furrowed his brow before his face contorted into an absurd smile. 

“Oh, for the love of-” Aragorn started, holding his hands up as Gimli stood to rest on his axe, blade out. 

“One elf not good enough for ye? Had to have your pick while your wife’s away?” Gimli said, flames licking at green branches. 

“Oh, the Valar knew well what they were doing when they created the two of you. Why they sought to throw me into the fray, I will ask before I depart from Mandos’ halls.” Aragorn’s face softened. “I have no wish to take your elf from you, and I would not put you in the path of Arwen should she be the one holding a weapon.”

“Yet I saw with my own eyes the casual nature of your affection in your own bed,” Gimli growled, his chest still tight and clinging to his smoldering sadness. 

“Tales tell of the stubbornness of dwarves. Go dunk your hot head in the river, and you might find something better that cools it.” Aragorn continued on his path, saying something to himself in Elvish. 

Gimli stewed in his anger, but with little else to do and no sign of Legolas, he did eventually make for the river. The walk did help cool some of his ire. 

The river ran through Osgiliath, which still stood in ruins. One day her banners might fly again, but he could practically see straight through the city now. It took him hours to cross the wide field. One could almost mistake it for rolling fields, but if he looked closely, he could see where the grass and mosses had covered chunks of Minas Tirith’s walls that were shot from trebuchets. The path of their destruction was not entirely erased. Vibrant green grasses watered by the sacrifices of too many. 

Legolas had ridden to the river. His horse grazed on the long grass, ambivalent to his approach. He thought it might be hard to find Legolas in the long stretch of the river through the city, but a frantic clacking brought him right to where he sat. 

Legolas was sitting on a boulder being lapped at by the current. A small, smooth rock in one hand and a sharper rock in the other. He was bent over double, his long hair cascading over his shoulder to be periodically swept back. Little distressing noises accompanied every strike of stone. Whatever he was attempting was not working, and it only managed to scratch up the surface of the smoother rock. The anger he had carried from the gates of Minas Tirith melted away at the sight of him.    

“You’re hurting your hands,” Gimli sighed as he approached. He could see from where he stood that the jagged rock was digging cuts into his palm.  

Legolas looked fairer and younger than he had ever seen him. Caught red-handed in more ways than one, he scrambled to get up and turn around. In doing so, he dropped the jagged rock into the river and closed his fist over his wounds. They betrayed him as small droplets of red disturbed the lakeshore. 

“Dwarves always make carving into stone seem so easy,” Legolas said, not meeting his eyes. 

“Aye, and you make leaping onto high ledges look easy, but I don’t try it knowing I have not the skill,” Gimli replied amusedly, unable to keep concern from his voice for all he tried. 

As gently as he could, he backed Legolas up until his legs hit the boulder, forcing him to sit. He knelt and took his hand from where he curled it against his chest. Slowly he unfurled his fingers one by one until it rested open, cradled by his hand. 

“I will be fine. I’ve gotten worse from bows,” Legolas reasoned. 

“I know you have. That doesn't make me enjoy the look of them any more.” Gimli pressed his hand into the water. The redness faded as the current soothed the ache. He had a better look at the area. Discarded rocks, some broken, others scratched, like the one he had been holding. 

“You’re attempting something beyond your skill.” He curled their fingers together and ran his other hand down his arm. “Why not come to me for this task? I would not have turned you away. Has someone made you feel as if you need to do this?”

“Yes, but you can’t call the ravages of time to task, and even your axe is not mighty enough to sever the strings of immortality.” Legolas hung his head, his hair falling over his shoulder. “Stone reminds me of you. I need…I want something to remind me of you when...” He sucked in the hair around him, frustrated with his own words. “I’m going to be alive forever, Gimli. Forever has never seemed a daunting thought until recently. I wanted a memory.” He tapped his fingers on the boulder, the tips of his ears turning red. He turned his face fully from him. 

They were alone with only the sounds of the river and none of his kin to scrutinize his actions. He tucked some of Legolas’ hair back behind his pointed ear and tilted his chin up until their eyes met. He was still kneeling below him; the leg of his pants seeped through with water. 

There was no moment of revelation. Just the soft click of the last piece of his soul settling into his chest. From the moment he met him, it had begged to be a little closer. It was like seeing the markers of home after a long time away. How he had ever doubted it wasn’t mutual was a mystery to him now, but that made the look of anguish in Legolas' face worse. Loving him was painful. It was hurting him. 

“Your immortality is already a gift to some. It means that all things will be achievable in your long lifetime, even carving river rocks, should you pursue it.” Gimli smiled, but his sun did not. Tears gathered on his long lashes. He wiped the first one away with his thumb before it could form. “I can teach you.” 

“Not everything can be achieved in a long life. Or rather, many things can be lost.” Legolas breathed shakily. 

“Elves.” Gimli laughed. “Always speaking in riddles.” 

“Why have you never wed?” Legolas' question startled him, and he pulled back his hand as if someone caught him moments from theft. “Your people find you beautiful and desirable. You could have anyone you laid eyes on.” 

“I have found no one so desirable among my people as I have the sun. H-It comforts me, and so I will stay in its warmth for as long as I am able.” Gimli picked up the rock that Legolas had tried to reach for and smoothed his thumb over it. “What did you wish to carve in this?”

“A promise,” Legolas replied, his face so close that the ghost of his breath was the beginning of his next inhale. “I saw another dwarf give one away. He said it was for luck, but he gave it as a token of…affection. Elves don’t have such rituals.” 

“I will accept no promise from you that will bear you hardship for eternity, no matter how much I wish it.” Gimli felt his heart cry in his chest and pound at the cage where he kept it. He had felt stab wounds less painful than what it’s begging wrought. 

“Then you give me hardship anyway and the knowledge that my chance at happiness is held in imagination only with no memories to look back upon,” Legolas said, his tone close to pleading as his long fingers pressed upon his arm. “I have decided that I would rather know you and lose you than wonder for eternity what knowing you might have felt like.” 

There was no being in Middle-earth that could resist a pull so strong as hearing your love need you. Gimli sat up on his knees and threaded his fingers through Legolas' golden strands, slow at first, letting him pull away if his hopeless heart had read things wrong.

“I would bring you only the comfort you have brought me,” Gimli whispered.  

Their lips met, and arms came around him, holding him close as they shared in the first of many moments. Legolas melted into him, and feeling his trust, he lifted him with ease, carrying him to more comfortable ground where he could press him upon the moss and hear the pretty noises that left him as they enjoyed their newfound freedom. 

But as wonderful as exploring him was and would be, just looking upon him without the need to ever look away brought wonder to his heart. He ran his knuckles along his rosied cheek and down his jaw 

“Then I will be at your side until the very last of my breath and beyond. Even if I have to fight my maker and yours to do it,” Gimli whispered.  

“Then we’ll go to the steps of the Valar when it’s time and do so together, even if I must take my own ship and smuggle you within the borders of Aman,” Legolas replied, placing his hand over his and pressing into it.

Gimli kissed his sun once more, “To the ends of this world we go then, together.”