Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Watch it, you blubbering idiot!”

“Sorry!”

“Next time you pull something like that I’ll have ya fer breakfast!” Gimli’s face was as red as his beard as Legolas stalked up behind him. A pile of white stone lay unceremoniously in a smashed pile of rubble near Gimli’s feet at the foot of the watchtower. A dwarf who stood on the top of the half-built structure looked down guiltily, thoroughly admonished.

“Everything alright, Master Builder?” Legolas teased in greeting, drawing Gimli’s attention. He subtly gave his friend a once over to make sure he was uninjured, but clearly Gimli’s rage came from no ailment aside from exhaustion.

“Everything would be just fine, Master-Sit-On-Your-Arse-All-Day,” Gimli snapped back, “if my so-called skilled builders and stonesmiths would refrain from trying to crush us all!”

Legolas smiled, unwavered by his friend’s anger. “Gimli, mellon nin,” he said, his voice low and smooth as it often was, “it is nearly sunset and you’ve been already been up a full night. Come with me, eat, drink, make merry, and sleep.”

Gimli huffed and crossed his arms. “We need to make more progress than this before dusk, or I will lose all my laze-about workers to the siren call of sleep.”

“Allow me to emphasize the call then, Gimli, if only for you as well as them.” Legolas cleared his throat and turned his gaze around and upward. “By orders of the King Elessar, you are all dismissed for the evening, and invited for dinner at His Majesty’s own dining hall! Please, bring your spouses and children! Let us celebrate how far you have brought Minas Tirith since its tragedies!”

This declaration earned some whoops and relieved sighs. Gimli only glared, but said nothing as his workers abandoned their posts and began to run through the streets to their homes, some trudging with stiff muscles, but happy nevertheless.

“Congratulations, Legolas, you have now set me behind a whole evenin’s worth of work!” Gimli chastised. “They can eat a fancy meal when we’ve fixed up the city good and proper!”

“Or, they may dine lavishly as incentive to continue,” Legolas said, his voice slightly pointed.

“Oi! What are you sayin’, Elf?!”

“Perhaps, dear friend, you do both your workers and yourself a discredit,” Legolas said calmly as he began to stroll up the street, Gimli angrily stomping at his side. “Aragorn is much pleased with your progress, especially since it was offered kindly. But these dwarves are not simply hired labor, they are esteemed guests for the work you do, and Aragorn would see them rewarded. Does their work not fit your high standards, Gimli? You are the one who wrote to them, requested them, and inspired them.”

At this, Gimli cooled. “Aye, laddie, you’re right. And you know how much I hate admittin’ to that. They are great workers, truly the finest dwarves in the land.”

“Even Bulegur?”

“You mean that dratted ninnyhammer who nearly crushed us all with a rock?”

“That would be the one.”

“I suppose even him.”

Legolas grinned to himself, happy to have lifted Gimli’s spirits. Fewer things made his day quite as nice as Gimli’s good moods.

“I do not sit around all day,” Legolas added.

“Pardon?”

“Earlier. Your insult. If you are going to spar words with me, then at least make your barbs accurate. I do not sit all day.”

“I believe I said you sit on your arse all day, Elf.”

~

Gimli was admittedly distracted during the dinner. He sat nearest the head of the table, where he usually did. At the head of the table sat Aragorn and Arwen, side by side. Legolas always sat on the side of the table in the seat nearest to Aragorn, and Gimli sat on the side nearest to Arwen. This placed the elf and dwarf across the table from one another, which often proved the best spot for bickering or sneakily throwing food at each other. Of course, for the king and queen practically in the middle of this, it was likely less appealing.

This evening, Gimli’s dwarven workers were joining them at Aragorn’s request, and the table was loud and lively, much to be expected with a bunch of dwarves. Even Bulegur joined in on the ruckus once he realized that Gimli was not paying attention.

Gimli’s head was in the clouds, or rather, in the rocks in the earth. After the War was won and the King Elessar on his throne, the only thing left to be done was to restore Gondor back to its former glory, and Gimli was eager to volunteer his services to the repair and improvement of Minas Tirith. He had become so engrossed in his goal that he sent for only the best dwarven builders, many old friends, who jumped at the opportunity. They were given housing and meals and a mighty sum for their service to the city. Gimli was the leader of this crew, but he had appointed his old friend Forsvari as his second, the only dwarrowdam in all of Middle Earth that he trusted wholly with the task of repairing Minas Tirith.

Gimli and Legolas both remained in the palace with Aragorn, each treated as equals to the king himself. After all the Three Hunters had been through together, there were very few formalities standing between them, but rather just a group of dedicated friends.

Gimli did not accept any pay from Aragorn for his own service. The work was rewarding enough, and he had little use for his friend’s money anyway, what with his own tidy sums and his current situation of free meals and lodging in the most lavish castle the dwarf had ever been in. While the halls could not stand against those of Erebor or even the whispered past of Khazad-dûm, he was contented among friends.

Legolas kept himself busy with service to Gondor as well. He flitted about, tending to the palace gardens, offering bow training to soldiers, and helping Aragorn with royal duties. Though Aragorn was born of kings, he was not well-versed. Arwen faired far better, but even her knowledge of the inner-workings of monarchy failed against her life of ladyship. Legolas was a prince, after all, and though the ways of men and elves were not entirely the same, he understood much and helped daily.

The ecosystem of Minas Tirith was moving so smoothly that Aragorn was persistently eased, but Gimli had been feeling more and more unrest. He had grown so used to the chaos of the chase, the hunt, and the battle. Now that he was meant to be wholly content… he was not. There was something else, something that tugged at him, making him uneasy.

That something was Legolas.

Gimli’s face reddened at the thought and he looked down firmly at his plate, the one he’d hardly touched. In the heat of battle, his budding friendship with the elf prince was surprising but welcome. In a short time, he’d come to trust Legolas more than anyone else, and the elf seemed to feel the same. They’d fought side by side, rode together and ran together. They grieved Aragorn’s supposed passing, waited for the orcs at Helm’s Deep, and survived the Battle of Pelennor Fields and the Battle of the Black Gate.

At the end of it all, there was silence. There was peace. And as he saw Legolas stroll the ruined gardens of Minas Tirith, a sadness within him as his fingers graced the burned tips of greenery, Gimli’s heart dropped to his feet. All the while, he had found his One. And finally, he wasn’t too distracted to pass it off as no more than a friendship. It had become far, far more.

Yet Gimli understood how odd it was that his One would be an elf, and though it weighed on his heart heavily, he knew that his feelings, his love, would never be returned. Legolas may perhaps love him, but as a contemporary, perhaps even as far as a brother. But the elf prince would never find in Gimli what Gimli had found in him. How could he? Gimli was nothing of the gracefulness of Legolas, he was nothing of the kind and gentle nature, or the tact and blithe cunning.

In comparison to his One, Gimli was bumbling and harsh, chiseled roughly of mountain stone that would only stand firm in the way of Legolas’ breeze-blown branches. Gimli was the loud thunder to Legolas’ gentle rain. The heavy axe to Legolas’ lithe bow. How could one born of the sky love the dark of a cave?

So Gimli had thrown himself into his work in Minas Tirith. With no battles to be won, he determined to distract himself by other means. In all truth, he might have just left Gondor altogether, returned to the dwarves, returned to his father and his home and his craft. But difficult as it was to understand his feelings for his dearest friend, he was needed and loved in Minas Tirith, and he was reluctant to pull himself away until he had to.

“Is everything alright tonight, Gimli?” A soft voice came at his side. Arwen smiled at him, concern in her eyes. Aragorn and Legolas were deep in conversation, and the dwarves at their table were continuously rowdy; no one had their eyes or ears on the dwarf lord and the queen.

“Aye, lass, I’m just anxious to return to my work. We’re nearly done with the watchtower, only a week or so until it’s the best watchtower in Middle Earth!”

Arwen laughed lightly, the sound of tinkling bells. “I’m not sure we need the absolute best watchtower in Middle Earth.”

“Well, you’re getting it,” Gimli grinned at her, but it wavered slightly when he saw that the concern in her eyes remained there.

“You will stay and sleep tonight, won’t you?”

“My Queen, you worry for naught,” he supplied. “My arms are yet strong and my hammers yet firm. My mind is yet sharp as mine own axe. I am in no dire straits, my fair Lady.”

“It is not your body or mind I fear will weaken, but rather your heart, Master Gimli,” she told him. “I sense sadness in you--sadness that my dear husband and even Legolas do not see.”

Gimli shifted uncomfortably, not pleased by his apparent transparency. “My Lady…” he trailed off, unsure.

Arwen put a hand over his, and smiled at him reassuringly. “Do not fret, Gimli, for I would have Aragorn and Legolas stew in this ignorance forever before I would voice my concerns to them. If there is in fact sadness in your heart, that is for you only to bear. And if it is a secret, then it is not mine to share, is it?”

Gimli looked at her gratefully. “You are truly a gemstone, my dear Arwen. For this, I would acknowledge that you see clearly, and do not deny what your sight reveals. My heart is saddened of late, that much is true, but do not dwell on your concern. My heart has been through far worse. It will mend with time.”

“If ever you need a listening ear, Gimli, you can come to me,” she told him earnestly. “I do have rather large ones,” she added with a conspiratorial wink, and Gimli’s resulting laugh was loud enough to finally draw the attention of Aragorn and Legolas.

“Now what are you two scheming about?” Aragorn teased, an eyebrow lifted.

“I was only telling the lovely lass how much better she is than her nomadic husband,” Gimli quipped as Arwen laughed once more.

“That much I cannot argue,” Aragorn said, clasping Arwen’s hand in his.

The merriment of the evening was then interrupted as the doors to the hall flew open, a harried-looking messenger breathing heavily, flanked by the head of Aragorn’s guard. The sight provoked an image so dire that Aragorn was immediate to his feet, and the dinner table silenced.

“What news?” Aragorn demanded.

“The messenger arrived only minutes ago,” Aragorn’s guard declared. “Tell the king what you told me,” he said to the messenger.

The young man was practically panting, clearly winded from his journey, but he stood with his back straight and projected his voice. “I bring urgent news from the King of the Mark, in Rohan.”

Aragorn exchanged a glance with both Gimli and Legolas upon hearing the title of their friend. “What news does Éomer send?”

“An army of orcs advances on Gondor. The Rohirrim chased them south along the Entwash, slaying several, yet their horses were unable to keep up pace with the orcs’ own wargs. The beasts carried their army out of sight and detection. The last course reported seemed to set them on a path over the river into Gondor, slightly east of Edoras.”

“So they are yet a distance from Minas Tirith,” Aragorn wondered aloud. “Tell me, messenger, did Éomer gage the size of this hoard?”

“Stronger than the Rohirrim, he said. Hundreds strong, in both orcs and their vile beasts.”

“This is ill news indeed,” Aragorn said gravely. “I have not the strength of an army after counting the fallen at the Battle of the Black Gate, and Minas Tirith has little defense. We must cut them off with what men we can spare. Tannum,” Aragorn directed his speech at his guard. “How many men are fit to depart on such a task?”

“Currently, we could nearly match a thousand. But with no clear understanding of the number of our enemy, I am at a loss as to whether that will be enough.”

“It must be,” Aragorn declared. “We have fought more with less. Let the fire of victory over Sauron heat our hearts and forge our swords, Tannum.”

Legolas and Gimli stood, nearly in unison. “If they do follow the path Éomer has said, we could send an army at dawn and we’d meet them in Erolas in only a week. They’d be far from the city, with the Druadan Forest separating Minas Tirith from their forces,” Legolas explained.

“Aye, he is right. Send a smaller scouting party ahead and we might be able to cut the head of the wee beasties in a week’s time,” Gimli suggested. “Fighting or not, scouts could gather the true number of those bastards. Let me lead it and we’ll see just how far east they can go with their blood coloring my beard!”

“And I with him,” Legolas said firmly, and they both nodded at one another, the fire of battle in their eyes.

“Tannum, gather what men you can, prepare them and bid them sleep through the night. Leave at midday tomorrow and travel in procession. I will lead the scouting party at dawn. Send to me ten good men before the sunrise.”

“Yes, my King,” Tannum bowed his head, and then he and the messenger left the room.

“Aragorn, are you sure you want to come with us?” Legolas asked. “This seems highly risky, even for us.”

“Why would I sit on my throne in wait while my two closest companions risk their lives for a land that is not their own?” Aragorn said in rebuttal. “We three have traveled far together, and shall travel further yet.”

“That’s the spirit laddie!” Gimli said heartily. “The Three Hunters return for one last hunt.”

“It never seems to be the last, does it?” Arwen asked with a sigh. Before Aragorn could open his mouth to speak, she continued. “I fear for you, my love, but I would not abide you to sit and fret by my side. I know you must go, dear Strider.” The nickname was both an admonishment and a compliment.

“Rest one last night together,” Gimli said kindly. “We will all need our strength for the journey.”

Legolas and Aragorn began to confer with one another, and Gimli spoke reassuringly to the dwarves present, giving Forsvari firm instruction to move all priority to the walls and defense structures of the city in case of failure.

As everyone began departing, Gimli too turned to leave, firmly engrossed in this new task and now finally able to easily return to his bed for a night of slumber. Legolas was by him in an instant.

The elf put a hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “Yours was a fine idea, mellon nin.”

“Are you ready for another count, Master Elf? I do believe it is time that I have another victory to lord over you.”

“You may dream of it, Gimli, but we shall see.” Legolas bowed to him mockingly, before turning to leave with a wicked grin on his face.

The dwarf realized that it was only himself and Arwen left in the dining hall. “I am sorry to borrow your husband once more, but I will do my best to return him in one piece.”

“I should hope so,” Arwen said mischievously. Her face soon turned somber. “Gimli nin, take caution. I do beg that your saddened heart not slow your feet or tire your arm.”

“I neither slow nor tire, my Lady. I promise you, my heart will stay still in the heat of battle. Besides, with us against the poor odds, what could go wrong?”

Chapter Text

Legolas slowed his pace as their party approached the edge of the Druadan Forest. The trees loomed tall and lush overhead, and the elf prince breathed in a deep breath of their scent. They were days ahead of danger, yet traveling on foot. It would be unwise to send either their humble scouting party or whatever army Tannum had managed to gather on horseback if they were to maintain the element of surprise.

Regardless, no horses would easily navigate the thick woods of the Druadan. Both the Druadan and the Firien Woods of Gondor were not well-traversed, at least not by any man or elf of the Greenwood. Still, Legolas felt confident in his ability to speak the language of the trees, and the sight of this treeline eased his wary spirit.

It was fine form to be traveling with his dearest friends once more, though not long had it been since they traveled together last. Legolas had hoped for peace, if only to provide safety and comfort to those of Middle Earth. However, so long as he could ensure no harm would befall their fair party, he found little to dislike about the thought of fighting more orc scum.

"We make good time," Legolas said as Aragorn and Gimli caught up. "It should be days yet before we see an orc, even if they all ride upon the backs of wargs. Let us walk through the Druadan until dusk, and then find camp beneath its canopies."

"Sleeping under trees, yet again," Gimli grumbled. "I'm sure you are loving this, Legolas."

"I do not hate it, Gimli," Legolas said back with a smile. "Yet I'd like it far better under different circumstances."

They wandered in, slowing their pace. Ten soldiers of Gondor trailed behind them, swords on their belts, looking uneasy. Aragorn began to head the charge, and Gimli and Legolas fell into step a few feet behind him.

Legolas gazed up at the trees as they walked. "It is quite nice, but nothing compared to Fangorn."

Gimli nodded. "I'll take your word for it only a little while longer, dear Legolas," he replied. "Once these blasted orcs are dealt with, I can go back to my repairs, and then we can depart." Gimli quickly looked at the ground, and then back to the elf. "That is, of course, if you still wanted me to… not that I'm sayin' ya don't… not that I'm sayin' ya do, either‐-"

Legolas smiled, himself relieved. "If you would still travel with me, mellon nin, then to Fangorn we shall still go."

"Not before we visit the Glittering Caves of Helm's Deep," Gimli reminded him, on much surer footing.

Legolas bowed his head. "I have not forgotten. Escort me to the place of yours and Éomer's victory, and I shall escort you to the beautiful woods of my youth."

"Aye, and perhaps someday we may truly venture to our youths together. Perhaps I could take you to the Mountains, or the halls of Erebor itself!" Gimli paused. "And you might boast of your precious Greenwood under its own canopy."

Legolas' heart lightened, a flutter in his stomach. What a thrill, this idea. He'd love nothing more than to escort Gimli to his home, to show him around the halls of his younger life, the trees he was born beneath. And he'd much like to see the stone that shaped his stout and sturdy friend, and marvel at the halls long fought and hard-won.

"Of course, my Adar may not approve of this venture," Legolas thought aloud. At Gimli's slight deflation, Legolas straightened. "Though I hardly care for his opinion on matters these days. My want to have you visit my home is far stronger, mellon nin, and that is a promise."

Gimli smiled up at him. "You need not defend your choice to me, my friend. I understand all too well how we feel for our easily disappointed fathers. Mine would be no less happy to see you than yours would to see me. Gloìn is a stubborn dwarf for sure, as your father is a stubborn elf."

Legolas looked at him gratefully, his heart swelling. "It's a wondrous thing, Gimli, to know someone so different and yet still much the same."

Gimli looked almost stunned at Legolas' honest and kind words. He grumbled to cover up the tender moment. "I think being under these trees is making you far too sappy, Legolas. I mean, honestly!"

Gimli wandered slightly ahead, and Legolas' face fell. True, Gimli had once more confirmed their impending journey together, and even suggested another journey for the future, but he shied away. Legolas was not blind nor ignorant, he had seen Gimli grow more distant since they had seen Sauron defeated.

If Gimli's growing distance was not that he simply desired to be away from Legolas, then what could it be? It hurt his heart to not understand. He wanted to say that it was him that Gimli was avoiding. But why pull away yet stay so close?

Legolas considered simply asking his friend, but he knew that would not work well, especially not here and now, so he continued to walk, heart heavy, behind the dwarf.

~

Dusk fell, and Legolas was helping to set up camp. Bed rolls were being uncurled from their packs, and the now day-weary party was settling down. One of Aragorn's soldiers, Tywyn, was deep in a humorous conversation with Gimli. The way she patted his shoulder as they laughed together made Legolas bristle. Had Gimli not wandered away earlier, it would be Legolas, not Tywyn, with whom Gimli would be laughing and joking.

Looking away, Legolas stoked the fire with a stick, poking it rather uselessly.

"Legolas?" Aragorn's voice came from behind as he walked up to his friend and settled next to him on the ground. "You're quiet this evening."

"My mind is troubled, mellon nin. Nothing else."

"Ah, I see," Aragorn replied with a nod. "Troubled by what we may meet in a few days' time?"

"Of course."

"And nothing else may bring you trouble at this time?"

Legolas finally looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

Aragorn cleared his throat. "Perhaps I overstep, or misunderstand, but you seem in a foul mood tonight, though you were happily chattering earlier upon our entrance into these woods. I couldn't help but notice that you and Gimli have not spoken since."

"Ah, your true query. You wonder if we have fought."

Aragorn turned his body to face him. "You are both my dearest friends, Legolas. You need not share any fight if you wish not, but I do hope for your happiness, and you are both far less happy when in misstep with one another."

Legolas scoffed. "Does he seem unhappy to you now, Aragorn?" Legolas asked, gesturing across the fire, where Gimli and Tywyn were now joined by three other soldiers, all listening enamored to some tall tale Gimli was delighting them with.

"Alas, Legolas, I am at a loss. Either tell me what bothers you or do not, and I will let it go."

The elf sighed. "We are not in anger with one another, Aragorn. Yet I would say we are in misstep, and I do not know why."

"What do you mean?"

"It isn't just today, on this journey. Ever since you were crowned and we decided to stay with you in the palace of Minas Tirith, Gimli seems to be slowly pulling away from me. At first, I feared that he did not wish to be companions with an elf any longer, but then he'll say things to me that affirm our friendship! I simply do not understand his actions or motivations. One moment we will be speaking like friends, as though we've known one another our whole lives, and then the next he's abruptly run off!" Legolas glanced at Aragorn, catching himself. "Oh, I do apologize Aragorn. This all sounds so small when I say it aloud."

Aragorn shook his head, a supportive smile on his face. "Nothing you have said is small, mellon nin. I too would be upset if you or Gimli fell in misstep with me. We have all grown so dear to one another, I can imagine your stress. Have you asked him?"

The elf shook his head. "Of course not. Perhaps I could, but he'd simply change the subject and run off. Or what if he didn't? And all he'd have to say was that he is drawing away because I have been wrong this entire time, and he really wants nothing to do with me?"

"That is certainly not true!" Aragorn said reassuringly. "Gimli cares for you deep as I, Legolas. Of that I am certain. If you will not talk to him, then at least give him time. Perhaps when we return to the city I can speak to Arwen. She seems in tune with all of our moods, perhaps she could shed some light where you and I lie in the dark."

Legolas nodded as he allowed Aragorn's words to sink into his heart. He glanced up once more across the fire and caught Gimli's eye. The dwarf winked conspiratorially at the elf, and Legolas smiled, now eased. Gimli was clearly in the middle of a story that was definitely exaggerated and possibly untrue, and now all ten soldiers of Gondor were seated around his feet, listening with rapt attention.

The elf watched entranced as Gimli spoke, his broad hands making dramatic sweeping motions with his hands as he painted some wondrous picture for his audience. His deeply sun-tanned skin looked nearly orange in the firelight, and his beard was lit like the fire itself. His laughter shook his entire body, and it was a deeply melodic sound to Legolas' ears.

This was what made Gimli's behavior the most frustrating. Legolas was in love with him.

During the bloody fog of battle, amidst exhaustion, anger, and adrenaline, Legolas had only known his heart fit for friendship. He did not recognize his feelings for what they truly were because it all seemed so… out of character for him. The only time he'd ever felt any… romantic interest before had been his young infatuation with Tauriel. Yet that had been so different because Tauriel had been such a different person than Gimli--and what he felt for her paled in comparison.

He had known friendship so strong that he could rule it out. While his brain wanted to say that he and Gimli were simply close companions, perhaps even familial, he knew it not to be true. He had a familial friend, a brother, in Aragorn. And how he felt with Aragorn was nothing like how he felt with Gimli. A different kind of strength and passion was required with either one.

When he saw Gimli's eagerness to help rebuild Minas Tirith, as he recalled his friend's constant and steady presence throughout their adventures, when he simply looked at his face, Legolas knew the shape of this feeling. Gimli was he who owned the prince's heart.

Elves loved but once, so Legolas grieved his eternal loneliness as he realized his fate. He would love Gimli forever, beyond even the realm of Middle Earth when he should sail to Valinor. That love would never fade or change. Yet, Gimli would never love him. Dwarves loved once, just as elves did. How could Gimli love Legolas? Gimli was strong, powerful, loud, and brave. He had no fear to take up space in the world. He was prideful of his race and dedicated and loyal. How could one born amidst gemstones ever love the dull wood?

Legolas had considered telling Gimli the truth of his feelings; he did not like there being something hidden between them. But each time he got close to saying it, all he saw was Gimli's retreat quickening. Gimli might take his axe and return to his kin, never to visit the Glittering Caves or Fangorn or the Greenwood. Maybe even never to return to Minas Tirith.

No, he couldn't tell him. Legolas loved him far too much to lose him before the dwarf's own mortality separated them. He'd happily stand by Gimli's side as a friend for all eternity, for it was better than nothing at all.

~

The soldiers finally settled to sleep, leaving only the Three Hunters awake. All three seemed to alert to argue over watch, so they all stayed awake in silence. Legolas was standing tall, his senses open to any sound or sight. Aragorn and Gimli sat beside the fire, smoking their pipes.

The king watched his friend, alert and pacing the clearing. He wished Legolas would sit with them and calm down. He wished that the elf was asleep so that he could ask Gimli why he appeared to occasionally hide or busy himself away from Legolas. He wished they were not sitting in the Druadan in the dead of night. He wished for a lot of things.

Aragorn could only speculate on what was happening between his two dearest friends. They cared for one another a great deal, that was certain. But how great? Sometimes he expected that what ran between them was a similar thread that ran between himself and Arwen. Yet, how could he prove it? Perhaps he was simply seeing things that weren't there. After all, it was pretty shocking to see an elf and dwarf get along so. Maybe there was nothing more between them at all, and it just seemed more dramatic because of the history of their kin.

But when Legolas looked sadly over the fire earlier at Gimli, Aragorn felt more and more unsure of the manner of their relationship.

What he did know was that either one would lay down their life for the other. And either would lay down their life for Aragorn, and he for them. Perhaps the two would never solve this issue that lay between them, but no matter what, the Three Hunters were still unshakable, that much Aragorn trusted. Legolas may fear that Gimli had some secret distaste for him, but Aragorn knew better. They three would always be loyal and dedicated to one another, no matter what came their way.

And things often came their way.

Legolas' seemed to straighten suddenly. Aragorn and Gimli shared an uneasy glance.

"Legolas," Aragorn started in a hushed voice. "Tell me, what do you sense?"

Legolas waited a beat. "There is movement in these woods," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Many heavy footfalls, approaching soon. Approaching quickly." Legolas suddenly spun to face them. "We must leave."

Again, Aragorn and Gimli looked at one another. Not in question, but in understanding. They were immediate to their feet, Gimli gathering supplies, Aragorn going to wake the soldiers, Legolas covering evidence of their presence, starting with snuffing out the last embers of the fire.

The ten soldiers now awoken, the party crept at a slow and quiet pace, following Legolas. They walked as silently as they could manage, hoping to disappear into the night with no trace, else their scouting party have failed.

As they trekked, Aragorn cursed internally. It made no sense--they should have been days away from any confrontation. It made no sense for the orcs to have traveled this far east in so short a time. Éomer's news must have been late, or wrong. Or maybe Legolas was, and what he heard was not in fact the orc party they sought.

A quiet, indecipherable sound from behind him made him spin, fearing he was hearing some clue of the orcs. Yet, his eyes only landed on Tywyn. She was facing away, standing still and looking back in the direction they had come.

"Tywyn!" Aragorn hissed as quietly as he could manage. "We must persist!"

Tywyn slowly turned to him, and Aragorn's breath caught in his throat. She stared in shock at him, and from her stomach protruded an arrow. She finally collapsed to the ground, eyes still wide.

More sounds came, now recognizable as the air zipping past flying arrows. One notched a tree just inches from Aragorn's ear, and the cry of another soldier caught the entire party's attention. This soldier too fell, an arrow sticking from his neck.

"We're under attack!"

Chapter Text

Orcs were on them in an instant.

Gimli’s tunnel vision developed, and all things fell to the wayside that were not the enemy before him. His axe shining in the midnight, he hacked and chopped the snarling creatures that came over them in droves. And droves did seem the proper term, if not a vast understatement.

The orcs that streamed through the trees were numbered greatly, far more than their own remaining eleven strong. So thick did the forest floor become with orcs that the party was completely separated, forced into different directions as they fought for their lives.

Gimli thought belatedly that he should be counting, but as the blade of his axe met the face of another orc, all he could think was that this should not be happening. He was too unprepared to play the sport he and Legolas had made of their battles together.

From Gimli’s current position, he tried to spy as many allies as he could, to see how they were all faring. He saw two corpses of Gondoran soldiers, as well as a third in the making as an orc filleted a man like a fish a few feet away. How many did that make their number, 9, 8? So distracted was he with his fight that his thoughts were jumbled and desperate. He saw no sign of Aragorn or Legolas, though he heard fighting in the distance and had to trust that they were alright.

After another floundering moment of hopeless parrying, his spirits lifted as he heard a horn call from the east. Relief flooded him as he realized the rest of the army had caught up to them, despite their later start. They mustn’t have stopped for the night, and for that Gimli counted himself lucky.

Revived with new fervor as Gondoran soldiers slowly began to appear in the sea of orcs, Gimli continued to strike true, beginning to enjoy himself a bit as he usually did. This allowed him to look around consciously for the first time since the first arrows landed and… something was wrong.

If Éomer’s news was true, news that Gimli trusted, then there really was no plausible way for the orcs to have arrived in the Druadan in so short a time. Even on the backs of the fastest wargs in the world.

That was another oddity, there were no wargs to be found. However, there were trolls. They began lumbering into view. Gimli despised trolls; they were far too large and sloppy. They struck hard but never true. What was strange was that Éomer’s message contained nothing of trolls. And Gimli knew Éomer well enough to know that the man would not have left out any enemy that might be advancing.

Somehow, Gimli realized, this could not possibly be the same army that Éomer and the Rohirrim saw from Edoras. Which was a terrible thing, because it meant that Aragorn’s already meager army was now fighting something completely different than what they were supposed to fight in less than a week’s time.

Continuously they slashed and sliced at one another. Arrows whizzed past at dizzying speeds and orcs and soldiers came in on all sides. Gimli really hated fighting in the woods. It was far more claustrophobic than a battlefield, and he was far less familiar with it than fighting in a cave or cavern.

An orc managed to get its blade deep into Gimli’s shoulder, causing the dwarf to cry out angrily. In fury, he spun and beheaded the creature, its head flying.

Cursing, Gimli continued to fight, ignoring the scream in his muscles as his shoulder continued to contort with his arm movements. Still, he did not slow. There would be time for tending wounds later--something both Aragorn and Legolas were very good at. For now, survival was all that was necessary.

Another horn sounded, this time from the western end. Gimli did not recognize the sound, but cheered as orcs began to slip away. A horn of retreat--a good thing. While allowing the enemy to regroup wasn’t ideal, they had been completely unprepared for a fight of such caliber. This would allow them to regroup as well, and Gimli would make damn sure their regrouping proved more fruitful than the orcs’.

It was then that Gimli felt something hard strike his head from behind. No soldiers nearby seemed to pay the dwarf any attention, still grappling with a few stragglers or chasing the retreating orcs.

Gimli turned slowly, his vision swimming, and he saw a damned troll stand over him, a particularly burly orc at its side, grinning like a fool. The troll had in its hand a club that looked thick as a tree trunk, and Gimli realized as he fell to the ground that his helmet had no use over a weapon of that size.

Lying on the forest floor, the orc walked and stood over him as Gimli blinked his eyes, trying to stay awake and failing.

“What do we have here?” the orc hissed in its gravelly, low voice. “We’ve found ourselves a dwarf.”

If the creature said anything after that, Gimli did not know, and the world faded to black.

~

Legolas was panting hard as the last orc fled far enough into the trees that it had gone from his sight. He fired one last arrow after it, and lowered his bow slowly.

The morning sun had begun to peek over the hills, and the elf wondered if this might partially be the reason for the army’s retreat. Yet this sliver of light painted the forest a dizzying array of dawn colors that only revealed to Legolas the carnage leftover from the fight. Many soldiers and orcs lay dead in heaps on the grass.

He needed only walk a few moments before he spotted Aragorn, who was knelt on the ground beside Tannum, patching up what looked like a nasty cut down the guard’s face.

“Legolas!” Aragorn said in greeting, as cheerful as he could manage. “Relieving it is to see you on your feet.”

Legolas nodded, relief in his own voice. “Same to you, my king. Sir Tannum, we owe you thanks. Had you not arrived with reinforcements when you did--”

“Peace, Master Elf,” Tannum interrupted. “Let us celebrate our reprieve, but let us not dwell on what-ifs. I am only too grateful we heard the lumbering of those trolls ripping out trees from the edge of the forest, else we might have camped and been none the wiser.” He stood, brushing away Aragorn’s hands. “This army could not have been the same one we were warned of.”

“No,” Aragorn agreed, “they are not. I fear whatever it is we’ve encountered. We know too little to make any assumptions yet.”

“I agree,” Legolas responded. “Funny that they should retreat westwardly, though. I first heard them from the north.”

“The north?” Tannum inquired. “Odd indeed. Perhaps they retreat west so that they might lay a trap.”

“Something to consider,” Aragorn said thoughtfully.

Legolas looked around him. “Have either of you seen Gimli?” Legolas asked. “I lost him at the very beginning of the fight.”

Aragorn looked around as well as Tannum shook his head. “I should like to hear his opinion on the matter as well,” said the king. “Gimli!” he called out. Some Gondoran soldiers turned their heads at their king’s shout, but none offered any reply.

Legolas suddenly felt anxious. He had trusted that Gimli could keep himself alive, but he knew as well as any how quickly the tides could change. “Gimli, make yourself known!” Legolas called as he began to walk the trail of bodies with Aragorn at his side.

A soldier stood in their path. “I last saw him in the clearing just south of here,” she offered. Legolas and Aragorn gave her a nod of thanks as they changed course, still calling Gimli’s name.

They found the clearing in question, and it didn’t bode well at first glance. Unlike the rest of the forest, this remnant of the battlefield did not also contain living soldiers patching up their wounds or armor. There was not a living soul, but rather heaps of bodies.

“Gimli?!” Legolas called once more, his voice louder and more urgent. Aragorn had already begun looking through the bodies on the ground. “Gimli, where are you mellon nin?!”

“Legolas, come quick,” Aragorn said, and the elf was at his side in a moment, looking down at what Aragorn pointed to.

Fortunately, the sight the man led him to was not his beloved’s corpse, but rather his axe. Legolas crouched down and examined it before picking it up gingerly. “He’d never part with this willingly,” the elf said, his voice dry and low.

“I know,” Aragorn said quietly. “I do not think he intended to part at all.”

Legolas’ attention snapped to Aragorn and he clutched the axe to his chest. “What are you saying?”

“Legolas, we both know he wouldn’t have accidentally dropped it. And if for whatever reason he had, he would have fetched it already, long before we found it.”

Legolas paled and he felt cold all over. “You think they took him?” It was less of a question and more of a revelation. “No.”

“Legolas…”

The elf shook his head. “Why?” he asked desperately. “Why would they have taken him?! There has been no yet report of anyone else being stolen from us!”

Aragorn rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Offer me a better view of the situation then, Legolas! The truth is, one would have to pry that axe from his cold, dead hands. Yet there is no body to be seen. They have most certainly stolen him away.” Seeing Legolas' faint expression, he continued. "Fret not, dear friend. We shall go after them swiftly. Knowing our lovely dwarf he's likely driven them to madness by now and they'll have left him behind along the path."

Legolas nodded, trying to let Aragorn's calm soothe him. "We must away," he said, gathering his wits.

"No, you must not," Tannum appeared in the clearing after them. "I'm sorry to interrupt my lords, but we cannot send our men after them at this moment. We are far too weak."

The elf grew frustrated. "I will go for him myself," he replied, glaring at Tannum.

The guard shook his head. "And then what do you plan to do? They did not retreat because they were losing. If what you say is true, then they are in far fitter form than we. You'd never get close enough.

"What is your implication, Tannum?" Aragorn asked, laying a hand on Legolas' arm to calm him.

"Apologies for the ill news, but if they really have captured Lord Gimli, then their retreat from our battle makes more sense."

"And what sense do you claim? What sense are those creatures capable of?!" Legolas protested.

Tannum continued to look at the prince and king calmly. "Let us look at it from a militant position. Why would an army still strong, stronger even than their enemy, withdraw a battle they weren't yet near losing?"

Aragorn answered honestly, saying "they would only retreat if they had already won."

"Exactly. So we might infer that perhaps if beating us was not their goal, or perhaps not their only goal, then the only conclusion I can come to is that the one thing they have taken from us might have been what they were after. Or at least provided a better opportunity for their means."

Legolas whipped his sword from his belt. "The thing that they were after was Gimli, not some prize to be won, or some artifact to be stolen!" Legolas looked desperately at Aragorn. “What do we stand here for? We should be going after them!”

This time the elf did not wait even an extra moment before he turned and began running through the trees. He felt lucky that the woods were his familiar terrain, else he feared he may have lost the orc party for having waited so long.

Their retreating footfalls had long fallen out of reach to his ears, but he could follow the direction of the crushed grass and greenery, revealing where their heavy steps had led them. Legolas chased after the signs, hoping to soon hear their obnoxiously loud party once more.

He did. At first it was faint, but he could hear the snarls and clanging of too-heavy armor, the clumsy trolls crashing into trees. The sounds came from the south, so Legolas changed direction, his heart alight with hope. Maybe he had blown this out of proportion after all.

But then he heard the same noise from the direction he came, and he slowed. That couldn’t be right, he was so certain it had traveled south. Now he heard it north of him!

With maddening disappointment, he then heard it from the west, as well as the southwest and northwest. He was frozen, suddenly afraid.

The orc army had not simply departed in one direction, but rather they fanned out. They had all taken slightly different paths--and if Legolas chose wrong even once, he’d never make back the time he lost.

A quieter crashing through the brush caught up with him, and Aragorn slowed to his side. “What do you hear, Legolas? Which direction have they gone?”

Legolas looked blankly through the trees, his mind scrambling for solutions and finding none. “They’ve gone everywhere. As far in every direction westwardly that they could manage.”

Aragorn pondered this. “They assumed we’d follow,” he realized. “They knew if they fanned out enough that we’d never find Gimli before they’d managed to slip away completely.”

“Aragorn…” Legolas’ voice came out desperately, more pitiful than he was proud of. “Tell me what we do now. Tell me how we find him.”

The king gently placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Legolas, mellon nin, I fear I have no answer. If I did, I swear to you, I would have acted on it. But…” his voice faltered a bit. “I fear our friend is beyond our reach. He has only himself now.” Aragorn straightened. “Let our worry be eased at that thought! Gimli is a strong warrior, Legolas. Even if he has only himself upon whom to rely, then that will be more than enough!”

Legolas knew that Aragorn was trying to keep high spirits, and it wasn’t as though he was lying. Gimli was a master of defending himself, and Legolas had always trusted him in battle. Yet, finding Gimli’s favored weapon abandoned amidst the fallen settled tumultuously in the elf’s gut. He didn’t like that Gimli was the only one in danger. He hated even more that he hadn’t the slightest idea why.

“Why would they take him, Aragorn?” Legolas asked helplessly. “What was their purpose?”

The king sighed as he stared off into the trees beyond. “I do not know, Legolas. Let us only hope that their need is strong enough to leave him alive.”

Chapter Text

Gimli was not sure how many times he drifted in and out of consciousness before he finally groaned awake, his head throbbing and his muscles stiff.

As he sat up, he remembered what had happened, and reached instinctively for his axe. Of course, it was not there, and he cursed aloud.

He attempted to gather her bearings. He was sitting in something enclosed and wooden, and it was moving very fast and very awkwardly, jostling around like mad. He figured he was in some caravan that had its wheels ripped off, and if the stench had anything to say about it, it was being carried by trolls.

There was a small window in the caravan's wall and Gimli clambered up to it, awkwardly falling twice in the process of standing because of how unsteady the ground was.

Looking out the window, he was discouraged by his sight. He was several feet off the ground, indeed being carried by a troll that held the caravan hoisted atop its shoulder, as though one would carry firewood or rest their axe as they strolled. Gimli scowled; he did not enjoy being in high places in the vest of times, and this was most certainly not the best of times. He feared the troll could at any point drop Gimli's wooden cage, and it would become his coffin.

As he fell once more, he didn't even try to get back up. The army was traveling at a sprint, and Gimli's current residence was swinging back and forth violently at the pump of the troll's arms. He felt as though he would be sick if they continued at this pace much longer—but then made up his mind to throw up out his window and aim for the troll that carried him.

It was pointless to do anything at the current moment, and finding no weak spots in his cage, Gimli sighed and huffed in indignation before lying down on his back, the best position for not getting sick.

He wondered to himself what had brought him into this position in the first place. A troll got the drop on him, that much he understood just as much as he resented it. But why would they take him prisoner? Had they taken anyone else? From his position now he could not tell, but he was alone in this rather spacious caravan, so perhaps that meant something.

Gimli dared these orcs to let him loose. He’d show them exactly who they were dealing with.

~

It was another half day of travel before anything changed. Gimli, who had taken to leaning against one wall that seemed to toss him the least, registered that the troll’s speed was slowing.

Looking out the window once the troll had come to a full stop, Gimli suddenly saw the ground rushing toward him at an alarming rate. As his confines hit the ground with a heavy slam, the dwarf was tossed yet again, this time hitting the roof before smacking down on the floor. He noted, with some satisfaction, that the wooden box splintered and shuddered on impact. The troll’s own roughness may just yet destroy Gimli’s caravan and set him free.

The small, sealed trapdoor on the ceiling of the caravan opened, and a fat hand reached in and snatched him up like a ragdoll.

“Put me down, you damned creature! I’ll chop your hand into a million little pieces, you disgusting mongrel!” Gimli screamed fruitlessly at the troll, who ignored him and set him down at the base of a large tree, where a dozen orcs stood, waiting.

Gimli prepared himself for the worst, figuring he could get into a hand-to-hand fight if he needed to—in fact, he wanted to, but he wasn’t given the chance.

The orcs had quickly managed to tie Gimli, seated, to the trunk of the tree. He struggled against the rope, but it was hellishly thick. Without a sharp object, there’d be no way to break out of it.

He huffed in defeat, and watched curiously as the orcs just…left. There’s an odd sight, Gimli pondered. Why would they take him prisoner and just leave? Would there be no interrogation, no torture, nothing? But they didn’t spare him a single glance. As the sun set over the horizon, Gimli realized that many of the orcs were not likely to come near him again until morning.

He watched the army curiously. They were hundreds strong, but Gimli supposed it was a slight less than the army that Éomer had warned them of. He’d been wondering about that army all day, having been given far too much time to think. Perhaps this was all one, bigger army, and they had run into the equivalent of a scouting party. Perhaps they were two completely separate armies, unaware of the other. Or perhaps, an even worse thought, they were two separate entities in league with one another.

Yet he had little reason to fear at the moment. If the sun was any indicator, they had been traveling west, away from Minas Tirith. Where they were heading, or wherever they were now, mattered little to the dwarf, so long as his friends were safe.

He then saw a sight most confusing—another caravan, like his own, being tossed down next to where his lay. Gimli narrowed his eyes; another prisoner?

The dwarf watched intently as a troll reached in and scooped someone out. His heart dropped to his stomach at the flash of long, pale blonde hair, but upon hearing a voice, he could let out a breath.

“Unhand me! Wretch!” the elf shouted indignantly. The troll lumbered over to the tree where Gimli sat, and several orcs returned.

Gimli said nothing as the orcs tied the furious elf next to him, against the same tree, nearly close enough to touch. He simply observed the elf—he did look quite a lot like Legolas, but Gimli recalled feeling that way about all of the elves at Helm’s Deep, so that certainly didn’t mean anything. This elf looked slightly disheveled, and Gimli wondered when exactly he came to be in the orcs’ grasp.

The awkward silence between them stretched as the orcs departed. Gimli wasn’t sure what to say, and he wasn’t entirely sure that the elf would even want Gimli to speak to him. So he observed him out of the corner of his eye instead.

His fellow captive was tall, a rather lanky fellow, taller even than Legolas or Aragorn, more like Gandalf’s height. He had severe facial features, sharp bones, and thick, dark eyebrows.

The most notable thing that Gimli saw of him was his arm. Though thoroughly concealed by the rope, Gimli could see through a gap at a patch of skin that had turned a mottled pattern of gray and black, set against the elf’s alabaster skin. It looked as though what Gimli could see of his arm was coated in some cavernous stone.

“Stop staring,” the elf’s voice came again, having not even turned to look at Gimli. The dwarf was startled by the severity of the elf’s voice, but he was not easily perturbed by elves these days.

“What happened to your arm, laddie?”

“Don’t call me that,” the elf snapped. “You dwarves and your beggarly colloquialisms,” he continued, and Gimli rolled his eyes.

Luckily for him, Gimli had become somewhat of an expert in baiting the elven race. “Ah, I see. You’re one of those elves.”

Just as Gimli intended, the elf whipped his head to him. “I will not demean myself by asking what you mean by your words,” he said sternly.

Gimli smiled a little to himself. “Alright, then don’t,” he said. He internally cheered as he could feel the rage radiating off of his fellow captive.

“Why you… stubborn little creatures! Moles, the lot of you!”

Gimli could not find anger toward him, but rather he only felt satisfaction. Perhaps if he had been the same dwarf that embarked to Rivendell with his father, he’d have grown so angry he’d be shouting and spitting, but he had learned much. Dwarves and elves would only hate one another so long as they chose to, and Gimli no longer had any interest in that choice.

Besides, though this elf clearly despised him, Gimli understood that he might be the only one in this camp that was on the same side.

“What is your name?” Gimli asked, tiring of his game.

The elf looked away again, head upturned. “I owe you nothing of the sort.”

“You can’t even tell me your name, laddie?”

“I already demanded you cease with that title!”

“Okay, how about a deal,” Gimli proposed. “I won’t call you laddie if you tell me your name. Otherwise, I’ll sing it all night long.”

The elf bristled. “I make no deals with dwarves,, you impish halfwit.”

“Alright laddie, if you so wish.” Gimli waited a moment to see if the elf would relent, before giving up. “Well, my name is Gimli.”

“I did not ask, and I do not care.”

“Aren’t you chipper tonight, laddie?”

“I beg of you to silence what little there must be of your brain!” the elf snapped once more, but this time Gimli could identify a sort of tired resignation. Something he saw as progress.

“What’d they steal you for, laddie?” This time the elf gave him no answer. “The silent treatment? Aye, laddie, I suppose that’ll do. Gives me more silence to fill!”

At this, the elf seemed to boil over. “Out of all of our current company, there is none but you I would turn my blade against, if only to stop your infernal racket, you miserable worm! You are naught but a product of your pathetic clan, another grating cretin, like pig-lord Dáin Ironfoot or orc-felled Thorin Oakenshield!”

To this, Gimli was stunned. He had paid no heed to the elf’s harsh words before, but the venom that he spat about his ancestors riled him. To refer to Dáin as nothing but pig-lord?! The Lord of the Iron Hills, the succeeding King Under the Mountain?! The very dwarf who died defending the body of his dearest friend in the battle against Sauron? And what right did this elf have to speak of Thorin Oakenshield? Gimli had known Thorin in his childhood life; Fíli and Kíli were as dear as brothers to him as a young dwarrow. Thorin had given his life to kill Azog the Defiler and overcame much to allow dwarves to repopulate Erebor.

Gimli was preparing a poisonous retort, but stopped himself as three orcs approached them. He remembered the tall, broad-shouldered one as the orc that stood over him on the battlefield.

“I hope you are enjoying your… accommodations,” the orc jeered. “I hope you have given him a proper welcome, elf.”

“Oh yeah, he’s a ray of sunshine,” Gimli said sarcastically. “What do you want of me, vermin?”

The other two orcs that flanked him ignored Gimli’s query. “You know, Razak, we will certainly beat Shobog with our very own dwarf!”

The lead orc, Razak, turned irritably to the sniveling creature beside him. “I know that! It was my fortune in battle that brought him to us! Tell me, dwarf, what brought you to fight alongside an army of men?”

“Perhaps I’d answer your question if you answered mine!”

Razak snarled. “It matters not anyway. In a day’s time we’ll have reached our destination, and you’ll fulfill your use.”

“Razak,” spoke the third orc, “now that we have a dwarf, we don’t need the elf anymore, do we?”

Gimli raised an eyebrow as Razak seemed to think on this. The second orc piped in. “Yes Razak! Can we eat him? Oh please, please can we eat him?”

The third orc continued. “Dwarves are much better for finding gems! They’re miners! We don’t need the elf’s knowledge of the jewel if the dwarf can just find it himself!”

Razak licked his lips. “I’m convinced. Cut us a starting slice, won’t you?” the third orc nodded vigorously as the second orc began to jump up and down, practically frothing at the mouth.

From the third orc’s belt was retrieved a dagger, a rusted and ugly thing. He lunged for the elf, and Gimli saw the flash of fear in his expression. And while it was true that Gimli thought this elf to be cruel and selfish, Legolas flashed through his mind and Gimli found he couldn’t abide this elf’s death, not if he could help it.

“Wait!” Gimli’s shout was startling enough that the third orc faltered and dropped his dagger only an inch from where it nearly stabbed through the elf’s neck.

“What is it, dwarf?” Razak asked, looking at him curiously, likely surprised that a dwarf would defend an elf. Gimli was a bit surprised as well, given what the elf said about his family, yet he persisted.

“You’re looking for a jewel? And that’s why you need me? Well, I’m but a miner. I can mine for you a jewel, if that’s what you’re after, but I won’t know what to look for. That’s where the elf comes in handy.”

Razak looked thoughtfully. “Go on,” he said.

“Well, elves are obsessed with that kind of thing,” Gimli lied. “That creature said it himself; this elf has knowledge of what you’re looking for. All elves do. So you can’t kill him.”

Razak was silent for a while, and both orcs beside him waited impatiently, the third orc with his dagger pressed to the elf’s throat.

“Alright,” Razak declared finally, and the third orc disappointedly lowered his dagger as the second one groaned. “Whether you’re telling the truth or not doesn’t matter much anyway. We let the elf live until the jewel’s recovered.”

“But boss,” the second orc whined. “I’m starving!”

Razak gently took the third orc’s dagger from his grasp, and suddenly drove it into the gut of the second orc. Black blood bubbled from his mouth as he looked down in surprise, and then collapsed to the ground. Razak turned to the third orc. “Hungry?” The orc nodded greedily. “Roast him, then.”

Razak walked away without a glance back, and the third orc began to drag his new meal back to the others by their fires, leaving Gimli and the elf once more.

Gimli let out a breath, surprised that his scrambling managed to convince the orcs. He didn’t particularly like the elf, in fact, after what he said about Gimli’s family. But in the back of his head, he knew he had done the right thing. Infuriating he may be, but the elf was simply an elf. And Gimli was not innocent of the contention between their races.

Most of all, he thought of Legolas. Yes, it was an easy comparison considering Gimli thought they looked slightly similar, but it was true nonetheless. Legolas might have said any of the cruel things that this elf said before joining the Fellowship. What if someone had allowed Legolas to die out of anger for those words? Gimli would never forgive the soul who allowed anyone to lay a finger on his One. And perhaps this elf meant the same to someone else. Perhaps he was capable of the dramatic change that Legolas was, hell, that Gimli was.

It was quiet for a few minutes, and much to Gimli’s surprise, the elf was the one to break it.

“I suppose… you are owed some thanks for your interference, even though I had everything under—”

“You know nothing you self-obsessed princess,” Gimli hissed, not moving on. “Dáin and Thorin were formidable and loyal dwarves. They were my family as well. They both deserved longer and happier lives, free of the troubles they faced. And you know nothing, absolutely nothing about them, elf. You may hate me all you desire, I care not for your opinion on me, but say one more thing about my family and believe me, you’ll wish those orcs had you for their dinner.”

The elf was quiet for a long while after that, which was smart of him considering Gimli’s foul mood. When he did break the silence, after what must have been an hour, it was not what Gimli expected to hear.

“Why did you save my life?”

“What?”

“It is naught but a simple question, dwarf,” the elf replied defensively. “Answer me or not.”

Gimli sighed. “You may be an annoying creature, laddie, but you do not deserve to die for an insult.”

Much to Gimli’s surprise, the elf laughed. “Since when?”

Gimli couldn’t help the small smile prompted by the ever-lightening mood. “Since a lot of things. Do you not find it tiring, all of the bickering between our races?”

“Sometimes,” the elf admitted. “But your kin bring it upon yourselves. Still,” he added quickly so as to not provoke Gimli’s anger once more, “I did not know you were of Durin’s line when I insulted your ancestors. Nor did I know that Dáin Ironfoot had fallen.”

“Yes, well, it was pretty recent.”

Silence stretched even longer, but it was almost companionable. Or at least tolerable. The elf certainly did not like Gimli, but he had some sort of begrudging respect. They had not reached a friendship, an acquaintanceship, or a partnership. No, they had instead reached a truce. An unspoken agreement that however much they did not like one another, they were unfortunately tied to the same tree.

“Tell me, laddie,” Gimli said late into the night, once it was evident neither would spend any of this evening in slumber. “What jewel are they talking about? Do you know why they’ve taken us?”

The elf nodded. “They’re obsessed with finding the Demantur.”

Gimli’s eyes widened. “That’s just a myth. It’s not real laddie.” At the elf’s silence, he added, “right?”

“Unfortunately it may very well be real. Or it may not. No one’s ever found it, so no one has ever been sure. But after the Battle of Isengard, a map was found in Saruman’s tower by two of his orc generals—”

“Let me guess. Razak and… what was the name? Shobog?”

“Yes. And they believe they’ve deciphered the location on the map. That is where they are taking us now—the Firien Wood.”

Gimli groaned, and the elf raised an eyebrow. “Then it is my own fault that I am here,” Gimli admitted. “We heard reports of another army, assumedly led by Shobog, traveling southeast from Rohan to Gondor. We all assumed that they would advance on the city—so it was my brilliant idea to send a scouting party after them. Had we never left Minas Tirith, we’d never have run into Razak’s army, and they never would have had their very own dwarf to mine for the Demantur.”

“Well… I must admit I am owed some of the fault for my situation as well,” the elf said with a clearing of his throat. When Razak’s legions rode past my lands, we confronted them for battle. Razak is an imbecile, of course, and explained his nefarious purpose, his pursuit of the Demantur, and I’d heard all of the claims and stories, so I believe I may have implied that I knew far more about it than Razak.”

“So when they got the jump on you, they figured they’d just take you with them.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, at least we have something in common.” Gimli then paused, remembering. “Did your capture have anything to do with that disturbing black and gray coloring on your arm?”

The elf nodded. “It’s only a scratch,” he defended. “It will take far more than a poisoned blade to take a warrior of my skill down.”

Poison, Gimli considered. It could get progressively worse if not treated, but the elf likely knew that already. And he was unlikely to acknowledge it, what with his enormous pride.

“Look, laddie—”

“Oh alright,” the elf interrupted, annoyed. “If we are going to be toted off to the same place, I will not have you calling me that horrid moniker. I fear it may be the last thing anyone ever calls me, and I will not shame my ancestors in that way. You may call me by my name. I am Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of the Woodland Realm.”

Gimli’s eyes widened and he stared straight forward. This was insane. He must have heard him incorrectly, yes, that must be it!

“You’re not… the king of the Greenwood?”

Thranduil furrowed his brows in confusion. “The Greenwood?”

“Sorry, Eryn Lasgalen?”

Thranduil shook his head. “No, I was not upset that you called my kingdom the Greenwood—I was surprised. But yes, Eryn Lasgalen is my home. How did you know that title? Why would you not call it—”

“Mirkwood?” Gimli suggested. “Long has it been called that, but I happen to understand that elves heralding from those trees do not appreciate the title.”

Thranduil blinked, looking as stunned as Gimli felt. Gimli simply wished to disappear into the earth. This entire evening, the elf sitting next to him was King Thranduil—the King Thranduil. The elf who would not help the dwarves fight as they lost Erebor, the elf who captured Gimli’s family, including both his father and Thorin Oakenshield, and held them within his dungeons, the elf who did come to their aid when Azog the Defiler saw fit to attack Thorin’s company, and Legolas’ father.

“Tell me then, dwarf, how have you come to know such things? What has influenced your decision to spare me, to properly name elven lands, to retain your patience and cordiality with an elf?”

Now, how was Gimli supposed to answer that? He knew very well that Legolas had in fact not written to his father once. He knew Legolas loved his father, but was perhaps always falling short of the king’s expectations. Gimli had many a night seen his dear friend with a quill to parchment, unmoving, trying to decide what and how he should send word to his father. Though Gimli always understood that Thranduil would not approve of their friendship, even less so of Gimli’s hidden love for the elf prince, he still encouraged Legolas to send word of something, if only to ease his father’s worry. But Legolas would put his parchment away and insist that his father did not care about his fate.

Was Gimli really in a position to share Legolas’ tale with his father? Was it really Gimli’s story to share, at least to Thranduil?

“Well, dwarf? Is this the query that should vex you at last? I ask once more, where does this sympathy for the elven race come from?”

“I’m not sure how to share this with you, King Thranduil,” Gimli said, clearing his throat. He began to feel embarrassed for how he spoke to the elf, after all, this was Legolas’ father and the dwarf felt a strange pull to impress the man. “...I do know of the elves of the Greenwood. Somewhat, at least.”

Thranduil paused thoughtfully. “I see…” he said. “You have admitted to a relationship between yourself and Thorin Oakenshield. Nearly half that company must have been your relation. You’ve heard of me and my actions.”

“Well, yes, my father was in that company,” Gimli admitted. “Glóin, son of Gróin. He told me many stories of their journeying, and they happened upon the Greenwood.”

“There is more, isn’t there?” Thranduil guessed. “Had you only heard stories from your kin, they would have soured you against me and my lands. No, there must be more. Tell me, dwarf.”

Gimli realized it was probably best to answer Thranduil. As he watched the sun rise over the horizon, he thought only of Legolas. How many days had Gimli passed through in unconsciousness? He had no doubt that Legolas and Aragorn had lived through the skirmish in the Druadan. Had they looked for him? He had no doubt that they had. Dearest Legolas, with his determination and loyalty, had probably scoured the trees. Yet, Gimli had no doubts that an army of orcs clever enough to capture the Elvenking would have been able to lose a few pursuers. Was Legolas worrying after him? Gimli hoped not. He wished he could let Legolas and Aragorn know that he was going to be just fine, and that he’d figure this out on his own.

But say both Gimli and Thranduil escaped their fate. What then? If Gimli did not tell Thranduil about his friendship with Legolas, the king would eventually find out anyway, and he would likely be angrier at the dwarf for lying. And Legolas may be hurt to know that Gimli spent time with his father but didn’t say a word.

“You may not like the answer, Thranduil,” Gimli explained.

“How could I not? Whatever answer it is will explain a certain respect you have for my kind. How could that be too ill a thing?”

“I know your son. Legolas.”

Thranduil, now stunned to silence, wasn't given a chance to recover, respond, or rebut because the orcs and trolls had begun stirring in the light of the dawn, and Razak was suddenly before them once more.

"Not long now," the orc snarled. "We'll be there this time tomorrow, and we ain't stopping."

Gimli couldn't find it in himself to argue or insult Razak, nor could he then muster the strength to yell at the troll that lifted him and placed him back in the caravan. He was eerily silent, and so was his elven companion. He was grateful for the separation once more, as he feared what Thranduil might have said, given the chance.

Chapter Text

Gimli spent the long, bumpy journey sleeping fitfully. Their impending destination seemed rather dire, and he hoped to avoid another awful calamity.

The Demantur. That's what Razak was after—and Shobog, whoever that may be. And if the Demantur was truly real, the last hands it should fall into would be those of the orcs.

Nothing but stories they'd been before. Legend says that a mortal man in the First Age had been mining for gold. He had built a successful town and brought up his community from squalor. He had discovered a treasure trove of jewels and crystals, all sorts of useful and beautiful gems. But he was hungry for more.

His greatest fear had been growing old—which he slowly was. His eldest daughter had died of a sickness, and now there was nothing he feared more than death. And one day, while in the mines, he found a gemstone more beautiful than any before it, a crystal blue diamond perfectly shaped, as if left there by the Valar themselves. When he touched it, he transformed into a slightly younger version of himself. He was in the fittest form he'd been in years, back to the body he had when he married his wife.

He carried it back to his town and directly to where an older lady lived, one who understood magical things. She called it a Demantur, a magical stone that provided all who touched it with immortal life. A life not even granted to the elves, who could be killed by sword or stone. Whosoever touched the Demantur could never die, not even if their head was to be chopped off—another would simply grow in its place.

The man was thrilled by this news, having already touched the Demantur, and he took it to the town square, where people gathered together. He declared that anyone who touched the jewel would live eternally, never able to die.

Though he had piqued some interest, his wife was the first to step forward and say no. She addressed both her husband and the crowd, imploring them to think it through. Those who lived forever would outlive their spouses and children, they'd outlive all friends and family and anyone or anything they'd ever loved. The crowd listened, but the man refused.

Having already touched the stone, he saw but a simple solution to her problem, if they all touched the Demantur, then they would never lose anyone they loved. They would all be together, alive, forever.

His wife's response was simple. She would not live forever when her daughter had not lived past fourteen.

With this, everyone turned away from the man and his Demantur, unwilling to live eternally, each one thinking of other consequences of such a life.

The man grew furious. In his home that evening, he tried to get his young daughters to touch the Demantur, against their mother's wishes. However, his wife burst into the room and stole them away, protecting them.

Even angrier now being denied the ability to live forever with his daughters, he cursed the town. He set fire to his house and the houses of his neighbors until the fire spread, consuming the entire village.

He stood amidst the fire, the flames unable to touch him, holding out the Demantur. Appalled by his sudden insanity, the townspeople fled, some even choosing to perish in the fire rather than crawl to touch the jewel.

A few tried to reach him and the Demantur, desperately, but it was no use. Each one perished from the smoke or flames before they were able to reach him. In the end, he stood alone in the center of his town of ash.

His mania disappearing as soon as it had appeared, he fell to his knees and sobbed. He could not recall seeing his wife or daughters, and realized he had no way of knowing if they had escaped the slaughter or slipped away into the night. He ran to the treelines surrounding their village, but it was no use. Everyone who had escaped had long since gone.

The man wandered Middle Earth in guilt, the Demantur stowed away in his pack. As the years went on, he hoped he'd find his family again.

One day, in a tavern near his destroyed village, the bartender and a patron spoke about the fire that destroyed it—a hundred years ago.

He fell to the ground and wept, having not realized how many years had passed. Even if his wife and daughters had escaped, they'd all have died of age by then. Even though he'd only lived past his lifetime by half a century, it felt far smaller, and he'd had no idea of how many years had passed over the world.

Three hundred more years had passed, and seeing all the destruction and hatred in the world did little to soften his heart. But every day, he thought of his family.

It wasn't until a night in the same tavern, those three hundred years later, where he spoke to a bartender of his family. He told him his wife and two young daughters' names, and then remembered his eldest, who had died of sickness. When the bartender asked her name, he realized he had forgotten.

The man returned to the heart of his old village, now overrun with trees and wildlife. His connection to the gem was too strong to destroy it, so It was said that there he buried his cursed treasure and prayed to the gods to make it so no other soul could easily stumble upon it. The gods agreed, building a fortress of stone around the Demantur.

Then the man walked west, and did not stop. He traveled through all of Middle Earth until reaching the western shores. There it was said he took a boat to the middle of the sea, chained himself to a steel anchor, and dropped into the sea, forever to be living but trapped at the bottom of the sea.

A fanciful story, told to younglings to teach them the importance of family or perhaps the perils of vanity or maybe just a dark, sad story to scare and scandalize. Whatever the reason, it was always nothing more than a fable. A fiction.

Yet, in a world with rings of power, Gimli realized it was not silly at all. In fact, it was likely an exact recounting of a story. The dwarf shuddered a bit to think of the man still breathing at the bottom of the sea. It was a disturbing thought.

Clearly, Razak and Shobog had not learned any lesson from the story. But maybe their venture with the Demantur would end with them at the bottom of the sea right alongside the man from the story.

Still, it took the man three hundred years to make that decision. An orc could do a lot of bad in three hundred years.

What Gimli understood was that the last thing he could allow would be for anyone to get their hands on that damned stone.

~

Gimli knew they had finally arrived when he was released from the wooden caravan by its destruction. The troll that had carried him halfway across Gondor slammed the cage on the ground so hard that Gimli was ejected with quite some force, and it split and splintered into a wreck of loose planks.

Clearly they didn't need it anymore—a blessing or a curse, he would find out later.

He watched the same thing happen to Thranduil, though the elf king recovered more gracefully than Gimli was sure he himself had. When Thranduil met his eye, he scowled and looked away. Wonderful.

Admittedly, Gimli had not exactly been sure of how Thranduil felt after their night tied to the tree. Gimli had dropped quite a load on him, claiming to know Legolas. And Thranduil didn't even know the half of it—the king would have no idea of how strong their friendship truly was, or how Gimli loved the Elvenking's son. That was most definitely something he would not be telling.

As Thranduil avoided Gimli’s gaze, the dwarf instead looked to his arm. He wanted to see the festering poison that he had spotted a day previous, and he was disappointed to see it still there. Yet, it seemed to have not changed in size, which meant it was not yet spreading. A good thing too—a nasty poison like that could completely ruin Thranduil’s use of his arm, and one could not wield a bow in such a state. If it spread too far, Thranduil could be too weak to raise a sword even in his left hand, and then… well, Gimli hoped they wouldn’t reach a then.

They were one again under cover of trees, and Gimli could suppose they were in the Firien Woods at last. And there were orcs. Far more than there had been in Razak’s party.

Razak stood at the head of his army, and another orc stood in front of him, another army of orcs behind him. This army had wargs instead of trolls, which Gimli liked far less even than the trolls. The orc at the head, who he assumed was the previously mentioned Shobog, looked between Thranduil and Gimli.

"I see you've brought reinforcements, Razak. I'm impressed."

"Have you found the jewel on the map?"

Shobog nodded. "We've been guarding it here. It's in there alright. I can practically smell it."

Gimli looked past Shobog to see where they believed the Demantur to hide. They were only a few yards out from what seemed like the base of a mountain, hidden in the middle of the forest.

Gimli knew what this was. Amon Anwar, or the Halifirien. A lone mountain divided from the mountain range of Ered Nimrais, its peak looming over the top of the trees of the Firien.

Both Thranduil and Gimli were grabbed by the backs of their necks and forced forward as Shobog turned toward the mountain.

The new army of orcs stayed in place, only watching as the dwarf and elf were pushed forward, staring at them with their terrible faces. Razak's army stayed behind as well, only Razak and Shobog marched forth, and whatever troll held Thranduil and Gimli within its grasp.

Shobog rounded the moment for only a few moments before arriving at his destination. At the base of this mountain was a large boulder, something like to seal a tomb or crypt. An entrance.

"In you go," Shobog said, as another troll came and pushed the boulder away with quite some force. "You get the jewel and get out."

"Here," Razak said, stepping forward. He grabbed their hands one by one and slid on thick leather gloves, tying thin wire tightly around their wrists that they could not pick or peel off. The wire stung Gimli's skin even through the tough leather. "So you don't get any ideas about touching the thing."

"I would never," Gimli spat. "That thing's as cursed as they come!"

The orcs either did not believe him or did not care, and they were at once pushed forward through the entrance.

The boulder was rolled into place behind them, and they were plunged into the darkness.

For the first time since the Druadan, Ginli felt peace wash over him. The dark, damp, coolness of the cave provided him relief. Though he'd never once even been near the Amon Anwar, he felt as at home as if he were in the mountains of his youth or the halls of Erebor.

Gimli felt the cold and damp walls, wiping with his hand now covered in a thin layer of water. He knocked twice on the stone wall, letting the sounds of the echoes permeate his skin.

"These halls are not natural…" Gimli muttered. "They were made. Carved…" he ran his fingers over the stone as high as he could reach. "As though Mahal himself dragged his finger through this mountain like sand." He paused, looking up to where Thranduil's figure stood, his dwarven eyes adjusting to the dark. "These halls are long and labyrinthine."

Much to Gimli's surprise, Thranduil spat at his feet. "I will not believe any word that comes from your mouth, serpent-tongue."

Gimli raised an eyebrow. "Silver-tongue perhaps, I have been called. But now is no time for arguing," he insisted. "I believe we can find the Demantur and another way out."

"Why should I trust you?!" Thranduil hissed. "You do nothing but lie. I cannot believe I even humored you before."

Gimli sighed, crossing his arms. "We don't have time for this. Need I remind you we have been given no food or water!"

Thranduil stayed stubbornly silent, and Gimli wanted to rip his hair out. All he had said was that he knew Legolas, nothing more.

"Alright, laddie, I'm going to go forward. You can stay here and brood all you like, and waste away, or beg our lovely hosts to kindly let you out." He didn't wait another moment before he delved deeper into the cave, feeling the walls as he walked along.

Gimli remained unsurprised as he heard Thranduil's hurried footsteps behind him. "I cannot see anything in here; unused to such confining spaces. You will guide me, dwarf, for perhaps your legs will not lie as your mouth does."

"I have a name. You my name, because I have told you my name."

"How am I to know that even your name was the truth?"

"Aulë's beard, you're more stubborn than Legolas!"

"Do not speak to me of my son," Thranduil said angrily. "You know him not."

"Will that make you happy? More cooperative? Then fine, I don't know Legolas, I was lying. There. Now let nothing more come between our admittedly shaky partnership."

They walked in silence for a little longer, Ginli only pausing to examine the tunnel walls, or to knock and follow the sound.

"I am satisfied with your candor, Gimli, Gloín's Son," Thranduil said at last. "Lies do not become a person, after all."

"Uh-huh," Gimli responded distractedly, leading them through another turn.

Thranduil let out a slightly interested hum, and Gimli rolled his eyes, grateful that the Elvenking could not see him. He wished Thranduil would just drop the matter entirely. If making a good impression on him was his goal, then Gimli had already failed in a million ways. He only wished to be on the road back to Minas Tirith, rid of Thranduil's stubbornness and judgment, on his way back to his friends and his One and his life. As dire as the situation would be if the Demantur was uncovered, Thranduil's persistence was turning this excursion into nothing more than an inconvenience."

"And you mean that? You are saying you were lying?"

"Mahal save me, what is it you want, you pointy-eared tyrant?! I already told you what you wanted to hear!"

"What I want is the truth!"

"No, you do want the truth," Gimli began, "but you wish it to be the truth you've decided is fitting. Now, I have given you two accounts, neither of which you have accepted. And you are quite a clever elf after all, so tell me, which one is truth and which is fiction? Whichever you decide, I will agree, because you already know which is true, do you not?"

Thranduil seemed stunned. But his silence spoke volumes, and Gimli knew that he had left his denial behind at last.

"Tell me," Thranduil said, his voice far more tentative than before. "What was the last news of Legolas?"

Gimli was suddenly overcome with pity, and all of his anger fled his body as quickly as it had come. Thranduil may be difficult, but Gimli had promised himself not to lose his temper.

In the end, Thranduil was a father. Gimli couldn't imagine his father's grief if Gimli had not sent word after the ring had been destroyed. He didn't want to imagine his father, sitting idle in their home, unable to secure for himself the knowledge of his son's fate, unsure entirely if Gimli had even survived the hardships they had faced. Gimli would have gone home to his father as well, if not for his friendships or his desire to help rebuild Aragorn's home.

Gimli knew, too, that Legolas had not written to his father, though they'd never particularly discussed why. Gimli never thought it to be his place to ask. He knew though that Legolas loved his father, and the reason he did not write must have been born of something innocent, not to intentionally worry the king.

"He is alright," Gimli told him, happy to do so. "Better than alright. He flourishes in Minas Tirith, in the palace with the high King Elessar. He remains there as a steady presence, counsel, and friend to the king and queen. He fought bravely in many battles since I first met him at Rivendell."

"When a fellowship was formed," Thranduil supplied, much to the dwarf's surprise. "I know a little. Lord Elrond wrote to me, sharing, I suppose, a fatherly instinct. He knew perhaps that I'd be angry when Legolas did not return to Eryn Lasgalen. He wrote to me of the ring and the quest to destroy it--of the fellowship formed to protect a hobbit in his journey to Mordor. He said nothing of who was in this fellowship, except for Legolas." Thranduil paused. "Were you in this party?"

Gimli nodded in the dark. "Aye, it cannot be said that an elf would go where a dwarf would not," he joked. "I grew very fond of those little hobbits."

"I see," Thranduil said, feigning indifference. Yet Gimli could tell that his interest was piqued. "You came from Minas Tirith as well, did you not? Razak said you fought alongside an army of men when he found you. You travel not from Rohan, and you know much of my son and King Aragorn."

"Clever," Gimli acquiesced. "Yes, I too am currently staying in Minas Tirith. The king and queen are my friends, and I'd follow Aragorn to the end of the earth. I assembled a team of skilled dwarrows to help rebuild the destroyed architecture of the city."

Thranduil was quiet, and Gimli was at a loss for what he was thinking.

"So, both you and Legolas stay in the palace… together?"

"Yes, that is correct. We are… both friends of Aragorn."

"So… you are bound to see one another, every once in a while."

"Aye."

"I see."

Gimli had stopped listening, as he spotted a light coming from the distance. "Thranduil, look," he directed the Elvenking. "We may have found it."

Chapter Text

Gimli and Thranduil stepped from one of the dark halls into an open cave, lit by the dazzling blue stone at the center. The dwarf and the elf had to blink their eyes, adjusting from the dark into the wondrous light.

"Incredible," Gimli murmured as he circled it. It sat upright on a pedestal made of stone in the center of the room, perfectly balanced on its thin tip. It looked like any other cut diamond, but about it was an eerie sensation that drew Gimli's attention. Even Thranduil, usually so uninterested, stared unashamedly at the Demantur.

"Who's to say that the gloves will have any effect?" Gimli pondered. "The last thing I want is to live forever on Middle Earth. No one's meant to stay here that long, not even you elves."

"Yes, we all sail west when it is our time," Thranduil agreed. "Yet I do not fear to touch it, so long as it does not reach your bare skin."

Gimli reached forward tentatively, holding his breath. Finally, the tip of his index finger touched the Demantur… and he felt no change. Slowly and carefully he wrapped the rest of his hand around the diamond and lifted it from its pedestal.

"I suppose the Valar must have created Amon Anwar as a prison for it, yet it is unburied," Gimli wondered. "There was no need for a dwarf to mine it, only to not become lost in these caverns."

"Perhaps it was never meant to be buried," Thranduil supposed. "The gods responded to the immortal man's prayer, but why should they? He was a despicable and selfish creature. Perhaps this was just another punishment, the knowledge that one day, anyone could simply walk inside the mountain and discover it, ripe for the taking."

Gimli concealed the Demantur in his pocket, though it barely fit. "That's a rather bleak interpretation of the story, Thranduil," said the dwarf. "But you may be right. Maybe the Valar really did want to play a nasty trick. Yet it's remained here, untouched, for thousands of years. That must mean something, don't you think?”

“What it means, I fear I do not want to know,” Thranduil said in his usual icy tone. “What now, dwarf? We cannot simply leave the way we came; we two are no match for an army thousands strong.”

“Well, while you were wasting your time accusing me of being a liar and stumbling around in the dark, I was listening to the caverns,” Gimli teased, though his words held no heat.

“And what does that mean? I only see one entrance to this room and we came through it. What does the stone tell you?” Thranduil’s words were sarcastic, but his question had merit.

“Stone tells a long, weathered tale, Thranduil, and you’d do well to remember that,” Gimli added pointedly. “Just because you are an elf does not mean you’ll never find yourself separated from the sky or sea. Just think of how your lack of knowledge would have killed you today if I were not here, you know that?”

“And what is your proposed solution? That I crawl around in dark, cold, wet holes in the ground as your people do? Have I nothing better to do with my time?”

Gimli ignored the slights. “Well, here’s a lesson.”

“No thank you.”

The dwarf only ignored him. “Come over here, and knock on the wall,” Gimli instructed as he walked to a section of the stone walls surrounding them.

“No,” the Elvenking said, crossing his arms stubbornly.

“That’s alright, we can just spend time here. I’m sure you’d love to hear my life story, and we’ve got plenty of time to spare! So, my father was a—”

“Oh alright!” Thranduil snapped, joining him by the wall. He knocked once and looked at the dwarf, annoyed. “Well, I’ve learned nothing.”

“Listen to the sound. Is it lighter or louder? Higher or lower? Knock somewhere else and tell me.”

Thranduil was fuming, not appreciating the forced lesson, but did as he was told, moving his hand to the right and knocking again. “It just sounds the same! What does this prove? That you’re a fool, and I’m more of one for listening to you?”

“Peace, Thranduil. You actually do have some ear, it sounded identical. Why might that be?”

“I am not answering any useless questions!” the king exclaimed furiously. “I do not know dwarf! You have proved your far superior intellect, are you proud?”

“Stop being so damn stubborn! Use your brain, Thranduil. You are a king after all, so imagine you are here with your subjects. You would be the one to lead them to safety, yes? How would you do so?”

Finally, Thranduil seemed to actually think. Silently, he continued knocking on the wall, to the right of his previous knocks. Gimli stood back patiently for Thranduil to solve his little puzzle.

The Elvenking circled the room, knocking along the circumference of the circular cave. Each knock sounded the same, but he did not grow frustrated as he had before. Instead, he looked puzzled and determined. Gimli delighted to see that for the first time since he’d met him, the elf was not letting his pride or temper stand in the way.

Finally, after Thranduil seemed to mull it over, he knocked higher. And a higher pitched knock, only ever-so-slightly higher at least, sounded from the wall.

Gimli almost laughed at the way that the king’s face lit up instantly. He knocked higher and higher, the sound rising slightly in pitch each time. Once the wall curved too far for even his long limbs to reach, he went to the pedestal and climbed up top.

From this vantage in the center of the room, he was able to reach the highest point of the dome cave ceiling, and he knocked. His knock was followed by a rain of loose stone, and he jumped off clumsily, coughing at the dust that had fallen directly into his face.

“Ach, you damned dwarf!” Thranduil shouted, annoyed. “You knew that would happen, so why would you let me—ach—do that?!”

“Well, one of us had to, and you’re taller,” Gimli said simply. “And now you know how to find an opening in a cave. Now, aren’t you glad you can do that?”

“When will I ever use this information again?” Thranduil asked dryly.

“You never know,” Gimli said, noncommittal. “You didn’t know you’d need to know it down here, after all, did you? Besides, it’s a survival skill if you ever find yourself underground again.”

“After today I think I will simply pass,” the king muttered. “How are we supposed to leave through that? It’s a hole in the ceiling.”

Gimli was already climbing atop the pedestal himself, looking directly up. “It’s a tunnel, alright. I reckon if we start to climb up, it will let us out at the top.”

“Climb?”

“Aye. Just think of it like climbing a tree, except the opposite. The tree is not before your hands and legs, but around them.”

“That is absolutely nothing like climbing a tree.”

“I’m just trying to be positive.” The dwarf hopped down from the pedestal. “Up you get.”

Thranduil’s eyebrows raised higher than Gimli had ever seen before. “You want me to go first?” Gimli nodded. “How do I know this isn’t some trick—that you’re not sending me first to discover any and all dangers?!”

“Oh, would you calm yourself?” Gimli pleaded. “Have I yet led you astray? It is safer for you to go first. Because if you fall, I will catch you.”

Somehow, Thranduil’s eyebrows could climb higher. “No. Absolutely not. No, not in all my thousand years traversing these lands would I ever, ever, allow a dwarf to… to catch me!”

“Oh Mahal help me,” Gimli muttered to himself. “If I should climb ahead of you, and fall, it would be like a boulder crashing into a branch. We’d both fall to our deaths. But the boulder would catch the branch, would it not?”

“Are you saying I’m weak?”

“No! I’m saying if I crash into you, you wouldn’t be able to catch me because I am a dwarf and you are an elf. You are light as a feather and I more resemble… the entire bird. Besides…” Gimli began, changing topics. “If I climbed ahead, you’d be watching my backside the entire time, and I’m sure—”

“Alright, fine,” the elf said quickly, cutting Gimli off. “But don’t say anything smug about it.”

Gimli shrugged and gestured to the pedestal in acquiescence. Thranduil climbed back up and looked above his head to the vertical tunnel.

“So, am I supposed to… how exactly do we climb this?”

“Jump up into it, as high as you can get, and use your arms to hold you steady as you get your legs in there. Do it quick enough and you won’t fall. You should end up with your back to one side and your legs on the other, and you’ll push yourself upward with your hands and feet.” Sensing Thranduil’s apprehension, Gimli sighed. “Just try it, and you’ll get it.”

Thranduil looked up once more and took an even breath before he leaped. He quickly got his legs across from him, the balls of his feet pressing against one side of the tunnel, his back pressed to the other. Yet, he managed it gracefully with his light and lithe movements.

“A curse on the nimbleness of elves,” Gimli muttered bitterly.

“Well, I’m certainly comfortable,” Thranduil called down dryly. “But how am I supposed to climb this damned thing?”

“Your hands, you brainless elf! Press your hands to the wall behind you and climb up that way.”

Thranduil made a little progress. “This feels unsafe,” he called down accusingly.

“I cannot change that!” Gimli snapped back. “At least now you’ll feel a lot more sympathy for the spiders of your wood!”

“Oh, enough yammering!” Thranduil yelled hypocritically. “Are you going to dawdle all day?”

Gimli managed to get up after a few tries, only slightly jealous of the elf’s height. He started to climb up in the same way, but he had to stretch and reach further than the elf in order to climb up. The tunnel was a bit too wide for him, and a bit too cramped for Thranduil, who climbed a few feet higher than him.

The light from the cave followed them, still emanating from the Demantur in Gimli’s pocket. And from his vantage below the Elvenking, his eyes were drawn once more to the king’s right arm. That black and gray, mottled stone-like stain across his arm seemed wider than the other night when Gimli had first seen it. He pretended not to notice Thranduil’s small hisses of pain each time he pushed upward with his right arm.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Gimli asked him.

“It’s perfectly manageable,” Thranduil spat, but Gimli knew better. The black seemed to shift around the edges, like it was growing through his veins ever so slowly. Thranduil’s sudden intense use of his arms seemed to only exacerbate it.

As they continued the slow climb, Gimli watched it closely. He began to notice Thranduil’s slow pace, and he felt sympathy for the elf.

“Let us rest a moment, my arms are getting tired,” Gimli excused lamely, but Thranduil did not contest it, holding himself up only by his back and feet, letting his arms dangle loosely. Gimli was not tired at all, in fact, he was itching to continue, but the Elvenking was not in as fit a state.

“It will be fine,” Thranduil said soberly, not even looking down to speak to Gimli. “I know this poison well, and its cure.”

“What would that be?”

“Petals from a cadea flower.”

“Ah, and let me guess, cadeas don’t just grow anywhere, do they?”

“No,” Thranduil admitted. “However, we have a collection of them in my palace gardens in Eryn Lasgalen,” he supplied.

“That’s quite a distance.”

“Yes, well…” Thranduil tried to rebut but had nothing to offer. Gimli did suppose he had just stated the obvious. Thranduil was not stupid, something Gimli knew all too well, and he was not making the situation better by pointing out how difficult things were for the king at the moment.

Suddenly, Gimli was overcome with gratitude for his situation. Truthfully, he was miserable, tired, stressed, and homesick. Yet, he couldn’t imagine what might have happened if he had not been captured by Razak’s army. Thranduil would have been sent into this mountain alone and unprepared, scrambling around in the dark, dying of thirst before ever finding the Demantur. Or perhaps he’d find it before that time came, but then he’d still die because he wouldn’t dare hand the Demantur over to the orcs, even if it might spare his life. And then the orcs would either send some new prisoner in after him, or decide to fetch it themselves, and they’d eventually possess it.

What might have been different? Would Gimli have been by Legolas’ side as he learned of the death of his father? The idea of the strength of his dearest companion’s grief was enough to crush Gimli’s heart, and he had to look up to remind himself that Thranduil was alive.

While he may never be able to tell Thranduil of his devotion to Legolas, he still owed Legolas that devotion, regardless of the state of their relationship with one another. Though Legolas did not love as Gimli did, he would still desire his friend to help protect his father. And Gimli would be honored to do so, even if the father in question was a stubborn son of a bitch.

“Gimli,” Thranduil said, his voice quiet. It shook Gimli from his thoughts, most notably because Thranduil rarely said his name.

Judging from the somber tone, the dwarf knew something was wrong. “What is it?”

“I… I do not think I can go any further.”

“Of course ya can, laddie,” Gimli said, hoping to lighten the mood or frustrate Thranduil back to action. “We’ve got to be nearly out anyway.”

“We are not,” Thranduil said sternly. “We are not yet even touched by either daylight or starlight.”

“Your arm?” Gimli supposed.

“Eryn Lasgalen is far,” Thranduil said, his voice low—not betraying any emotion. “I cannot even finish the climb up this cursed mountain. I fear my arm will not support any more of my weight. I can hardly lift it—I’ve been trying.”

Gimli was fuming, but for the first time it was not at Thranduil, but rather for him. “Damned Razak!” he exclaimed. “I’ll kill him the moment we’re out of here.”

If Thranduil was surprised at Gimli’s emotional outburst, he hid it well. “I may be able to slide back down without the use of my arm, but I can no longer support myself upward. Somehow you will have to pass me. Perhaps if I flatten myself as best as I can, you can climb around—”

“You’re serious?” Gimli interrupted. “I’m not going to leave you here to die, foolish elf! If I planned to do that, I simply would have lost you in the tunnels. Or I would have let those orcs claim you when we were tied to that tree! So allow me a minute to think, and we’ll soon have a solution.”

“But—”

“Hush!” Gimli shouted. “What have I just said?” Fortunately, Thranduil was wise enough not to say anything else, and Gimli thought it through. “I’ve got it!” he announced excitedly. “The stone isn’t smooth, I could climb straight up as though it were a ladder. You’ll have to hang onto my back and I’ll carry you up with me.”

“Have you lost your mind?!” Thranduil asked incredulously. “You’ll slip and fall, or I’ll weigh you down until you do, at least! That’s far too dangerous! If you continue to climb in this current way without me you’d certainly make it to the top—in this proposal, I doubt you’ll make it more than a few feet!”

“Why, King Thranduil, you nearly sound like you care about me,” Gimli said dryly. “For one moment, I beg of you, will you put your pride aside? Will you let go of years of stubbornness, of years of fighting and arguing, and just trust me? For once, will you put aside how you feel about my kind and let us climb out of here?”

Thranduil was silent for so long that Gimli feared he hadn’t convinced him, but finally, the king sighed. “Alright,” was all he said. “But we will never speak of this. To anyone. I want your word.”

“Aye, you have it.”

“No, I want your word that you will not tell Legolas when you return to Minas Tirith. If you ever see him around the palace, I do not want you to tell him you ever met me.”

Now that might be difficult. Gimli didn’t like to give his word unless he meant it to be true; he would not sully Durin’s good name by wasting his word on lies. So how could he make such a promise? He feared that if he did not then Thranduil would refuse to allow Gimli to carry him out.

In a way, he could see what Thranduil meant by this. From the Elvenking’s perspective, Legolas would run into a dwarf that he vaguely knew on the palace grounds, and this dwarf would tell him some embarrassing story of how weak and helpless his usually strong and powerful father was. This dwarf would perhaps brag about how often he bested him or condescendingly rescued him. Thranduil may fear that Gimli could turn Legolas away from the king.

Of course, that is not what would happen. Gimli might tease a bit, but only of Thranduil’s stubbornness, not his weakness. In fact, the Elvenking was fairly impressive for the situation he was placed in. Lesser men wouldn’t have even made it up an inch with that kind of poison pumping through their veins. Lesser men wouldn’t have fought to understand how to learn the sounds of a cave. Lesser men wouldn’t have demanded to stay behind to die. Gimli would tell Legolas only his father’s bravery and tenacity and wit.

Could he make this promise, and tell Legolas nothing? What would he do when Legolas and Aragorn asked Gimli where he had been—what had happened to him? Would he omit Thranduil’s presence, or say nothing at all? Both would be lies, though lies of omission they may be. And lying to his friends seemed an ill fate.

But would he rather lie to Legolas, or tell Legolas that his father was dead?

“Alright laddie, you want my word, you’ve got it,” Gimli acquiesced, though he did so joylessly. “Now come on.”

Gimli braced himself as he turned, finding good handholds before finding footholds. Finally, when he was pressed with his front flat against the tunnel wall, he told Thranduil to hop down on his back.

“That’s crazy, I’ll certainly push you down if I simply hop on your back!”

“What do you suggest, climbing down? That’s why we’re in this position. I’m the boulder and you're the branch, remember?”

“Right. You’re the bird and I’m the feather.”

“Now you’re getting it! Now use some of that damned elven agility already!”

He heard Thranduil take a steadying breath and he didn’t blame him. Though Gimli had no fear of Thranduil’s weight jumping onto his back, he knew that Thranduil did not yet have the same trust. Because of this, Thranduil likely imagined the scenario where his weight was too much, and Gimli would slip, and they would both fall to their deaths, impaled on the pedestal that lay far, far beneath them.

The king leapt and landed, and Gimli didn’t even budge. It was like a cape settling on his shoulders, nothing else. The huff of breath that left Thranduil’s mouth displayed his surprise, and for that Gimli felt a bit satisfied.

Thranduil had his left arm around Gimli’s neck, his long legs awkwardly half bunched up, but he was securely affixed to the dwarf’s back without obstructing Gimli’s arms or legs.

“You gave your word,” Thranduil reminded him, hissing in his ear.

“Aye, I remember,” Gimli retorted as he began to climb.

Chapter Text

Starlight encouraged Gimli as his arms ached, and soon he hoisted himself and Thranduil out of the skinny tunnel and onto the grassy top of the Halifirien.

He lay on his back, catching his breath. He had nearly slipped only twice as he climbed the tunnel with Thranduil on his back, and each time he could only imagine how far the fall may have been. They’d probably been climbing the tunnel for half a day, as they emerged into the twilight.

The important thing was that they survived. Gimli had not actually been entirely sure he made the right decision after the fourth consecutive hour of climbing completely vertically with an elf hanging off his neck, but he pushed through. The only other option was death, after all.

Gimli was only aware of the king standing over him when his voice came from directly above. “Alright?”

In his exhaustion, he was annoyed at the king’s stoicism, but he didn’t want to fight with him either. “Aye,” he said. “I just need a moment.”

He kept his eyes closed, only listening as Thranduil sat on the ground next to him. After a while, he opened a single eye.

“Which way is north?”

Thranduil looked to the stars. “Directly behind us,” he answered him.

Gimli nodded, finally sitting up. “Alright, we should descend the northside. Keep an eye out for orcs in case they’ve fanned out around the base of the mountain, and we—”

“Rest, dwarf,” Thranduil said, his voice as emotionless as usual. “You’ve climbed enough for a lifetime, do you not agree?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Gimli replied. “We have much to travel, and I don’t know about you but I’d rather get away from the damn orcs for the time being.”

“Yes, Minas Tirith is far,” Thranduil said slowly, as if testing the waters.

“You witless elf, you know what I mean.”

“I certainly do not.”

“You can’t use your arm. The more you travel, the weaker you’ll become. I’d rather not have to break my word to you because I have to tell your son you collapsed, paralyzed, into a ditch somewhere.”

“Eryn Lasgalen is far from here.”

“So is Minas Tirith. I’m picking my poison, no offense,” Gimli added, gesturing to Thranduil’s arm.

“I’m laughing hysterically,” the king said sardonically.

“Look,” Gimli said, drawing Thranduil’s attention. “You need the… what were they… cadea petals?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, you can only find cadeas in your garden in the Greenwood. But you won’t make it to the Greenwood without someone to make sure you stay standing long enough to get there.”

“Alright, enough!” Thranduil’s voice was louder and more frustrated than before, and Gimli was left slightly surprised. “Enough games, dwarf! What do you gain? Will you break your word and brag of your actions to my son? Do you desire a reward? Do you hope to gain blackmail?”

Gimli only blinked at him, too weary in both body and mind to be offended. “What are you saying?”

“What am I saying? What are you doing? Why are you putting aside so much, sacrificing so much, for me? You hardly know me! I am only the elven king that imprisoned your family. I am the father of an elf you sort of know and sometimes see around a city you don’t even hail from. So why? Why do all of this?! Is it gold you desire? Some hidden retribution?”

Though Gimli did much of this for Legolas, he was still a little startled by Thranduil’s issue with trusting him. “What more can I do, Thranduil? Shall I move this mountain, defeat these armies? Why is it so difficult for you to understand that I am helping you because you need help? I am not some opportunist snake here to usurp you or demand your gold! I am only trying to help you, not for some personal satisfaction, nor for any goal other than your own deliverance to your home. Is that unacceptable? Is that so terrible, so baffling, so cruel, so awful? I will bear you to your home, and then I promise, you have my word once more, that I will leave and never speak to you again. But I will escort you to Eryn Lasgalen, and if you would like to argue with me, then I would dare you to hunt for food without the use of your arm, or to fend off enemies, or to manage treacherous terrain. Now I beg of you, I beg, no more fighting!”

Thranduil was stunned to silence. Thoroughly chastised, he looked away to the north and said nothing. Gimli sighed, feeling that this endeavor was useless. No matter how many times he thought they had found common ground, it seemed to always come back to this same argument. Truthfully, he wished nothing more than to return to Minas Tirith. He could imagine his kind welcome—Aragorn would laugh heartily and clasp his hand in his, and Arwen would kneel before him and kiss him on the brow, whispering kind yet teasing words meant only for him. And Legolas—well, he wasn’t sure what Legolas would do. Perhaps he’d simply nod at him from across the room, or perhaps he’d wrap his arms around him. Maybe he would have spent his days worrying, or maybe he’d have forgotten Gimli ever disappeared.

For all he cared about Legolas, he was never sure of the elf prince’s actions. Any kindness he attributed to the elf could be no more than Gimli’s own wishful thinking. He should not doubt his friend’s devotion or loyalty, but it felt wrong to assume Legolas would worry after him. Even so, the image of his One appearing in his mind filled his heart with a pang of sadness, and Gimli felt overcome with melancholy. Oh, how he missed him.

“Is something wrong, dwarf?” Thranduil asked, not necessarily unkindly.

Gimli tried to shake it off. “It’s nothing,” he said. “A longing for something is all.”

Thranduil’s expression changed then, to something more sympathetic and sad. “I understand that kind of longing. I see it in your face. You have a love, do you not?”

Gimli felt exposed under the Elvenking’s keen eye. “Aye, Thranduil, I do.”

“You should return to them then,” Thranduil said. “I know you begged me not to argue, but this comes from no spite. I have been separated from the one I love for a long time. If you have that someone in your life, you should spend every moment with them.” He looked away then, his eyes brimming with more emotion than Gimli thought him capable of. “I’m sure they would wish to know more than anything that you are alive.”

“Aye, if only that were so,” Gimli lamented. “Dwarves love but once, just as you elves do. And we cannot choose who we love no more than one can control the tide, or stop a storm. And I am afraid that my storm does not return these affections for me.”

Thranduil looked at him, and if Gimli was not mistaken, he recognized a true sadness and empathy in the elf’s typically steely gaze. “Then it is sad indeed, dwarf, to love when there is none to love you in return.”

Somehow, Gimli knew that for the first time in this long-lasting standoff, they’d found lasting common ground.

~

It had been five days since the battle in the Druadan, and Legolas felt no better.

Several times he had ventured back to the Druadan, trying to pick up the trail, but it was useless. Those orcs were determined not to be followed to their destination. Not even a skilled ranger such as Aragorn could manage to determine the orcs’ next stop.

Now that time had passed, Legolas felt useless. He spent his days wandering the edges of Minas Tirith, looking to the horizon in case Gimli would come sprinting back, ready to tell the tale of his near escape and his adventure. Would he have tricked the orcs, or perhaps he escaped by some ridiculous outpouring of strength? Whatever story the dwarf would tell, Legolas would listen with rapt attention.

Yet, Gimli did not come over the horizon.

Legolas had Gimli’s axe strapped to his back wherever he went. Though he knew it would not be stolen within the palace walls, a terrible fear overtook the elf whenever the axe was out of his sight. If Gimli returned and his axe was for any reason missing, he’d be furious, so Legolas took to keeping it within reach, always.

The elf had begun to sleep in Gimli’s room, when he could sleep at least. The bedsheets and pillows smelled like him, and it eased Legolas’ fear enough to get some rest. The elf never slept in the bed, but rather on the floor. He feared replacing Gimli’s presence with his own, so he wouldn’t dare mess with the way Gimli had left anything.

That night, Aragorn finally found him, half-asleep on the floor beside Gimli’s bed.

The king had slowly creaked the door open, coming inside for a reason Legolas did not know for certain, but could assume was similar to his own, if not from the same passion.

“Legolas,” Aragorn exclaimed, surprised. “I have wondered where you have been these nights, mellon nin.” Aragorn sank to the floor beside the prince. “I wish I knew what to say. I wish that I could ease this pain. Yet, it weighs on my heart as well, and I cannot find it in me to be contented with no knowledge of his safety.” He paused, offering a sad smile. “I’m not being very helpful, am I?”

“You need not try and be,” Legolas replied. “For my heart is saddened, and it will not be lifted. Not until I may see him once more.” He looked over the room wistfully. “Gimli nin,” he said quietly, cementing Aragorn’s suspicions. “Gimli nin, my dear Gimli.”

“Oh, Legolas,” Aragorn leaned in against him and guided the elf’s tired head to his shoulder, smoothing his hair. “I always wondered… but I never wanted to say, else I was wrong. I cannot comprehend your grief, dearest friend. Would that I could lift this pain from your shoulders!”

“My shoulders are strong,” Legolas told him, “but they feel less so now. I always swore to myself that I would never allow myself to be so swayed by passionate emotion again. You know that I had a youthful, spirited care for the elf Tauriel, which might have blossomed into love. And I was wrecked by her grief, the grief she felt for a dwarf. I couldn’t understand it then, but I promised myself I would never be like Tauriel. And now I am far more like her than I care to admit!”

“Perhaps, but we have no reason to believe Gimli is dead!” Aragorn argued. “Think of that. And perhaps the reason your care for your friend Tauriel never turned to love was that you are an elf, and will only love once. Perhaps you were only ever meant to love Gimli.”

Legolas smiled up at his friend. “A kind thought, romantic even, and I’d expect no less from you. But Gimli is not Arwen, Aragorn. He does not return my love.”

“And how do you know that?” Aragorn asked. “He adores you, Legolas. You two are perfect together. You compliment each other so well!”

“Our friendship is one for the ages, and I will always be happy with that,” Legolas agreed. “Yet, it is not love. Gimli would never love an elf.”

“And I thought you would never love a dwarf,” Aragorn protested. “How will you ever know if you never ask?”

“Ask?!” Legolas said, alarmed and sitting up straight. “He’d run off in disgust or humiliation! I would never lose my friend over something like that. Never, Aragorn.”

“Alright,” Aragorn acquiesced. “Reluctantly, I understand.”

Legolas sighed. “I mean not to disappoint you, Aragorn, but Gimli and I simply are not a love story like yours and Arwen’s. All I wish for, all I truly desire, is to see him home safe once more.”

Aragorn stood, helping Legolas up after him. “That is my desire as well,” Aragorn said sadly. “I miss his deep laughter ringing through the halls, it is much too quiet of late.” He turned to the door. “I think I will write to Éomer,” he declared. “I know he and Gimli bonded much at the Battle of Helm’s Deep, trapped in those caves together. He would certainly waste no time searching for Gimli in Rohan.”

Legolas bowed his head to him gratefully. “I think that is a fine idea,” he agreed. He followed Aragorn into the hall. “I suppose I shall sleep in my own bed tonight. Thank you,” the elf added. “I believe that sharing this with you eases my heart just a bit.”

“I’m glad,” Aragorn said. “Truly.”

In Legolas’ own room, he sat behind his desk. Almost unaware of his actions, he picked up a quill and parchment. He could do nothing to find Gimli, nothing except trust that the dwarf would find his way back to him. But his melancholy was too strong to weather, and he realized that the person he needed most was his Ada, so he finally began to write a letter to his father.

Gimli always told him to do so, always told him that no matter how Thranduil might feel about Legolas’ newfound friendship with the dwarf, the Elvenking would still want to know Legolas was happy and safe. Gimli even urged him to simply omit the dwarf’s own presence from any story he might share, but Legolas knew he could never do that, so he never finished a letter. Before tonight, at least.

At the end of the parchment now, he signed his name. He looked over the words he had written, and smiled a sad smile. No, he would not send it yet, he held it against his heart. He had done enough for now—he would send it soon.

He fell asleep with the letter against his chest, thoughts of both Gimli and his father in his head.

Chapter Text

The trek down Amon Anwar proved much easier than the vertical descent up the interior had been.

It was not a very steep mountain, simply tall and wide. The descent hardly involved any climbing—it proved to be more like a downhill jog.

Thranduil and Gimli didn’t speak a word to one another the entire time down the Halifirien. In fact, they didn’t speak again until they had left the Firien Wood far enough in their purview that the sun had risen high in the morning sky. Though both certainly desired to give Shobog and Razak’s armies a piece of their mind, they were far too unprepared and utterly unequipped to go against a thousand orcs.

Gimli thought perhaps he could convince Thranduil to send his own armies with the army of Minas Tirith, and maybe even call upon Éomer’s Rohirrim, and then they’d really be able to send these orcs to their graves.

Yet, for that to happen, Thranduil would have to allow Gimli to tell Legolas that they’d met, and the dwarf didn’t picture Thranduil allowing him to let up on his word. The king was far too prideful for that.

So instead, Gimli worried. Would Minas Tirith be able to match the strength of the orcs? Even if Rohan could be called upon, both kingdoms of men were still recovering from their battles against Sauron. Without the help of Eryn Lasgalen—would they be able to defeat the orc army?

Gimli thought then that perhaps he was feeling especially unsettled because he did not have his axe. How his hands itched to hold it, to swing it once more!

Finally, as they slowed for a rest, they once again spoke.

Thranduil looked over the horizon. “We can either travel north and attempt the crossing of the Entwash, or we may travel west of the river, up through Fangorn—”

“No!” Gimli protested, far too quickly. Thranduil lifted an eyebrow and gave him a confused yet curious look. But how was Gimli to say that the reason he would not travel to Fangorn was that it was simply not right without Legolas? Legolas had always wished to take him—to show Gimli all that he loved of that forest in a time of peace. He felt it to be a kind of betrayal, if he were to go with anyone else. And it felt especially odd if he went behind Legolas’ back to journey there with the elf’s father.

“I only mean,” the dwarf recovered, “that will take far longer. The Greenwood is nearly exactly north of here, and we’d have to travel out of our way if we didn’t cross the Entwash. Besides,” he added. “Either way we’d need to cross the Anduin.”

“You’re right, dwarf. It is dangerous both to cross and to delay,” Thranduil agreed. “So if you have chosen our danger, then I will go with you.” Thranduil straightened. “It will be six days walk from here unless we find steeds to bear us.”

“Aye. But once we cross the Entwash, we’ll be in Rohan, and I just so happen to be great friends with the King of the Mark. Though we will not pass near his home in Edoras, I’m sure we’ll find a fit welcome.”

“That would be useful, dwarf,” Thranduil said appraisingly as they walked. “Tell me, how is it that you seem to meet so many? You know of my son, an elf, and you’re friends with both the King of the Mark and the King Elessar. You even proclaimed your love for the hobbits you escorted in the Fellowship. It is all odd, for a dwarf. You’ve always been a race that keeps to oneself.”

“Ha! That’s rich, coming from an elf!” Gimli laughed. “You might even say we have more in common than one might think!”

“That’s certainly untrue,” Thranduil responded, though even he sounded unsure.

“Oh, really laddie? Think about it! We both curse one another for our stubbornness, our pride, our seclusion and isolation from other races on Middle Earth. If you used those descriptors and nothing else, no one would be able to tell if you were talking about the dwarves or the elves!”

Gimli didn’t think Thranduil liked this comparison, as the elf said nothing in reply.

“Perhaps then, an alliance between an elf and a dwarf is not so laughable as you seem to think,” Gimli continued. “As friendships as well as alliances in battle. There are rumors that Lord Elrond of Rivendell was once very fond of Durin IV, my ancestor. Story goes they were great friends, once upon a time.”

Thranduil blinked. “That may very well be true, though I did not know Elrond then. Still, it sounds like something that fool would do.”

“Aye, the fool,’ Gimli repeated, a little disappointed. He wasn’t sure what he expected Thranduil to say, but he supposed it should have been exactly that.

~

They paused alongside the rushing water of the Entwash, the sun now beneath the horizon. They had spent the rest of the day running, hoping to find stables and lodging in Rohan so that they might depart on steeds in the morning to shorten their trip. Luckily for them, they had run into no predators or enemies throughout the day.

Thranduil looked to the sky. “A storm brews,” he muttered, much to Gimli’s surprise.

“What makes ya say that?” he asked incredulously. “There’s nothing but clear skies as far as the eye can see!”

“Why, dwarf, you surprise me,” Thranduil said with a spark of mischief in his eye. “You taught me to listen to the story of stone, yet you do not know how to find the story of the air?”

“Alright, I’ll admit it, laddie, I may have been a tad hypocritical, blaming you for not knowing dwarven tricks,” Gimli allowed. “So tell me, what do your elf eyes see?”

“It is not what one sees, so much as what one feels. The air has grown so stagnant and warm, yet the river rushes as though a great wind were upon it. A storm brews alright—it comes from the northwest. It shall cross south-eastwardly over Middle Earth.”

“Aye, so it will reach Minas Tirith last,” Gimli noted. “How strong might we expect this storm to be.”

“Far stronger than we’ve seen in many years,” Thranduil admitted. “Perhaps the sky wishes to cleanse the earth now that Sauron has been defeated. To wash the lands of his remaining evil.”

“Yes, well let us only hope that it blows away Razak and those nasty trolls,” Gimli said stubbornly.

“I wish for nothing more,” Thranduil agreed.

"Suppose we'll beat the storm to Eryn Lasgalen?"

"Yes, if we find steeds by morning. However, I am less sure you'll make it to Minas Tirith before the storm catches up."

"Well, I can worry about that later," Gimli acknowledged. "For now, we need to cross the Entwash without a boat. Any ideas?"

Thranduil contemplated this for a while. "It is too strong for a rudimentary raft," he pondered. "Yet, the river bottom changes depths. There may be a place shallow enough to wade across, so long as you are careful not to let your feet slip out from under you."

"Aye, I'll watch myself and you do the same," Gimli defended, though Thranduil was not wrong. Dwarves were not known for being swimmers of any kind. And Gimli felt near frozen staring at the rushing water. He didn't want to admit he was scared, no, of course not! But he might be just a little... apprehensive.

They walked along the shore only another hour before Thranduil was satisfied. He jumped in first, the water rushing, yet he was sturdy against the tide. It went up to just below his chest. Brilliant.

"Come along, dwarf," Thranduil called behind him as he began to wade across carefully.

Gimli eyes the water suspiciously. He sat down on the bank and slowly lowered himself into the rushing water, nearly slipping already, his heart dropping to his toes. The water came up just below his nose and he had to turn his head upward. The Elvenking looked back and threw his head back in laughter.

"Laugh it up!" Gimli shouted, his head lifted. "You may stick to your water if I may stick to my stone!"

The crossing was going alright. Thranduil was already climbing onto the opposite bank by the time Gimli was halfway across, and the dwarf grumbled in annoyance. Though now, he supposed, he understood Thranduil's frustration inside the Halifirien. He had to hand it to the king—he made good progress considering he only had the use of one arm. The rivers were likely far more familiar to the elf than they could ever be to a dwarf.

Gimli was nearly at the bank when one of the stones beneath his feet became unearthed by a particularly strong tide, and Gimli flailed as his body was pulled under.

His heart was seized in a panic—was this how he would die? Drowned by a river that he demanded they cross, all because he couldn't fathom the small possibility that Legolas might be offended if Gimli should walk through a certain forest? As the water beat him, it all seemed so ridiculous.

As his lungs began to burn and his sight began to dwindle, still being tossed about and unable to regain any footing or semblance of balance, he faintly felt himself being jerked upward by the collar of his shirt.

He took a large gasp of air, coughing out the water that had forced its way down his throat. He was dragged up quickly and forcefully onto the grass, where he proceeded to throw up the water that he had swallowed in an attempt to keep it from suffocating him.

Soaked to the bone and weary of muscle, he glanced up at Thranduil, distracted by the hissing and festering pain of his poisoned arm, the black and gray coloration spreading to his fingers and up his shoulder.

"Are you—ach—are you alright?" Gimli asked, guilty for how his rescue preceded Thranduil's pain. He thumbed the Demantur with his gloved finger, the stone luckily still secured in his pocket.

The Elvenking turned his hard, cold stare on Gimli. "Am I alright? What is the matter with you, dwarf? You nearly drowned! I thought I was fishing your corpse from the rapids!"

"Aye, well, I've never been much of a swimmer," Gimli said, shuddering. He realized how cold he was and wrapped his arms around himself. A glance back at the Entwash sent another shiver down his spine.

Thranduil was watching him this entire time, inquisitive. "Gimli," he said, using the name that the dwarf now wasn't sure he wanted to hear, "are you... scared of the water?"

Gimli would not meet his eye. "And what of it?!" He snapped. "Lots of people are scared of lots of things! Dwarves were not built to swim, we're built to sink! It's sensible that I fear it, and this evening clearly proved that!"

Thranduil only nodded, looking a little surprised. Perhaps he had expected Gimli to jest, but it was clear that the dwarf's fear was real.

"May I ask then, why would you choose to cross the river instead of traveling through Fangorn?" Thranduil pondered. "As I said before, you chose which danger we faced, but why choose the one you fear more? Unless of course, it is Fangorn you feared most, not the water."

Gimli groaned. "While I am not overly fond of forests, I'd rather risk a little waterlogging than adding days to our trip," Gimli supplied, though he lied while saying it.

Perhaps Thranduil had been right to call him serpent-tongue in Amon Anwar. The more Gimli spoke to the king, the more he seemed to lie to him. Truthfully, Fangorn did scare him more than water, but only because he feared Legolas' disappointment. It was a calculated risk, and it almost paid off, had Gimli not slipped.

The dwarf stood to his feet. "Well, thank you for fishing my corpse from the river," he said, joking yet sincere. "I appreciate it."

Thranduil seemed uncomfortable with this. "Let us only hope, dwarf, that you have not forced us too far downstream."

Gimli peered into the trees beside the bank, and he saw little lights beyond them. Warm, lantern lights. He grinned.

"How's about a drink, Master Elf?"

~

Beyond the trees was, as Gimli suspected, a tavern. Though Thranduil did not seem too happy about this, Gimli minded not at all. A bed to sleep in, a warm drink in his belly, access to horses and ponies, it all seemed like a dream after nearly drowning in the cold and unforgiving turbulence of the Entwash.

Gimli retired to his room—because of course the elf had demanded two separate rooms—early, to dry off. Unfortunately, he needed to put the same clothes back on, since he didn't have his pack, but he allowed them to dry a little by the fire as he combed out his unruly red hair.

When he finally returned downstairs, everyone was drinking joyously. A busy night for this small Rohan tavern, and Gimli was happy to be among them.

Thranduil sat in a booth, brooding in the corner, so Gimli joined him.

"Not enjoying the festivities, eh laddie?"

"I wish you would cease with that name."

"Not much of a drinker?"

Thranduil sighed. "Ales of men and dwarves do little to affect an elf," he grumbled.

"Ah, I see, it is not a matter of wanting a drink, it's a matter of having one," Gimli laughed. "I almost feel bad for you, King Thranduil," he teased. The elf rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest petulantly. "Well, no one's saying I can't have any. Barkeep!" Gimli called. "Two ales over here!"

Thranduil glared at him. "I just told you, these drinks of men have no effect."

"They're both for me," Gimli said, grinning widely as the bartender set them on the table in front of him. The dwarf lifted one. "Cheers?" He said playfully. Thranduil only scowled, so Gimli shrugged and clinked his own mugs together.

A man began to approach their table with a curious look, drawing both Gimli's and Thranduil's attention. They both suddenly became on alert, again wishing for nonexistent weapons.

"Gimli?" The man asked, and the dwarf's face lit up.

"No, it couldn't be, Berren, as I live and breathe!" Gimli stood up and clapped the man's hands in his own. "I had wondered what became of you after the ring was destroyed. Tell me, how are you these days?"

"Oh, not bad at all!" The man said with a wide smile. "Retired now, I suppose."

"Retired? You? How ridiculous a notion!"

Berren shrugged and pointed to his leg. "It's bum now," he explained. "Can only walk with a limp, and can't make it too fast."

"I'm sorry, Berren. You were a fine ally in the Glittering Caves."

"Eh, I'm glad to be rid of my sword!" Berren exclaimed cheerily. "This is actually my tavern, you know. When I heard your voice I just had to take a break to see you."

"This whole place is yours? How incredible! You've changed quite a lot since we parted in Edoras."

"And you haven't changed a bit! And that's a compliment. I mean, you're even still spending time with elves!"

Gimli immediately tried to change the subject as Thranduil's signature eyebrow raised. "How rude of me! Berren, this is Thranduil, King of the Greenwood. Thranduil, this is Berren, a former rider of the Rohirrim. We fought together at the Battle of Helm’s Deep.’

Thranduil nodded respectfully, but with his usual cool indifference. If Berren noticed this and was offended, he did not show it.

“A king huh? In my tavern? How impressive!” he waggled his eyebrows almost mockingly, and Gimli knew that Thranduil must despise the man’s humor and attitude. Berren turned back to the dwarf. “Whatever are you doing in Rohan, Gimli?”

“Well, I’ve given my word not to say much,” Gimli said, casting a reassuring glance back at Thranduil. “But I can tell you, and you might not believe it, that I was stolen away by an army of orcs.”

“Stolen away? You? Laughable, that any creature—even one as stupid as an orc—would believe they could hold Gimli the Dwarf hostage longer than he desired to be!” Berren’s happy demeanor faltered slightly. “You may be in Rohan now, but I heard tell that you were staying in Gondor. How long have you been missing?”

“Nearly a week.”

“My word, Gimli! Your friends must be worried sick about you! Perhaps I can send a messenger—not so far as Minas Tirith, but rather to Edoras. I’m sure Éomer would delight to hear any news of you, and he’d certainly be able to send words to your friends that you are alive.” Berren suddenly looked stricken. “Ah, but for the storm! It advances in a few days—no messenger would dare advance now.”

“Peace, Berren. It is a kind offer regardless, but storm or no storm a message would be meaningless. I’d likely beat any messenger to the city myself! Worry yourself not about my own safety, or of my friends. I shall return to them as swiftly as I can manage. You have your hands full enough as it is!”

Gimli invited Berren to sit with them, and they caught up jovially. Gimli was careful to avoid any mention of Legolas, and he made sure to avoid any turn in conversation that might compel Berren to bring up the elf. There was no way that Berren knew that Legolas and Thranduil were related, so it was a bit easier to only speak of Aragorn or Éomer as far as mutual friends went.

Wearied from the chaotic trip, Gimli finally excused himself, which Thranduil seemed to appreciate greatly. Gimli wondered if the reason the king stayed at all was because of politeness, and he nearly wished to torture the elf again by changing his mind and staying for another drink. Yet, he was exhausted of mind and body, still worn from his tumble in the Entwash, so they departed to their separate rooms.

Upon reaching the bed, Gimli promptly went to sleep, deciding he’d say goodbye to Berren in the morning.

~

Berren stood behind the bar, washing his mugs with a rag. It was in those few precious hours just before dawn when nearly everyone in his tavern was asleep. The few people left in his bar were so drunk and out of it that they might as well have been sleeping.

He heard footsteps in the doorway and sighed, not looking up. "Essen, you better get your ass behind the bar so I'm not doing your job! I swear if you fall asleep during one more rush I'll have you out of here in a second!"

Upon hearing no response, Berren raised his head angrily, only to see that it was not his lazy bartender, but rather King Thranduil.

"Oh! Sorry about that," Berren said with a smile. "Thought you were another one of my nonexistent staff. You want an ale? Or is wine more your speed?"

Thranduil awkwardly came and sat at the bar before Berren, who noted the elf's discomfort with amusement. "No, your drinks have no effect on elves."

Berren snapped his fingers. "That's right! I remember. Sorry, but I was so drunk that night that I remember very little."

"What night?" Thranduil asked curiously.

"Well, we were all together, celebrating our victory at Helm's Deep, safely back in the taverns of Edoras. We drank in celebration! Of course, this was before Sauron's true attack—the one that left my leg injured." Berren narrowed his eyes slightly. "Were you hurt too? Your arm?" The king seemed to recoil slightly, putting his arm behind him. "Sorry, I shouldn't be prying, huh?"

"It's fine," Thranduil said sharply. “Who all celebrated in Edoras?”

Berren tapped his foot thoughtfully, his fingers clinking nonchalantly on the glass. “Well, most of us. A lot of us, in fact. Keep in mind, before the elves came to our aid it seemed like the only people to defend Helm’s Deep were our average, untrained citizens. Those I was with though were in that Fellowship, celebrating Saruman’s defeat at the hands of the Ents as well. So, Gimli of course, Éomer and Éowyn, Aragorn, Legolas, those adorable little hobbits Merry and Pippin—”

“And they were all celebrating together?”

“Well, we all were, but if you’re asking about friendships, believe me, it surprised me too. I always expected the High King Elessar to be a lot less friendly, but he’s actually pretty down to earth.”

“And what of the elf? What was he like?”

“Legolas? He’s a laugh! Well, not a laugh like the hobbits are a laugh, of course. Legolas did not do much laughing. As an elf that shouldn’t surprise you too much.”

“What made him a laugh, then?”

Berren had to think back on that night, and it put a smile on his face. “I mean, the elf was pretty damn impressive in battle. And what a character too! All quiet-like, but definitely capable of a lot more emotion, you know? To be honest, I’m not sure how much he liked Éomer going into that night, but they seemed like friends coming out of it.”

The elf cocked his head, and Berren decided he wasn’t sure if he liked this guy's emotionless, cryptic behavior. “Why did he not the King of the Mark?”

“Well, keep in mind, Éomer was not yet king. When we met Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas, we Rohirrim riders were actually exiled. A longer story, you see. And we mistook those three for enemies at the time. Well, of course, Gimli and Éomer began arguing, because they’re prone to do so. And Éomer threatened to cut off Gimli’s head.

“Of course, though it was said as a jest, dear Éomer was not entirely joking, after all, his uncle to whom he’d always been loyal was under total control of Saruman. He was stressed. So the little truth that rang true in his threat pissed Legolas off, and he drew his bow on him, telling Éomer he’d die before he got the chance. Naturally, Aragorn was able to mediate, and Éomer attempted to make up for his haste. It worked well for Gimli; the two are now thick as thieves! But it took Legolas far longer to trust him.”

Thranduil blinked in confusion, and Berren wondered if he had told the story wrong somehow. “You’re saying,” the Elvenking began slowly, “that Legolas would not forgive Éomer because he threatened a dwarf?”

Berren scrunched up his face, looking at Thranduil as though he were dumb. “Not because he threatened a dwarf. Because he threatened Gimli.” Berren narrowed his eyes at Thranduil, growing suspicious. “Did you not come here with Gimli? Surely he’s told you some of this.”

Thranduil did not lower his gaze. “Gimli and Legolas are not friends, so I don’t suppose—”

Berren’s loud burst of laughter cut the elf off, and left him stunned. Yet, Berren could not find it in himself to stop. “You cannot truly believe that!”

“I don’t understand. Legolas would never befriend a dwarf”

Berren looked at him incredulously. “Who on earth told you they were not friends? That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard! Sure, they didn’t start out that way, but if we’re imagining friends, then I wouldn’t be able to name any pair stronger! Any pair more loyal! They’re the closest of friends, in fact—have you ever even asked your traveling companion about the elf?

“The Three Hunters, they were called—Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas. All three are ever so devoted to one another. I’m sure each one would give their life for any other. Gimli and Legolas especially so!” Berren paused a moment to really look at the elf sitting across the bar. “Look, Thranduil, I don’t know what’s happened to you in this last week, or why Gimli ‘gave his word’ not to say, but whatever it is, you better treat that dwarf well. I know something weird’s going on here, but I trust Gimli. Still, if I find out later that you’ve done anything to hurt him, you better watch yourself. And don’t doubt that I’d be the least of your worries. Éomer would flay you on site, Aragorn would most certainly set his entire cavalry upon you, and there would be nowhere in Middle Earth that Legolas would not track you down, and believe me, you don’t want to be on the other side of that bow, my friend.”

Thranduil stood up. “This has been lovely,” he said sarcastically, but despite the threats, he didn’t seem as angry as Berren expected.

Berren was suddenly struck with another curiosity. “Thranduil?” he asked as the elf neared the doorway. The elf did not turn, but he stopped, so Berren took that as an invitation. “You seemed so sure that Legolas wouldn’t be friends with Gimli. But do you even know Legolas?”

Thranduil still did not turn, but Berren heard his response. “No,” the Elvenking said simply. “I fear I do not.”

There was something odd about the way he said it, but Thranduil had already left.

“Weird guy,” Berren muttered to himself.

Chapter Text

The dwarf woke earlier than the elf, so he headed downstairs to offer thanks to their host.

“Ah, he wakes!” Berren teased as Gimli ran into him. “I was just on my way to you. While I respect that you’ve given your word not to share your journey, that does not mean I cannot help you along it. I have some things for you.”

Berren took a pack from around his shoulder and handed it to Gimli. The dwarf peered inside and grinned. “I see you’ve only offered the essentials, Berren?”

“Of course! If you’re to travel with that elf, you’ll desperately need the pipe and leaf.” The man had a mischievous smile. “I’m sure the other things will come in handy as well.”

“Well, I thank you with excitement, Berren. You’ve been an impeccable host. You simply must come visit me in Minas Tirith when you have the time to spare!”

“I very well may,” Berren replied. “Please, watch out for yourself, Gimli. I don’t much like that elf you seem content to travel with—yet I wouldn’t dare question your wisdom in the matter.”

Gimli waved a hand through the air in dismissal. “As you should not,” he agreed pointedly. “I would not have traveled this far with Thranduil if I did not believe that I could handle him. He may be stubborn and self-serving, but I have seen other sides to him as well. You must remember, we are all capable of change.”

“I agree,” Berren said, “but only so far as we are concerned. Some old dogs simply cannot be taught new tricks. And he is old, isn’t he?”

“You speak of immortality?” Gimli filled in the blank. “Aye, old he may be. Still, he has not tired yet! Have faith, Berren. Perhaps Thranduil and I are not destined for everlasting kinship, but I have already seen a change in him, a vulnerability and even kindness that I would not have expected.”

Berren still looked unconvinced. “I have something else for you,” he added, and he unsheathed his sword. “My sword served me well when we fought in Helm’s Deep. It rescued me from a fate that would have been worse than this limp in those battles against Sauron. May it serve you such as well.”

Gimli looked at it in shock. “Why, Berren, you cannot give me your sword!”

“Absolutely I can! I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I happen to do whatever fits my fancy at the moment,” he said petulantly. “Besides, I don’t need it anymore. You will. And if it happens to be my sword that is plunged into that strange elf’s gut—”

“Berren!”

“I’m only joking,” Berren said, unconvincingly. “But seriously Gimli, I don’t know what it is you owe him, but see to it he knows better than to do anything unbecoming.”

“I will. Now, will you quit worryin’?”

“Nah, I’d rather not,” Berren argued, but he did so with a smile on his face. “Alright, I won’t hold you up any longer. You be sure not to get swept up in that storm on your way to Minas Tirith. Stop back here if need be.”

“Of course, Berren,” Gimli said, clasping his hand. “You are a good friend.”

“Do write to me once you’ve made it back to the city,” Berren told him. “I’m afraid I’ll worry about you every moment until then!”

“Why, what on earth would ya have to worry about?” Gimli laughed as he walked past Berren, heading out the door.

~

Gimli waited outside Berren’s tavern with a slightly evil surprise for the elf king, and he was thrilled to see Thranduil’s face.

When the Elvenking finally emerged, the only response Gimli got for his surprise was a resigned sigh.

“Ponies?”

“Aye! Don’t worry, I’ve thought it through. I can’t ride a horse on my own, and based on our track record I can say with surety that you would not prefer to share a horse with me. I could ride a pony while you rode a horse, but you’d outpace me, and then whatever would you do without me? No, both of us riding ponies is the best option! You’re light enough that your height won’t be a problem. It will just take some adjustin’, that’s all. And Berren was kind enough to offer these fine lasses up!”

“It seems I have no other option,” Thranduil said blandly, before hopping up on the pony—which was less of a hop and more of just lifting one of his long legs.

Gimli was much surprised. No arguments, no battle of wits, no elvish stubbornness? It was most unusual for Thranduil to be so demure and defeated so early in the day, but Gimli simply shrugged it off. They had a lot of land to cover. Only two days ride to the crossing of the Anduin, and then only a day after to reach Eryn Lasgalen.

Three days and Gimli could begin his trek back to Minas Tirith, back to his life, back to Aragorn, back to Legolas. He was excited by the idea, even though it would take more days still to reach the city.

It was his joy at these thoughts that allowed him to ride quietly with Thranduil all day, not once questioning the king’s abnormal silence.

~

They rode until nightfall before Gimli finally stopped them under cover of some trees.

“We’ll rest here for the night, so that our ponies may recover their strength. Hearty girls, aren’t they!” Gimli laughed, inviting Thranduil to agree, or perhaps to annoyingly protest, or even to become as angry at him as he had done before. Yet, Thranduil remained silent. Not angry, just quiet. Lost in thought—his mind so far elsewhere that earlier in the day, Gimli feared the poison had claimed it.

After they made camp wordlessly and had started a fire, Gimli’s frustration finally overcame him. “Alright, enough laddie! Out with it, would ya?”

Thranduil looked a little surprised. “Sorry?”

“You’ve barely said a word all day,” Gimli pointed out. “Or do ya mean to tell me it’s been unintentional, because I’m hard-pressed to believe ya then!”

Thranduil looked a bit surprised that Gimli even seemed to notice this. “I hadn’t even noticed.”

“Yeah right.”

“I assure you, I hadn’t. I’ve been distracted, I suppose.”

Gimli gave him a pointed look. “Distracted…?”

Thranduil seemed to have been staring at the dwarf intently, but for this, he offered no explanation. “My mind has been busy thinking about the story.”

“The story?”

“Of the immortal man. Of the Demantur.”

Gimli pulled out a pipe from the bag Berren supplied him with that morning. He lit it over the fire and took a puff, considering Thranduil’s words. “Now, why are you thinking of that story? Besides the obvious, I mean,” Gimli said, patting the pack that now safely stored the Demantur away.

Thranduil looked into the fire. “It really only struck me today how it is not simply a story, but a truth.”

Gimli shrugged. “I suppose, but keep in mind, it’s been passed through many ears before reaching ours. It may be completely false.”

“Do you believe that?” Thranduil asked, almost hopeful.

The dwarf narrowed his eyes. “Not really. Do you?”

“There are just some parts I feel I am failing to understand. The Demantur provided eternal life—that much is fair. But an immortal life is not in and of itself a curse.”

“You think so?”

“Elves have lived immortal lives since the dawn of time, unless we are felled in battle. Yet, none of us have ever felt the need to sink into the ocean, chained to the sea floor after only three hundred years. And why did the man do it? He waited those three hundred years after committing such horrible acts in his village. Why imprison himself and the Demantur so long after the one truly awful thing he did?” The Elvenking took a deep breath. “Immortality is a gift. How could the man—or anyone really, be unhappy with it?”

Gimli had never heard Thranduil so rapt with attention, so affected before. “Aye, but you’re forgetting about the child.” At this, Thranduil looked up, staring deeply into Gimli’s eyes, fully alert. “That’s the true problem. The man did horrible things, of course. Everyone does after all—his just happened to be worse than usual. But he could live with all of that.

“What he couldn’t live with was forgetting his daughter,” the dwarf continued. “His own child. At the end of all things, he was a father first, and an immortal man second. He might have walked the lands without her presence for millions of years, but that paled beside the true reason for his grief. He had forgotten her name. To be a parent and not know your own child—well, I suppose I wouldn’t know much about it,” Gimli decided, taking a puff from his pipe. “I am no father, nor am I immortal.”

“I’d like to hear your opinion regardless,” Thranduil said, once again surprising Gimli.

“Alright,” Gimli acquiesced. “I suppose I’d say that what immortality had taken from him, what time had taken from him, was too great a sacrifice. What is the point of living forever if you can’t even host an understanding of those you love dearest? The man was a father—but time had stripped him of that title. Not because his daughters were dead, but because he no longer knew them. How tragic it is! Not to know the heart of your child, not to feel what they feel, to understand what they understood. To blemish their memory with what knowledge you lack. After all, the story tells little of his eldest daughter, but she likely had hopes, dreams, passions, disappointments, all of those important things that make us who we are. But all of that was forgotten—cast aside amidst the stormy tides of time.”

The dwarf blinked, clearing his head of the stupor he had entered. “Apologies, I suppose I’ve taken a bleak story and made it a shade bleaker. I’m no father, after all. I could be wrong about the whole thing. Or the story may not be entirely true! Alas, none know but for the Valar.”

Thranduil’s gaze was still locked on the dwarf, and Gimli felt especially scrutinized beneath it. “I overstepped—did I not? I haven’t forgotten you’re a father. I should not speak on such subjects—”

“Perhaps you should,” Thranduil said simply. “Perhaps you are far more knowledgeable in these subjects than I am. Maybe more than I’ve ever been.”

Gimli cast him a completely stupified look. “King Thranduil, forgive my intrusion on your mind, but what has changed in you today?”

Thranduil had yet to drop his gaze, and Gimli wondered if he was preparing to attack. Yet, the elf said, “much has changed, Gimli, Glóin’s Son.”

Gimli wanted to shout, demand that Thranduil drop the cryptic phrases, but he froze as a rustling came from the bushes.

This sound finally, finally, stole away the elf’s focus, and they both stilled, quietly looking out into the brush. Gimli slowly and quietly reached into his pack, gripping his fingers around the hilt of a dagger that Berren left for them. He tossed it to Thranduil, who caught it so clumsily in his left hand that Gimli understood he’d be all but useless in a fight.

Gimli unsheathed Berren’s sword from where it lay strapped to his back, and readied himself. The crashing in the brush was clearly slow and quiet like a predator slowly stalking its prey.

Suddenly, in a flash of movement that the dwarf could hardly comprehend, an enormous warg leapt from the bushes and jumped, claws at the ready, atop the Elvenking.

“Thranduil!” Gimli shouted in surprise, himself bounding toward the creature.

Thranduil was trying and failing to lift his arms against the warg that pinned him to the ground, but Gimli was quick enough to stop the warg’s claws from razing Thranduil’s torso. The dwarf barrelled into the creature, tackling it off of the elf.

Gimli and the warg skidded across the grass, landing in a heap where Gimli was unable to maintain the higher ground. The warg had flipped him, pinned as Thranduil had just been. One of its massive paws came across Gimli’s face. Though Gimli was able to use a free arm to keep the paw further away than its intention, still the sharp sting of claws drew blood from the dwarf’s cheek.

Shouting a rebellious cry, Gimli grasped hold of Berren’s sword once more, driving it into the warg’s neck from below. The creature let out a screeching wail before collapsing, falling to Gimli’s side. The dwarf was quick to his feet in case his jab had not felled the creature, but it did not stir.

Gimli and Thranduil both stood, panting, over the dead warg. The dwarf returned the sword to its sheath. He turned to the elf. “Alright then?”

Thranduil shook his head. “No.”

Gimli looked him over, and saw no external injuries, save for the ever-spreading poison now coloring some of the veins in his neck as well. “Well, you’re still standing,” the dwarf commented, still trying to catch his breath. “Is it your—”

“You and Legolas are friends.”

Gimli’s eyes widened. He was still panting, the warg only killed moments ago, and now, now, was when Thranduil decided on this?!

Blind-sided, Gimli could only stare at the king in shock. This was clearly not good enough for the elf, yet he did not lose his temper. “Tell me the truth, Gimli. Is it true? Is Legolas your friend? Not simply an acquaintance or an ally, like I was led to believe?”

Gimli knew there was no backing out of this, so he sat back down beside the fire, reaching for some of the clean cloths Berren packed away. “Yes, we’re friends,” he admitted as he dabbed at the blood the warg drew from his face. “This is what has truly upset you all day, then? You’re angry with me.”

“No, actually, dwarf,” Thranduil corrected, sitting now at Gimli’s side. “I’m angry with myself.”

A red-hot anger bubbled in the dwarf, mixed with a bit of shame. “I see—you blame yourself for not raising him well enough, huh? Ya think if you had done a better job he wouldn’t ever have befriended a stubborn, lazy dwarf?!”

“May I?” Thranduil said calmly in response to Gimli’s defense. It took Gimli a moment to realize that Thranduil was offering to help Gimli clean his wound. Slowly, he acquiesced, handing over the cloth. Thranduil reached over and began to clean Gimli’s wound, looking at his work while he spoke.

“I am angry with myself, dwarf, because I have not heard from Legolas since his departure to Rivendell. And you know this. But I’m beginning to realize that perhaps he does not write to me because he has nothing he wants to say. Nothing he feels I will listen to, at least.”

Gimli watched the Elvenking’s face as he spoke, ever trying to solve the puzzle of the elf. “How did you guess we were friends?”

“I didn’t,” Thranduil admitted. “Berren told me.”

“When?”

“After you went to sleep last night, I went to speak with him. I couldn’t shake his comment about you associating with elves—perhaps I had a hunch the whole time, yet simply wouldn’t believe it.”

“And you believe it now?”

“Well, Berren is rather convincing,” Thranduil said, a playful smile on his lips. “Strange fellow, that one. Confident. He laughed at me, quite loudly, for my ignorance. He seemed quite sure that your friendship with my son was quite evident, and even well-known. Known to all but me, apparently.”

“I didn’t mean to lie to ya about it,” Gimli admitted. “Not intentionally, anyhow.”

“Lies of omission, Gimli,” Thranduil said with a hum as he reached for a bandage from the pack. “Yet, why should I expect you to tell me something my own child would not?"

Gimli watched the elf curiously as he carefully applied the bandage. "I don't get it—you're not fumin' like you should be."

"Perhaps there is nothing to fume over," Thranduil said simply. "Did you think of that? Listen. We've traveled far with one another, and I have come to understand that you do not, in fact, have some hidden, ulterior motives. Is that not enough? You have proven much to me, Gimli. I was angry to hear Berren's words, true, but yet despite all my ruminating, I cannot pinpoint how I can blame you. I've made many an ally in battle myself. Though these have never become friends, I wonder if that is not by my own choice rather than some force at play." The elf sighed, and with a moment of clear vulnerability, said, "I fear I am not one for friendships."

Gimli nodded soberly. "I do hope that this revelation does not strain your relationship with Legolas."

"I fear you may only provide a symbol for that. Regardless, should you return to Minas Tirith, perhaps you may deliver a letter for me."

"Aye, I can do that. Now, get some sleep. We've still long to travel yet. Put your mind off of your son—you will need all of your strength and attention for your return home."

Thranduil moved back across the fire and lay within his bedroll, his mind still obviously troubled over this issue. Grateful as Gimli was that Thranduil had seemingly pledged his allegiance to him, he didn't like seeing that this mindset worried the Elvenking far more.

"Thranduil?"

"Yes, Gimli?"

"You could claim I am your friend, if you—"

"In your dreams, dwarf."

Gimli chuckled. It was worth a try, he thought to himself.

Chapter Text

The next day's travel to the Anduin was far more companionable than any of the days before it.

Thranduil's seemingly ever-persistent foul mood stopped persisting, and for that, Gimli was glad. It seemed that the news that Legolas and Gimli were friends actually made the dwarf and Elvenking's relationship better.

It seemed that Thranduil's ever-judging eye had finally shifted off of Gimli, and the dwarf wondered if it was only that Thranduil had finally realized something important about elves and dwarves. Yet, he would not ask, because Thranduil did not strike him as the kind to revisit the topic of tensions between their races.

Gimli was incredibly grateful for this change in Thranduil, as even though the topic of Legolas and Gimli's friendship had struck him mute the day before, it now seemed to loosen his lips as they rode north to the Anduin.

The two made plans to attack Razak’s armies. Once the storm passes, the orcs would be weakened. Thranduil decided he’d bring the might of Eryn Lasgalen as he once did against the armies outside Erebor.

Gimli much liked this idea, though he was sure it may be awkward to be the sole dwarf fighting alongside an army of elves. Yet whatsoever would best enact revenge on Razak was good enough for Gimli. Thranduil also had this gleam in his eye as he discussed how they would attack the orc armies in the Firien—and Gimli could not blame him. After being struck in the arm by Razak’s poisoned blade, he was sure the elf had plenty reason to despise the orc.

They talked and talked for those hours about whatever seemed to strike them. Thranduil told tales of his homeland, and shared stories of when he had Thorin Oakenshield and Gimli's father in his dungeon. He waxed poetic about the grace and bravery of the elves in the Battle of Five Armies outside of Erebor. Gimli too shared stories of his home, before and after said battle, and taught Thranduil much of dwarven culture, occasionally surprising the Elvenking with his knowledge of elven culture.

Early in the afternoon, Thranduil asked Gimli to tell him the tale of the Fellowship. Gimli had been avoiding this topic because though Thranduil seemed far more friendly with the dwarf, he still wasn't sure how much he should or could share about himself and Legolas. Yet, Thranduil asked for that specifically, so Gimli told him the tale.

He began in Rivendell and left out no detail of the bickering that ensued over the ring. He described their journey through snow and fire. He detailed the halls of Khazad-dûm, and the grief they found there—both of Gimli's family and the supposed loss of Gandalf.

He worked his way through the tale he spun, through Lothlorien and the rivers and forests and fields. To the halls of Helm's Deep and the beautiful caves Gimli fought within. To the valley of dead soldiers and the Pelennor Fields, right up to the gates of Mordor.

Throughout the story, Thranduil was rapt with attention. He asked frequent questions, especially of Legolas, and Gimli did not hold back. He told him in truth the closeness of all Three Hunters, mentioning details he never would have dreamed of letting the Elvenking know. He told him how he shared a horse with Legolas, how they competed for kills and how Gimli won in Helm's Deep. He told him of the night they all drank with Berren and Éomer, and he even gained the courage to tell Thranduil of their plans to visit the Glittering Caves and Fangorn together. And though Gimli prepared each time for Thranduil's anger and disbelief, it never came, even as some details needed to be digested longer than others.

He also made sure to brag of Legolas' accomplishments. Thoroughly. He told Thranduil how Legolas used a shield to slide down the stairs at Helm's Deep, all the while keeping his bow steady. How he had beaten Gimli to nineteen kills with Gimli's then meager number. He spoke of Legolas and Aragorn's persistence in the hunt for their hobbit friends, and how Legolas slayed the Oliphaunt. That one was particularly impressive—though Gimli had refused to admit it at the time. It was still only one kill after all.

"I should have loved to hear this from Legolas," Thranduil said after Gimli's tale had been concluded and all of the Elvenking's questions answered.

Gimli inclined his head. "I'm sure he'd have loved to tell you. He only stays in Minas Tirith to be a help to the king, his friend. I am sure that is all."

He knew that was what bothered Thranduil—not their friendship, though surely that would have bothered him only a few days ago—but rather it was Legolas' distance. How this exonerated Gimli, he knew not. Still, a piece of him wished that Thranduil might turn his frustrations on the dwarf, of only it could repair the relationship of father and son.

~

They reached the Anduin with yet another hour of sunlight, much to both of their delights.

A small village lay slightly east of where they had ended up, so they traveled there, unwilling to risk a crossing without a boat this time. Gimli did not particularly desire to nearly drown as he had in the Entwash.

Upon procuring a boat from a rather stunned townsman, they set it across the Anduin. Gimli had to carry it, as Thranduil could no longer lift his arms. They tied the ponies to a tree, their offered fee for their boat. Unlike the last time they came to a river, however, the water was startlingly still.

"Tell me, Thranduil, what does the stillness tell you? Has the storm died?"

The Elvenking shook his head as Gimli began to row across. "No, it is but a calm. Everything stills just before a storm—yet the whole of the Anduin would not be this quiet if the storm were not something startling. We have a few days yet, three, maybe until it reaches Eryn Lasgalen."

"Well, I myself am happy that the water allows us to pass so kindly," Gimli said, looking down into the river that was only disturbed by their paddles. "I suppose it must prepare itself for the turbulence with the storm."

Thranduil laughed. "A romantic notion, but likely not the most accurate," he said. A melancholy descended upon the elf's features then, and Gimli worried for a moment that he had said something wrong. "It's funny, you know—Legolas' mother used to say things like that. She always attributed nature to be… emotional. We used to sit upon banks of streams and rivers and simply… watch the water. Talk, you know. Royal life could get in the way of such things, you know. It was good to have a moment of peace, of togetherness."

Gimli rowed the boat up to the bank and dragged it up the grass. It was a long time before Gimli knew what to say. "She must have been wonderful, Legolas' mother."

Thranduil looked over the water they left behind. "She was, dwarf." He paused a moment. "I have not forgotten what you told me atop Amon Anwar. You feel grief as I do for love, correct?"

"Aye, but it is but grief, not loss," Gimli reminded him. "For my One still lives, though unable to love in return."

"How does that work?" Thranduil asked curiously. "Dwarven loves, I mean."

Gimli stroked his beard. "Well, we do not get to choose our Ones. And not each dwarf is destined to find a One in their lifetime. Some have no desire to find a One and are content without. Those of us who do have Ones often see their love reciprocated, but it is not always true. Many dwarves will love someone who has a different One for them, or simply has no One, or perhaps heralds from another culture altogether, where there is more choice in the matter."

Thranduil nodded, interested. "Peculiar indeed, but not too dissimilar to our own. After all, though our loves have no fanciful title, we only love once as well. However, I like to think we are not destined from birth to love one specific elf—but rather it is who we become and what shapes us that sets us upon our loves. Had I been a different person, had my wife, we may have passed one another by. But I am who I am, and she was who she was, and so we loved one another with fierce strength."

Gimli smiled at him. "Now who's romantic, laddie?"

"No one would believe you if you tried to tell them," the Elvenking said defensively.

"Right, right. You have a reputation to maintain, right?"

"Absolutely."

The two made camp a little early, excited for the morning that lay ahead. Though they were without steeds, they would still certainly reach Eryn Lasgalen before the next nightfall. Gimli felt ever so much closer to returning to Minas Tirith, and what joy that feeling was. Especially after speaking about the concept of “Ones” to such an extent that day.

“Gimli?” Thranduil’s voice came as they both lay awake on the ground, looking up at the stars above.

“Yes, Thranduil?”

“Whoever it is you love, I know I cannot advise you not to love them any longer. But… you are deserving of someone who loves you in return. Their lives are much the worse for not loving you.”

Despite all of their progress, Gimli still found himself stunned by Thranduil’s kindness. His… fatherliness. “Well, he is also deserving of being loved, so I will find joy in giving that to him, no matter how hidden I may keep it.”

“Being loved is a wondrous thing. I would hope that you feel that someday. I wish a life of happiness for you, dwarf. I… I surprisingly do.”

Gimli smiled to himself, still staring up at the stars. “It is better to have loved at all—don’t ya think?”

Thranduil hummed in thoughtful agreement. “I suppose you’re right.”

~

Despite the joviality of the previous night, Gimli awoke to a foreboding feeling.

The air blew warm against his face, and he found himself rising as the sun barely crested the horizon. He sat up warily and saw that Thranduil had not yet stirred.

What was the source of this feeling? He knew not, and yet all the hope he’d felt the day prior seemed to slip from his fingers.

Still, he stood and began to gather their supplies. He thought he might do Thranduil the service of having their things ready to go so that they might make good time in their journey. Perhaps Thranduil’s usual grouchy yet much improved demeanor would soothe Gimli’s seemingly unbidden anxiety.

Going to the elf, he only saw his mess of pale hair covering his face, the rest of him obscured by his bedroll. He kicked him gently.

“Rise and shine, oh Elvenking!” Gimli joked loudly. “We’ve much to cover, far to go, but much to see, far to tire!”

Thranduil did not stir. “Oi, Thranduil! Let’s get a move on!” He kicked him once more, rougher this time. Panic fluttered in his belly—Thranduil would have usually been up cursing by now.

Gimli grabbed the elf’s shoulder and rolled him over, before gasping and stepping back.

The poison he’d grown so used to seeing in Thranduil’s arms had branched not just up his neck, but also patterned the Elvenking’s face. The black and gray that had poisoned his veins now stretched across his face, like cracks and fissures in stone. The lightning-pattern curved and turned and crawled and writhed, like a live thing. Across his cheeks, his chin, his nose, his forehead. Some of the jagged lines went beyond and beneath his hairline.

Most startling though was not this cracked-porcelain skin, but rather Thranduil’s eyes—wide open, staring helplessly into Gimli’s, and black. It was as though his pupils had taken over both the iris and white of his eye. They were deep, dark caverns, much reminiscent of the halls of the Halifirien, or the basest pits of Khazad-dûm.

“Mahal spare us,” Gimli muttered breathlessly. “Thranduil? Can you hear me?”

Very slowly, as though his head were encased in stone, Thranduil nodded, his neck cracking as he did so.

“Whatever has happened?” Gimli asked hopelessly. “You were fine just yesterday!” The dwarf grounded himself, taking a deep breath. “Only one day from your home, Thranduil, isn’t this just like you? Alright, we can still make it. And I know,” Gimli added indignantly, “that were you less paralyzed, you’d be sayin’ something really unhelpful right now, so allow me to do so in your stead. ‘This is a terrible idea dwarf!’” Gimli said in a faux low and exaggerated posh accent. “‘Even for a dwarf this is brainless! You will not be able to transport me all the way to the Greenwood!’”

Gimli could have sworn that Thranduil glared at him, though the man’s face could hardly twitch.

As carefully as he could, Gimli dragged the king from the bedroll. Thranduil was as limp as a ragdoll, yet Gimli was once again grateful for the lightweightedness of the elves. Still, it was a struggle to hoist Thranduil across his shoulders.

In the end, Gimli had secured Thranduil atop his shoulders, behind his head. The elf's head hung limply on Gimli’s left, long hair waving. The dwarf’s left arm was holding the elf’s arm securely, and Gimli’s right arm hooked around the elf’s leg.

Though Thranduil was light, Gimli groaned to imagine carrying him for an entire day. It was likely though, he reminded himself, that this task would be easier than climbing up the vertical tunnel in the Halifirien with the elf attached to his back. Still, at least then, the elf’s weight was less of a burden because Gimli had been able to use both his arms and legs to climb, with the elf helping push upward with his own legs. Now, Gimli was only able to use his legs, and he feared succumbing to fatigue in the still heat.

“I fear that either you are not the feather I predicted, or perhaps I am no boulder,” Gimli joked, trying to ease the Elvenking with his words. He knew that helplessness was likely not a favored trait for the elf. “You know, yesterday, when you said that everything stills before a storm, I had truly not thought you meant yourself.”

~

It was a long and taxing journey. Gimli ran the whole time, much as the Three Hunters had in pursuit of the orcs that had taken Merry and Pippin. Gimli knew that to an onlooker this sight must be quite comical, but his mind could not think of much besides his next step.

He would not allow himself to slow, stop, or set the Elvenking down. Any moment of lightening his load might see Gimli succumb to his exhaustion, so he would not.

Periodically, he would listen to Thranduil’s breaths to be sure the poison did not yet claim him. Each time he was relieved, and it inspired him to push further, harder. He could still make it to Eryn Lasgalen, still deliver Thranduil safely, still return soon to his friends in Minas Tirith.

Amidst his exhausted daze, he wondered if Thranduil would release him of his word and allow Gimli to tell Legolas what had happened. Gimli had a hard time thinking of how he’d get away with not telling his friends anything when he returned. He’d now been gone two days and a week—how was he to explain this absence without mentioning Thranduil?

He and Thranduil had found common ground and had bonded much, so Gimli was certain that the king would release him from his promise, if not for Legolas. Thranduil may respect, perhaps even like Gimli now, but this was partially because his allegiance had turned away from Legolas upon realizing Legolas chose not to write to him about such important things. Would he still then wish Legolas not to know of his weakness? Of the poison that left him paralyzed, that forced him to be carried to his home? Gimli did not know.

Finally, finally, Gimli saw the trees of the Greenwood on the horizon. He could no longer feel his legs, and lamented the lack of sustenance they’d had since eating with Berren in his tavern. Only a little more and he’d be done, only a little more and he’d see Legolas…

Gimli did not even realize he was collapsing until he had, just inside the trees. His mouth was dry, the heat having taken all of his energy. Black spirals danced in his vision as he lay on his side, muscles aching yet so distant he felt as though they were no longer attached.

He saw where Thranduil had been tossed, only a few feet away, when Gimli had fallen. The dwarf attempted to stand to go to him, but it was no use—his body merely twitched as he tried to move.

Thranduil’s body was angled toward him, and his deep black eyes were staring at him—a sign of consciousness, Gimli understood from this morning.

Gimli felt far more faint, his sight still flickering. “I… I only need a moment,” Gimli said, his voice quiet and not nearly as reassuring as he intended.

Would he die here? He had not considered the consequences of completing such a trip. Could he perish here, failing to save Thranduil?

What would Legolas think? If the elf were to learn that both his father and best friend were found dead, side by side? Gimli wished to spare him from that grief.

As he lay there, moments from slipping away, he saw Legolas’ face above him, peering down, a neutral expression on his face.

Gimli tried to say his name, but no sound would come. A vision, he understood. Legolas was not here, but rather in Minas Tirith. His mind only sought to provide him comfort amidst his delirium.

Would he die, never to say goodbye to Legolas? Did he wish now that he had told Legolas that the elf was his One?

It is better to have loved at all, Gimli thought to himself, the words he told Thranduil the night before now a mantra to cling to. Better to have loved at all.

The world slipped away.

Chapter Text

Gimli awoke, head throbbing, in a rather large, plush bed. He sat up with a jerk, disoriented and lost.

Two slender hands caught him by the shoulders. “Enough of that now,” came a smooth, low voice. Gimli blinked a few times, gathering his bearings, before looking at the woman who spoke.

An elf, her long near-white hair not obscuring her deep brown, pointed ears. She held a shallow bowl of water and set it aside. She was sitting on the bed beside Gimli, and now reached for his wrist.

“Your heartbeats are regular,” she said dispassionately. She then offered him a smile. “It must be quite the story, you know.”

Gimli did not recognize any threats and allowed himself to relax. “I’m sorry, but are we in…” he gestured around them.

“Mirkwood?” she finished with a smirk.

“Eryn Lasgalen,” Gimli corrected, meeting her mischievous gaze. “I’ll take that as a yes then, lass?”

She nodded. “My brother found you and the king just inside our kingdom’s territory. You’re lucky, all things considered.”

“The king!” Gimli said suddenly, the image of Thranduil’s poisoned face resurfacing. “What of him? Does he live?”

“He does,” came a voice from the doorway. Both Gimli and the elf turned to see Thranduil standing beneath the doorframe.

Gimli let out a breath of relief. Thranduil looked downright healthy—his skin unmarred by the poison Gimli had grown so used to seeing.

Thranduil looked far more intimidating than Gimli had ever seen him before. He was dressed in his usual royal robes, his crown resting upon his forehead, his hair brushed. Gimli had grown so used to seeing Thranduil disheveled or vulnerable, so seeing him so regal and in charge threw the dwarf off completely.

The elf who had been sitting on the bed now was quick to her feet, dropping on one knee. “My king,” she greeted, all of her playfulness yielding to formality. The change was so drastic that Gimli wondered if he should be doing the same.

Thranduil only waved a hand through the air dismissively. “None of that, not today, not for you, Ailan,” the Elvenking said to her. “My life is owed to you.”

Ailan looked up at him, slightly confused. “I was serving you by doing my duty, your highness,” she replied.

“And your duty has been much fulfilled,” he said to her, offering a genuine smile. “And Gimli, I see you’ve finally awoken.”

“Finally?” Gimli asked. “How long have I been asleep?”

“All night,” Ailan answered. “More than twelve hours since, at least.”

Gimli let out a low whistle. “You’ve been abiding a truly lazy dwarf then, haven’t you?” he joked, and Thranduil laughed. Ailan stared between them in shock.

“Ailan, please be sure Gimli is fit to be walking around, and I’ll have breakfast sent to his room. Once he is finished, escort him to my gardens.”

“Of course, sire,” she said with a small bow. Thranduil nodded to both her and Gimli, a smile still on his face as he departed.

“What’s wrong, lass? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I fear I have. I fear that Thranduil passed from the poison and now he has been replaced by an elf who smiles and laughs.” She turned to Gimli, her eyes still looking on incredulously. “As I said, it must be quite the story.”

“Aye, that it is,” Gimli agreed. “However, not as interesting as what I appear to have missed since I collapsed.”

An elf entered the room with a tray, setting it on Gimli’s bed, bowing, and leaving. Gimli eyed the food hungrily, beginning to dive in. Ailan giggled.

“Hungry, are you, dwarf?”

“Hey, you try carrying a paralyzed elf from here to the Anduin, and then you may tease. Now, will you tell me how I came to be here, or how Thranduil came to be standing once more?”

She held up her hands in surrender. “Alright, fine,” she said. “Though I sincerely doubt it is as interesting as your tale.

“My brother, Ailadir, is the King Thranduil’s head of the guard. He was with the king when they were attacked by Razak’s orcs, and tried desperately to follow them. Those orcs were a clever sort though, they managed to shake off our trail. None could pinpoint where they had gone. All we knew was that Razak was in pursuit of the Demantur, and he turned a poisoned blade against our king.

“I’m Eryn Lasgalen’s healer, so when my brother returned from last night’s patrol with our paralyzed king in tow, I immediately went to action. Luckily for us, I’m far more clever than those orcs—I knew of the poison they struck the king with, and had plenty of time to prepare a cure from cadea petals. I needed only to wait for the king’s return and hope that he made it back before the poison had time to spread throughout his body. Hopeless, I became yesterday, knowing that our king must have succumbed to that poison by then. I had not, however, counted on a dwarf of all people to bear him to our home.

“Ailadir brought you both to the palace, but he distrusted you. All he knew was that our king was on the verge of death, beside a dwarf. He’d have thrown you into the dungeon without a care had I not reminded him that it was nothing but Razak's poisoned blade that could have brought our king to that state. I demanded you be brought to a room so that I may tend you as well, after healing the king.

“I was grateful for it because the first thing King Thranduil said when he awoke was ‘where is Gimli? Is he alive?’ I must say, I’ve never seen Ailadir go so pink before! He must have been so relieved he hadn’t imprisoned you! I could have burst into laughter!

“Regardless, you were fine, only in need of rest and water. My word, Gimli, it is a simple rule to drink water if you are to run—carrying a person, in the heat—for an entire day! Impressive that you made it even as far as you did, I say.” She scooted forward, eyes gleaming. “Now, tell me, Master Dwarf, what of your story? How came you to our woods?”

Gimli offered Ailan a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid I cannot tell ya. I've given my word to your king not to share anything of our time together. He may release me from this promise, but until he does I cannot tell you anything he has not told you himself. Perhaps you can ask him, and see what he will share with you.”

“Ask my king? That’s ridiculous!” Ailan said, eyes wide. “Have you met the man? He’s cold and quiet. He’s not one for friendly conversation or storytelling.”

“You might find there is more to Thranduil than meets the eye,” Gimli replied.

“Oh please! I do not know how you have managed to break through my king’s steely exterior, but you would be the first to do so! At least since his son Legolas roamed our halls.”

Gimli smiled at her. “I do forget that this is Legolas’ home,” he mused aloud.

Ailan raised an eyebrow. “You know Legolas?”

“I do. He’s my friend.”

“Who on earth are you?” Ailan asked, slightly impressed. “Befriending the dwarf-hating royal family of the Greenwood? My oh my Gimli, you are quite a puzzle.”

~

The garden was a secluded area in the center of the palace, a courtyard of sorts that blocked out all sounds from the rooms around it. Gimli had never seen such beautiful greenery before, nor such diversity in plant life. It was as though Thranduil had taken all of the beauty of the world and transported it to his home.

“What do you think?” Thranduil asked as Ailan departed, leaving them alone in the garden.

Gimli nodded. “It’s fine,” he said dryly, but couldn’t cover up the wonder in his eyes. Thranduil only laughed. “Possibly better than fine, I suppose.”

“I wanted to thank you, Gimli,” Thranduil told him. “Truly thank you. For far more than just yesterday, though that was quite impressive. When I woke, unable to even turn my head, I feared we were too late, and I would perish there. I had not expected that feat out of you—though I think perhaps I should have, given everything else you had done before. And I am ashamed to say that I would not have done the same for you.” At this, Thranduil looked distraught. “Not that I would have left you paralyzed in the woods after our long journey, but rather, had the tables been turned that night we met, I would not have stopped those orcs from killing you, as you did for me. For that, I feel a lasting shame.”

“Aye, but you shouldn’t!” Gimli protested. “Who knows what I would have done had I not met Legolas? True, I did not know who you were then, but all I could think of was that it didn’t much matter that you didn’t like me, or even that you insulted my ancestors, but rather that you were a living, breathing, functioning person, elf or not. Yet, who’s to say if I would have thought this had I never met an elf that changed my mind?”

Thranduil sighed. “You are much too lenient on me, even now. Tell me, Gimli, what can I give you as a reward?”

“Are ya joking?” Gimli asked, shocked. “Did I not prove to you well enough yet that I did not help you for my own gain?”

“Of course I know that! But I cannot simply grant you nothing for all you’ve done for me!”

“Here’s what you can do, you witless elf, you can stop bein’ so damn nice to me. And you can send your army after Razak like we agreed once the storm passes. Think ya can manage that?”

Thranduil gave him a small and acquiescent smile. “That, I can most definitely do.”

Gimli beamed back. “Good. Now tell me, how far is the storm?”

“Not far now. It will be upon the Firien in two days, most likely. It should reach the orcs at the same time it reached Eryn Lasgalen, so we will know when it has ended. It will still travel southeastwardly. Please, stay in my palace until it passes, and then we shall ride out together once more.”

“I’d be glad to,” Gimli replied, and they began strolling through the gardens, side by side.

“I’m only sorry that you are delaying your trip to Minas Tirith even more to travel southwest again. It may be discouraging to travel the path we just finally got off of.”

“Aye, but I’ll be more spirited, flanked by an army, headed to exact revenge,” Gimli said with a wicked smile. “I would not like to return to Minas Tirith with nothing to show for it.”

“Well, you have the Demantur. Certainly, that is something to show.”

“Don’t get me started on that, Thranduil,” Gimli said, annoyed. “I’m glad we’ve kept it out of Razak’s hands, yet I can’t help but worry what will happen with it now. It’s been found, uncovered, and removed from its hiding place. We were right to do so, for it was too late, but what now? Where could we hide it so that none would find it?”

Thranduil gently caressed the leaf of one of his plants as he considered this. “I know not. I think that perhaps there is no such place. We can only hope that as long as we live, none shall become like the immortal man.”

Gimli laughed, earning a confused look from the Elvenking. “Sorry, it’s just that…it sounds a bit funny coming from an immortal elf, even now.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes. “I fear my immortality has little effect—or have you forgotten the events of yesterday?”

They continued to stroll the garden in companionable silence for a while longer. Gimli felt at peace here—it reminded him of Legolas, and he could feel his One’s influence. Legolas likely spent many a day in this garden, losing track of time.

As if reading his mind, Thranduil spoke up. “Legolas adores this garden,” he told the dwarf. “I’m sure he’d be disappointed that I’m the one to escort you through it. I certainly cannot describe its beauty as well as he could. It was the one part of our forest that remained untouched by the foulness that turned our beautiful Greenwood to Mirkwood.”

“I can feel his presence here,” Gimli told him. “He poured all of his love into each blade of grass.”

Thranduil gave him a funny look. “I must say, sometimes I feel you know my son better than he himself does.”

Gimli was too swept up to pay Thranduil’s words any mind, to register the warning that would usually ring in the back of his head. “He would have never left this place, I imagine, had he not been forced to. I’ll never understand his love for trees, not truly, but it is enough that he does.”

“Gimli?”

“You should have seen him beneath the leaves of Fangorn! Ah, what a sight! Never had I seen him so joyous, so appreciative. He managed to find beauty where we found none. Would that I could have but a shred of his wonder! There is little more perfect in this world, don’t you think, Thran—”

Gimli turned to ask, but he was cut off as the Elvenking slapped him.

The strength in the action sent Gimli to the ground, and the dwarf held the cheek that the elf hit, stunned. Beyond stunned.

He looked up at Thranduil, confused and shocked, and he was met with even more confusion and shock in the Elvenking’s own expression. Was Thranduil as surprised that he would strike Gimli as the dwarf was? He wouldn’t tell.

Gimli returned to his feet. “What the hell is wrong with ya?!”

“It is Legolas,” Thranduil said, his voice quiet and full of rage, his face still stunned and lost. “It is my son.”

“Whatever are you—”

“It is better to have loved at all, is it?” Thranduil’s voice carried with it centuries of anger and hate, and Gimli now understood. He had been found out.

“Thranduil, let us discuss this—”

“Discuss? I have let you into my home, only to find out that I had been right about you from the start. You truly are serpent-tongue, as I told you when we entered Amon Anwar. It was only my own foolishness that you manipulated for your own gain.”

“I did nothing of the sort!” Gimli defended. “This has all gotten away from me, Thranduil, and I’m sorry for that, but believe me, I have never led you astray.”

“No?” Thranduil asked, looming over the dwarf. “So you did not lie to me about your relationship with my son, dwarf? Twice?”

“I’ve already apologized for not telling you of our friendship. And yes, I never intended to tell you that Legolas is my One, but that is—”

“Bite your tongue, you pig-headed, brainless, awful creature! My son is not yours, believe me. He would never love a dwarf, not ever. He has more sense, and far more than that.”

Gimli hid his hurt, for he did not wholly disagree with what the king was saying, however cruel. “I have told you, Thranduil, that my love does not feel the same. Legolas doesn't love me, so why should this incur your wrath so?”

“You disrespect my house, you disrespect my kingdom, and you disrespect my child,” Thranduil said, as though Gimli had not spoken. “You may have tricked me until now, but that will never happen again. No dwarf shall ever become this close to me again, I promise you that. I will write to Legolas, informing him of your manipulation of me, begging him to do the sensible thing and turn from you, returning at once to Eryn Lasgalen, among the elves. Where he belongs.”

At this, Gimli finally found his anger. “Every time, Thranduil. Every time. Every single damn time I think you’ve changed, you say something that sets it all back. Mahal spare me, Thranduil, but do ya even know who you are?”

“How dare you? Don’t proclaim to know more of myself than I do. You’re in my home now, and I will not be so easily manipulated.”

“You think I’ve been manipulatin’ ya? Did I manipulate you into rescuing me from the Entwash, is that it? Since when did a dwarf showing someone kindness mean that we’re these manipulative creatures? You know who I am, Thranduil, and you know that I haven’t done anything to you.”

“Oh, how convenient.”

“Look at ya! You’ve gone mad! All because I’m in love with Legolas?”

“Rid your mouth of his name!” Thranduil shouted. “In fact, rid all of him from you. Legolas is my child, a child of far better standing, of far better manner. He’ll never love you, dwarf, mark my words.”

“I never said he did! Or would!”

“Mark my words of this as well—you will never see Legolas again. He shall return home, and do you think he’ll even remember you? Do you truly think he cares about you? He’s only rebelling, isn’t it obvious, you halfwit? The moment my son sees me again, all of these dalliances will be only memory. He won’t even remember your name.:

Thranduil turned on his heel and stormed back through the garden, leaving Gimli speechless beneath the greenery.

Chapter Text

Thranduil paced the throne room, distraught.

How dare that dwarf weasel his way into the king’s good graces? Well, he would not get away with it, no sir, Thranduil would fix everything. Everything would be as it should be.

He’d write to Legolas, perhaps even journey to Minas Tirith himself. He’d make Legolas see sense—that was it. That horrid dwarf had made Legolas believe that he wanted to befriend such a pitiful creature, but Thranduil now knew the truth. The dwarf was nothing but a quick-witted liar—and Thranduil would not allow his son to be taken advantage of any further.

To think he’d brought this dwarf into his home, his garden! Ensured his best healer would look after him, gave him a lavish room, offered him whatever he desired!

The king was still fuming when he was interrupted. “What is it?!” he snapped, looking up to see Ailan enter the room.

She bowed. “My king,” she began, looking at him warily. “I must check on your progress. May I?” she gestured to the throne, and Thranduil let out a huff, sitting down. Ailan knelt by his side, running her finger slowly along his veins, feeling for irregularities to sense any remaining poison.

“We’ve been lied to, Ailan,” Thranduil said bitterly, wanting to complain and fume to someone other than himself.

“In what way, sire?”

“Gimli, that awful mole.” He ignored how her eyebrows raised judgmentally as he said this. “You’ll find this laughable, believe me. He and my son have apparently become good friends. The best of friends, really, according to every single person on Middle Earth, except for me, of course. That dwarf has messed with my son’s mind for his own personal gain. Can you believe that? I was led to believe that Legolas had not sent word because he did not want to share his life with me any longer, for some…distrust in me, when in reality, that dwarf was forcing him to stay away from me. Feeding him lies and platitudes and keeping him away from me.”

Ailan looked up at the king, pausing in her check-up to look on in confusion. “Gimli said this?”

Thranduil laughed. “Of course not! But he may as well have. Legolas is… well, he is the dwarf’s One. That means he is his—”

“Beloved. Yes, I know what that means. That is most surprising, my king, but how has Gimli done you or Legolas ill?”

Thranduil was shocked by Ailan’s ignorance. “Do you jest, Ailan? He is a dwarf, in love with an elf. Not just any elf, either, but a prince. My own son.”

“Forgive me, your highness, but I still do not understand. Did Gimli say he was telling Legolas not to write? Did he say Legolas loved him in turn?”

“Of course not!” Thranduil snapped. “In fact, he went out of his way to say that his One did not return his affections, long before I learned that he had been Legolas all along. But the dwarf isn’t entirely stupid, my dear. He’d never admit to his manipulations. He can play dumb all he likes, but I know the truth.”

Ailan cleared her throat and took a step back, head bowed. “Forgive me once more, but I do not think you do.”

Enraged, Thranduil was quick to his feet. “What did you say?!”

Ailan did not cower away, but rather crossed her arms stubbornly. “I may have only spoken with him briefly, but Gimli did not strike me as the type to cruelly and without purpose drive a wedge between you and your son. Besides, I know that you do not truly despise him.”

Thranduil laughed dryly at this. “Then you know little, Ailan.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because all of this is not what I saw only an hour ago. You were smiling, laughing. I have not seen you do that for an age. You are happy my king.”

“What exactly is your point, Ailan?”

“My point is that Gimli is not some destroyer of your life, as you seem to think. He does not have to weasel his way into anywhere, because you have already welcomed him. Tell me in truth now, my king, whether or not you were so happy before you met him.”

Thranduil was stunned at Ailan’s bluntness and sputtered to find a defense. Instead, he flopped down into the throne once more in defeat. With a sigh, he said, “perhaps I have been tricked in the same way as my son, then.”

Ailan shook her head. “Now, you don’t really believe that either. That this is a mere trick. Perhaps Gimli is just funny or interesting or kind or any combination of things that you may appreciate.” She looked him in the eye. “Perhaps, and this may sound rather absurd, my king, but could it be possible that you have made a friend?”

Thranduil’s eyes widened. It wasn’t that he hadn’t considered this before. Gimli had even offered friendship in no uncertain terms a few nights prior. But it couldn’t be. Gimli had manipulated Legolas into staying away from him—except, well, had he?

Wasn’t that why Thranduil learned to stop bickering with the dwarf in the first place? Was it not because Berren told him all these fanciful things about Legolas’ life—things Legolas did not want to tell him himself? Had he not already realized that his own behavior was to blame for Legolas’ distance?

Shrinking ever so slightly, he mumbled, “well, perhaps I was…hasty…to say such cruel things.”

“Perhaps? You know we all love you, my king, but you must admit, your temper can level a forest. Tell me, did you say anything too unkind to Gimli over this?”

Had he? Maybe pig-headed had been thrown around, perhaps brainless… maybe some other things.

Apparently the Elvenking’s lack of a reply was a response in and of itself, as Ailan sighed. “I know it must feel strange to learn that a dwarf is in love with your son. But isn’t it harmless? You said yourself Legolas does not love him in return, so is that not punishment enough for the poor dwarf? To love and—”

“Not be loved in return,” Thranduil finished, his voice an echo of something he knew he’d said before. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Ailan was right, after all, wasn’t she? Of course Gimli was not going to tell Thranduil that Legolas was his One, he knew how the king would react. And how could he blame the dwarf for loving Legolas? Legolas had grown into quite an impressive elf, and Thranduil was proud of him. Was that not enough? Gimli’s crime was simply loving Thranduil’s child? A child who did not want his father to know he was friends with a dwarf for the very reasons that Thranduil was only proving.

“I was hasty.”

“I believe so.”

Thranduil sighed, shame burning in his chest. “He’ll certainly be angry with me for a while. Ailan, when it comes time for dinner, will you take him to my dining hall? There we can have a… conversation about all of this.”

“A conversation? Don’t you mean an apology?”

“A conversation, Ailan, and that is all that is your business to know.”

Ailan bowed her head in acquiescence. “As you wish, my king.”

After the healer had left, Thranduil ruminated for a while longer. He felt foolish now, firmly aware of the consequences of his rashness. Why did he say what he said? Why did he always revert back to his anger and hatred?

It was still morning, and Thranduil had half a mind to find Gimli now, to apologize. Yet he knew that the dwarf was likely not to be too receptive to Thranduil’s change of heart so soon. The king had struck him, after all, even if it wasn’t the worst blow the dwarf would ever receive.

What would Legolas say? Thranduil wondered. He wished that he knew his son’s heart these days, for it was an odd thing to wonder—after all, he’d never even seen the dwarf and elf interact before. He believed in their friendship, of course, that was not in doubt. Yet he had no idea the manner of their friendship from Legolas’ side. He was likely none the wiser to Gimli’s true heart, but how did he feel about his dwarven companion? How did he speak to him, how often did they speak, what did they speak of? Thranduil found himself wanting to know.

He wanted to be a part of his son’s life. So why did he continuously ruin that chance?

~

After Gimli finally gathered the rest of his dignity off of the garden ground, he marched to his room in the palace.

Eryn Lasgalen, a place he’d always wanted to see, now a place he could not stay in one more moment. He was not angry, not really, but rather hurt and disappointed. Though he’d tried to train it out of himself, he realized that he had craved the Elvenking’s approval, and now Gimli was lower than dirt to him.

Gimli knew that Thranduil wasn’t thinking straight—that old prejudice had overtaken him. Yet, it wasn’t quite old prejudice, was it? After all, hadn’t it only been a week and a half since they were tied to that tree, Thranduil despising Gimli on sight for his race? Gimli had simply convinced himself that Thranduil had become a new person. But he hadn’t, had he?

And Gimli had lied to him. That much he knew.

And he couldn’t stay, storm or no storm, army or no army.

He could not return to Minas Tirith either, not until he had ruined Razak, not until he made that orc feel just as awful as Gimli did. This was all his fault, it had to be. After all, if not for Razak, Gimli never would have met Thranduil, and he never would have gone through this turmoil at the Elvenking’s behest.

One dwarf against an army thousands strong? Gimli could take those odds. Even if he knew where he’d end up.

He’d already faced death twice in this journey, once in the Entwash and then again just within the border of Eryn Lasgalen. He could do it just one more time.

Gimli gathered his things quickly. He opened his pack that had been slung on a chair and saw the faint blue glow of the Demantur still within. He snapped it shut and threw the pack around his shoulder, affixing Berren’s sword once more to his back.

He paused at the window amidst his flurry of action. It struck him suddenly that this was Legolas’ home. He hated to leave it in such a passion, but Legolas was not here.

Forgive me, my love, Gimli thought as he ran his finger over the window ledge. Where I am going, what I am doing, I may not return.

In his hurry into the hall, he nearly crashed into an elf. Incredibly familiar, he nearly had to physically shake his head to understand the small differences. He was still so bad at telling elves apart.

“You must be Ailadir,” Gimli greeted with a respectful inclination of his head. He had the same deep brown skin and pale yellow hair as his sister, though he had a bow strapped to his back.

“Yes, and you need no introduction, Master Dwarf.”

“I suppose it is a little bit difficult for me to blend into a palace of elves.”

Ailadir let out a small laugh. “That is true—are you leaving us so soon?” he asked, noticing Gimli’s pack.

Gimli nodded. “Yes, well, I have spoken with Thranduil and we thought it best for me to ride ahead of the storm in hopes I’ll reach Minas Tirith before I am caught inside it.”

“Racing with a storm at your back? Risky, Master Dwarf. Please, allow me to gift you a steed to take you at least as far as the river.”

Gimli smiled, feeling only slightly guilty for the lie. “I would thank you, Master Elf.”

~

Thranduil drummed his fingers on the table, waiting for Ailan to return with Gimli.

He had been practicing their conversation in his head, but nearly all of his options made him sound a bit… like a prick. He did intend to apologize, but the idea of doing so was difficult for Thranduil. After all, he'd said some unkind things to Gimli before, but never quite so bad as what he'd said that morning. He'd also never hit the dwarf before, so there was that to consider as well.

Ailadir had come into the dining hall as Thranduil waited, and they were discussing their plan of attack on Razak's army when Ailan finally returned. Thranduil was disheartened and confused to see that Gimli was not with her.

"I'm sorry, my king, I've looked everywhere, but I simply cannot find him."

"Who?" Ailadir asked.

"Gimli," Thranduil answered. "He was supposed to join me for dinner."

Ailadir looked between them, confused. "Gimli is gone," he said, as though it were obvious.

Thranduil stood. "What do you mean, Ailadir?"

"He left this morning. Said that he was going back to Minas Tirith to beat the storm. He said you knew, though I'm beginning to realize this was untrue."

"Oh," Ailan said, disappointed. "Well, I suppose it is a good thing that he is returning to his friends and his life."

Yet something didn't sit right with the Elvenking. "That's all good and fine, if it were true," he mused grumpily. "Yet I have a hard time believing it."

"How so?" Ailadir asked.

Ailan piped in. "It is not so surprising, my king, considering your fight."

"No, him leaving does not surprise me—rather, I do not believe he'd return to Minas Tirith, no matter how angry with me he may be. I know he didn't want to return to Minas Tirith until…" Thranduil paled.

"Until what, sire?" Ailadir asked.

"Until he had something to show for his absence," Thranduil said breathlessly. "He's headed to the Firien Wood. He's going against Razak."

"Alone?!" Ailan exclaimed in shock. "That's a suicide mission!"

"He'll be swept up in the storm traveling that way!" Ailadir added. "Is it rude to ask you if he's crazy?"

"I believe he is," Thranduil said in despair. "And it is all my fault that he has acted on it."

"Suppose we send our armies after him," Ailan suggested. "Then you all can simply move up your schedule."

"It isn't so simple, Ailan," Thranduil explained. "If Gimli gets swept up in the storm because he chose to leave at the wrong time, headed in the wrong direction, then that is a risk he has chosen to take. I cannot, however, abide my own armies taking that risk alongside him. They may all be taken by the storm, and we simply cannot risk such a thing."

"Send me," Ailadir said. "It's my own fault that I let him leave at all. I could catch up to him, dissuade him of the notion, or at least help him if I cannot."

Thranduil shook his head. "No, I need you here in case something happens to me. I trust you to take care of our people while I am gone, as you've been doing this past week."

"You can't be serious, my king!" Ailadir exclaimed. "You would go back the same way you came, to an army thousands strong that nearly killed you?! As your head guard, I cannot abide it!"

"And as your king I demand you stay here while I follow my friend," Thranduil said sternly. "Now, fetch me an elk, Ailadir. I have much ground to make up, and I do not plan to go unprepared this time. I will need all of the necessary provisions for travel and battle."

"My king—"

"At once, Ailadir!"

Resigned, Ailadir scurried from the room, already shouting orders in the halls.

Ailan went to where the king stood. "You must not go out of guilt, my king," she warned him. "Gimli's decisions are not your fault, regardless of what may have happened this morning."

"I do not go to assuage my own guilts, Ailan my dear," Thranduil reassured her. "He is Legolas' friend. If Berren told me the truth, if I am to believe what I have learned about them, and I do, then Legolas would certainly be furious with me if he discovered that his friend died, alone, when I might have helped. And more importantly, even, you were right. He is my friend as well, and I will not let him fight alone."

Ailan bowed her head. "All hail King Thranduil," she said formally, taking his hands and kissing his knuckles. "King of the dwarves."

Thranduil jerked his hands away as Ailan began to giggle. "Very funny," he said coldly. "I do not think I like this newfound confidence of yours, Ailan."

"Blame the dwarf," she said innocently. "He proved you have something of a heart."

Chapter Text

The journey back to the Halifirien went much faster than the journey to the Greenwood.

Gimli stopped and slowed for nothing. Ailadir had sent him with the fastest pony he could find, and Gimli made quick work of the day, reaching and crossing the Anduin with the same boat they had left behind, and then trading back the boat for one of Berren's ponies that Gimli had used to procure the boat in the first place.

He did not stop to sleep, channeling whatever energy had coursed through his veins when the Three Hunters followed Merry and Pippin's trail—though this time he was not on foot, which made it far easier.

Long distance he traveled, unsure of how much time was truly passing, and each time he turned to his right, the dark gray clouds that blanketed the sky drew nearer and nearer.

He was riding too far west to stop at Berren's tavern—not to mention he had no desire to stop and listen to Berren trying to convince him not to go, or worse, to gloat about being right about Thranduil. Still, he did stop in another town near the Entwash on his way and paid a fisherman a mighty sum to take the pony back to Berren. He thought about sending the sword with the fisherman as well but decided against it, thinking he'd probably need it.

The Entwash was beginning its turbulence—a sure sign that the storm was nearly upon him and the stillness grew weary. A few spits of rain reached his face, but he pressed on and through.

~

At the edge of the Firien Wood an hour or two of sun left, he stopped and took a deep breath to level himself. It was likely he'd die here, though thinking that felt so defeatist.

He walked through the wood silently and carefully, so as to not alert the orcs. He wondered briefly if they'd even still be there—it was likely that they hadn't yet found the room the Demantur was even in, if they'd even dared to go in after them. Certainly they'd have thought Gimli and Thranduil dead rather than having escaped—the halls of Amon Anwar were disorienting and pitch dark.

Gimli walked a while before he finally heard the sounds of the orc army. Extra careful, he peered through the trees, beginning to circle the base of the mountain.

Orcs were bickering loudly, fighting it seemed, as they were clearly trying to make camp. Caught off guard by the storm, Gimli assumed, as the rain had begun to fall steadily. They likely had no idea exactly how intense the storm would soon become.

The orcs had spread out quite drastically since Gimli was last there, and the entire circumference of the mountain was lined with orcs. The dwarf circled it, looking for a weak point from the trees.

On the northwesternmost part, he saw it. A section thin with orcs, only a single troll, sleeping and snoring loudly. Perfect.

Gimli tiptoed toward the troll, careful not to make a sound. He realized that to get past, his best bet was to step over the sleeping troll’s legs, careful not to kick him.

Gimli gathered his courage and took a step—what he would give for the long-limbed nimbleness of the elves now!

He managed over the first leg fine, able to barely step over without even grazing the troll. One to go, Gimli thought cheerfully.

As he stepped over the second leg, he thought he had succeeded. Yet, as he carried his second leg over, his boot met flesh as he accidentally kicked the troll in the shin.

Having tripped to his knees, Gimli was now on the other side of the troll, but he began to stir. If the troll sounded a warning, the dwarf’s plan would be foiled before it even began, and he’d most certainly be slain.

Preparing to fight until the end, a hand reaching behind his back for his sword, he watched as the troll began to raise its ugly head.

And just as quickly, a low whistling sound followed by a shhhhhhhck came from the trees, and Gimli saw the troll’s head flop back down, as though asleep once more. Except, this time, an arrow stuck out of his skull.

Gimli crouched down, relieved but wary of the nearby orcs and trolls stirring or looking up from their busy work. Luckily, none noticed.

From the trees, Thranduil stalked out silently, returning his bow to its strap. He was glaring at Gimli, who simply stared back, wide-eyed with shock.

Thranduil walked over to him, his light step protecting him from detection. He simply stepped atop the troll as though his corpse was just part of the ground.

When the Elvenking reached the dwarf, he was still fuming. Gimli beckoned him to follow, which seemed to only make him angrier, but as Gimli walked up the Halifirien, Thranduil was behind him.

Finally, at the top, Gimli knew they could whisper and be unheard. “Aulё’s beard, Thranduil!” he hissed. “What are ya doing here?!”

“Me? What of you, witless dwarf! Haven’t you had the time to notice that the rain has started? The storm is upon us, and you knew it would be! I understand if you had been too angry to say so you would beat the storm to Minas Tirith, but this is suicide! You must truly be insane!”

“What does that say about you for following me here?”

“That I’m just as crazy as you, I suppose,” Thranduil shot back bitterly, but Gimli caught a spark in the king’s eye. “You travel quite fast for one with such short legs, you know.”

“Hilarious,” Gimli said dryly. “If you came here to tell me not to do it, you’ll find yourself disappointed."

"Oh, I suspected as much. No, dwarf, I'm here to help you so that we both may enact revenge on Razak, as we had always planned."

Gimli sighed. "I am sorry, King Thranduil, I know that ya have as much right to fight Razak as I do—more of a right, in fact. I just didn't think you'd want to do it anymore, at least not with me."

Thranduil paused. "Gimli, I was… hasty, in the garden. I well and truly did not intend for you to leave."

Gimli blinked at him, surprised. Was Thranduil working his way up to an apology?

"Still, I must say it seems a bit dramatic to try and fight a thousand orcs all by yourself just because you are angry with me."

That sounded more like Thranduil. "You realize I do have a plan, laddie," Gimli reprimanded. "Maybe not a great one, true, but it's a plan."

"Do tell. I'd love to know how you intend to fight an army."

"Easy—they fight themselves."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "That's idealistic."

Gimli shook his head. "Oddly, I remembered something one of those orcs said back when we were tied to that tree, the night we met. An orc said something about Razak 'beating' Shobog to the Demantur. It got me thinking—orcs never really get along, and I doubt they'd agree on having just one leader among them. All they do is squabble."

"So you intend to turn Shobog's army against Razak's?" Thranduil said curiously. "That might work. But how do you plan to do this?"

"Well, that's the easy part," Gimli said as he reached into the pack to pull on a pair of gloves. "We throw two dogs one bone."

Gimli went to the edge of where Amon Anwar had a steeper peak—where he might be seen by any of the orcs below. Thranduil seemed distrustful, but he came to stand beside him.

"We've done it!" Gimli called triumphantly, his voice carrying through the forests. Orcs, trolls, and wargs alike turned their heads up to see the dwarf and elf stand on the precipice. In Gimli's gloved hand, he held the Demantur triumphantly up to the sky, shining its crystal blue against the pouring rain.

They watched as Razak and Shobog pushed their way to the front of the crowd, Shobog looking greedy and Razak looking wary.

"You should have died days past!" Razak growled up to them. "How did you live? And how did you get up there—there's only one way in!"

"Simply being in the light of the Demantur kept us alive," Gimli lied easily. "We were lost in the halls for many, many days until we found a tunnel that let us out at the top of the hill! Now we can toss down the Demantur and go our separate ways forever."

Shobog smiled almost hungrily, not seeming to care that Razak didn't like this sentiment. "Yes, dwarf, toss it to us. We care not what else you do."

"Absolutely! I'll be glad to be rid of this wretched thing! Only…" at this pause, Gimli gave Thranduil a rather subtle wink. "Who shall I toss it to? Razak or Shobog?"

The orcs looked at each other, suddenly suspicious. Clearly, they hadn't thought of that.

"I'd like to give it to whoever is in charge here, because I think we all know what will happen if I don't."

"What are you saying, dwarf?" Shobog called upward, already angry.

Gimli shrugged, tossing and catching the Demantur in his hand like a child with a ball. "I only mean that whoever gets the Demantur can never be killed."

Thranduil piped in. "Why would they share it? He who'd receive the Demantur would certainly catch it and run—the smartest thing to do, really. So, which of you deserves it?"

"Do not listen to them!" Razak shouted. "They're only trying to trick you! Throw it to me, dwarf, and then I shall share it with you all."

Razak may not have been fooled by the trick, but Shobog was. "And why should you be the one to catch it?!" He asked, more than suspicious. "What if you don't let us touch it? Toss it to me, dwarf!"

"Now you'll certainly keep it to yourself!" Razak snapped. "You're letting them turn us against one another."

"Oh, so you're telling me that you didn't procure the dwarf to show me up and beat me to the stone?!"

"Of course not! It was fortune that brought them to me, that's all."

"Fortune, huh? Fortune that had you saying we should split up? Perhaps it was only fortune that led them through your secret exit!"

"It was a secret! To me as well, idiot!"

The orcs from Shobog’s side shouted in anger at Razak’s insult, and to his credit, Razak seemed to realize this was not the best move to stave off a fight.

Shobog yanked out his sword with passion. “How’s this, dwarf? You give the Demantur to the last orc standing!” he shouted once more as he leapt to action, slicing downward at Razak, a blow that the orc managed to block with his own sword.

That was the act of war that the armies had been waiting for. In a moment, the orcs were at one another’s throats, the dismal onslaught of rain elevating the bloody mood that had settled over the Firien Wood.

Orcs were slaying one another left and right, trolls were snapping the necks of wargs, wargs were gutting trolls with their vicious claws. Razak and Shobog were locked in battle with one another, each losing and gaining ground at quite the same speed.

Finally, when they were sure that every orc was distracted by battle, Gimli and Thranduil stepped back from the precipice, out of view of the slaughter at the base of Amon Anwar.

“Clever, dwarf,” Thranduil praised.

Gimli nodded to him. “Aye, you were mighty quick there too. But this isn’t over.”

Thranduil tilted his head in agreement. “Whoever wins, and my gold is on Razak, will inevitably come up here with whatever is left of his army.”

Thunder roared above, and lightning cracked nearby. “That doesn’t bode particularly well, does it?” Gimli had to shout over the wind.

Thranduil shook his head. “Most definitely not!” he shouted back, his hair whipping in front of his face violently. He frustratedly tried to keep it at bay. “A forest isn’t exactly the safest place to be in a storm! We could be struck by lightning at any time! This is why we should have waited the storm out in Eryn Lasgalen!”

A spark bloomed in Gimli’s eyes, as wild as the wind. “You make a good point, Thranduil!”

The clanging and screeching of battle seemed to grow closer, and they realized that the battle was climbing the mountain.

“I have an idea, but we need to buy time!” Gimli shouted to Thranduil, the clang of metal and cries of wind now nearly deafening. “We must ensure we’ve wiped them out!”

Thranduil cocked his head, eyes narrowed and a smile that formed a challenge on his lips. “Tell me, Master Dwarf, you still know how to wield that sword?”

“Well, it’s no battleaxe, but it will do in a pinch! Any of that stillness left in your bones?”

“Only the turbulence of a rushing river. I am as angry as the storm we weather!”

“And I as strong,” Gimli added.

Sharing one last determined grin, they charged forth down the mountain, meeting the clashing orcs halfway.

Thranduil stayed back, his bow out, slinging arrow after arrow into the hearts of advancing orcs. Gimli stormed through, stabbing and slashing with wild fervor, the heat of battle coursing through his veins once more.

“Six! Seven! Eight—get back here ya bastard—now eight!”

The Elvenking laughed. “I’ve felled fourteen yet!”

“Ha! Let us see whose count prevails! Nine! Ten! Oh, you’re next—eleven!”

So the battle went on, Thranduil aiming true despite the feverous wind and rain, Gimli striking with strength and anger.

When the wind grew too fierce, Thranduil set aside his bow for his sword and leapt into the fray beside the dwarf. Back to back they stood as orcs circled them, and they held their own quite well.

“What’s your count now, elf?” Gimli called back as he withdrew his sword from an orc’s stomach.

“Well… I fear I’ve lost count.”

“Aye. Me too.”

Finally, after another while of furious battle, the orcs that had climbed the mountain had all retreated or lay in a heap in the mud, their dead bodies battered by the rain.

Gimli and Thranduil scrambled back up to the top where Gimli had stashed his pack containing the Demantur. They looked over the precipice at the carnage below.

It was not that they hadn’t seen so many bodies before, but something was especially gruesome about seeing them through this storm—bodies covered in mud, many burned and scarred and gutted. It seemed Gimli’s plan had worked a treat—hundreds dead now.

But not quite a thousand.

Beneath the precipice, Razak ripped his sword from Shobog’s belly with a wet crunch. As lightning struck the field behind him, his head whipped up, and stared at the dwarf and elf, eyes shining in the light.

Both took a step back. “You know he’ll come raging up here soon,” Thranduil warned. “If you really do have a plan, now would be the time.”

“Aye,” Gimli agreed, nodding soberly. “You’re going to think it’s a terrible plan.”

“You only know how to make terrible plans, dwarf, yet we’ve survived thus far,” Thranduil said with a shrug. “What do you need me to do?”

Lightning struck once more, too close for comfort. They heard the heavy footfalls of orcs running up the hill once more, certainly led by Razak.

“Think you can buy even more time, pointy?”

Thranduil eyed him suspiciously, but nodded. “It would be my pleasure.”

Chapter Text

The Elvenking gave the dwarf one last curious glance before stalking down the mountain once more, leaving Gimli on the top to do whatever it was his silly plan was to do.

Thranduil stopped, readying his bow once more once he saw Razak. Flanking the orc were dozens more, but it couldn’t have been any more than forty. Good, the elf thought with vindication.

“Not so much without your army, are you, orc?” Thranduil called, pulling an arrow taut in his string. Razak stopped.

“You’ll pay for this, elf,” Razak growled above the wind. “You’ll regret ever turning against me. You’ll wish the glow of that jewel hadn’t kept you alive down there.”

Thranduil laughed. “You believed that?” he mocked. “The dwarf and I haven’t been in Gondor, let alone Amon Anwar in over a week! We escaped with the Demantur ages past. We’ve only returned to destroy your army—and it seems we have. Are they all that’s left? How pathetic.”

Razak stared him down, considering. “Still, all of mine against only you? I’ll take those odds.” With a raise of his sword, pointed at the Elvenking, Razak’s remaining armies ran forward.

They were fast, but Thranduil was faster. He managed to fell seven of them with arrows immediately, and five more as they stumbled over those corpses. He had just pulled his sword out when the rest were upon him.

The Elvenking was careful to kill as many as he could manage while blocking and parrying the blows that came at him. Overwhelmed as he was with the numbers, he wasn't able to stop every lunge and slash that threatened him, and his clothes bloomed with shallow cuts of blood.

Yet, despite the rage with which those remaining orc soldiers attacked, they were little match for Thranduil's tamed skill. After all, he'd been alive quite a while longer than they. And he was a king, something he dared Razak to forget.

Breathing heavily, Thranduil stood among the dead bodies, wiping the rain from his face with a bloody hand.

Razak still stood apart, his gaze dark and violent. Thranduil did not lower his sword, and beckoned condescendingly at Razak.

"That all you have for me?" He shouted above the storm.

Razak charged, his own blade brandished, and they met in the middle with a clash of metal.

Immediately, Thranduil struggled. Though all of his injuries were surface, his muscles were growing weary with ache. Not to mention Razak seemed quite fit to battle in the mud and wind and rain—far more used to awful conditions than the Elvenking. Still, Thranduil held his own.

Razak loved fighting dirty. Their blade locked, the orc kicked Thranduil’s feet from under him and the elf slipped on the waterlogged ground and landed with a splash in the mud and runoff. Before Razak could strike at the elf's vulnerability, Thranduil swept his leg out as well, sending the orc tumbling to the ground with him.

Thranduil regained his footing faster, but as he struck the ground where Razak lay, the orc rolled out of the way. When Thranduil tried to withdraw his sword from the ground, it was covered in mud and it stuck for a moment—long enough for Razak to stand and swing. Thranduil ducked beneath it, finally yanking his sword out of the wet ground with a sickening pop.

Now freed, the Elvenking's sword swung again, striking clumsily but true into the orc's arm. It met its target—a target that he hadn't even realized he was going for. With one hack, Razak shrieked, and his arm fell to the mud by his feet.

Thranduil was stunned at his own action, but satisfied all the same. His revenge for Razak's poisoned blade that nearly killed him—an arm for an arm. Here the elf stood victorious, adrenaline fueling his frenzied delight.

Razak had finished his screaming and grappled for his sword with his left arm, and Thranduil was so lost in his greedy joy that he didn't notice until it was too late, so fixed as his gaze was on that detached arm.

The orc's sword glinted in the light of the lightning strikes, and the glare caught Thranduil's eye enough for him to react. He stumbled out of the way, the sword now slicing the air and stopping on the elf's shin.

Thranduil howled as the sword ripped out. It had cut deep, near to the bone, and simply standing was now excruciating. Razak had not struck the elf's chest as intended, but his blow still left Thranduil injured.

Yet the Elvenking remained standing, however painful it was. He readied his arm for another attempted strike, but they both stopped as they heard the dwarf further up the hill.

At the very height of the mountaintop, at the edge of the highest precipice, Gimli stood. He was near enough to hear and see in some detail, but he had climbed atop a jagged and vertical peak that neither could reach in quick time.

"Oi!" Was Gimli's call above the wind and noise. "Looking for this?!" He thrust out the Demantur in his gloved hand, its blue glow bright in the dark stormy view.

Before Thranduil ar Razak could even move, Gimli held something up to the sky—Berren's sword, glinting bright blue from the emanating Demantur. He held it out high as he could, the Demantur raised with it.

It took only a moment before both the elf and the orc realized what he was doing.

"Gimli, no!"

"Give it to me!"

Their screams were interrupted almost instantly, as from the sky came a bolt of lightning, striking right at Berren's sword.

So bright and almost beautiful i.it was as it hit its target. Razak and Thranduil needed to shield their eyes for a moment, the loud static crack near deafening. In the blinding light of the lightning strike, any sight of Gimli was completely obscured, replaced by the white-hot light.

And then it was over, and there were two things now to watch.

One—the dozens of shattered pieces of the Demantur that rolled and skipped awkwardly down the slope, toward them.

Two—Gimli, falling off of the precipice and out of sight.

“No!” Both Thranduil and Razak shouted in unison. How hopeless it all seemed now! Thranduil was frozen, and fought to remain standing beneath his shock and pain from his leg.

Razak went scrambling for the chunks of the Demantur. He gathered as many as he could pick up to his chest. “Work for me! Work! Curses! A curse on it all! A curse on the elves, and a curse on the blasted dwarves! A curse for—”

Razak went silent, the Demantur pieces falling to the ground, as Thranduil pulled his sword back out from the orc’s skull.

Razak’s body crumpled to the ground, his face now caved in, only one open eye visible for eternity.

Thranduil was still in a state of shock, far too upset to relish his kill, or gloat of his final victory. He realized with a nauseating thought that he was the only live creature left on or around the Halifirien. Though the storm continued to rage, it was so muffled that Thranduil could only register eerie silence.

The Elvenking slowly gathered the pieces of the Demantur in his hands. He knew they would do nothing now, and it was true. They no longer glowed the same crystal blue—they were just a collection of dull gray shards now. Yet Thranduil could not find it in him to leave them behind to be scattered by the winds or buried in the mud. Not after everything that he went through, that…Gimli went through for it.

The thought of the dwarf’s name threatened to crack through Thranduil’s current state of numbness.

You’ve lost many soldiers in battle, Thranduil reminded himself, this is no different.

Of course, it was,, and he knew that in the back of his brain. Gimli was not just any soldier, and Thranduil understood that, even if he didn’t want to think of it now.

The Demantur, Thranduil thought bitterly as he collected the last piece. Even when Gimli should have used it, he chose to die instead. The dwarf was not stupid—he knew what would happen if he held that sword up to the sky in a lightning storm. Yet, it was clever. What else might be strong enough to destroy an artifact like the Demantur?

Still, couldn’t they at least have tried smashing it with a heavy rock first? Thranduil knew that wouldn’t have worked, but he lamented it nonetheless.

Finally, he knew that he had to return to the bottom of the Halifirien. He had to…he had to do something other than to stand weakly at the top of this wretched mound. So he awkwardly limped back down, the pain in his leg the only thing grounding him.

He had left his elk in the trees, and he expected that the steed was fine and fit to carry him far enough in the storm to a nearby village. There was simply no wisdom in trying to travel any further in this storm, so he’d find an inn and some stables to wait it out.

But there was nothing, nothing he longed for more than to be back home. He felt far too disheveled and distraught to be anywhere among strangers.

No, it was not home he desired, he realized suddenly. It was Legolas. Oh, how he wished to be with his son once more! While it was still true that Thranduil did not really know how close Legolas felt to the dwarf, Thranduil thought that perhaps it was he himself that desired comfort, and Legolas was the first person he wanted with him.

What would Legolas say, when Thranduil told him? Would he be sad, perhaps even devastated? Would he cry, or be angry? Would he simply nod soberly for the passing of an acquaintance? After all, how did he really know if Berren truly understood their relationship? Berren was a quite eccentric man. Perhaps Berren truly did misread the relationship between two allies in battle.

But Thranduil did not believe this, not still. Yes, Gimli’s words of Legolas may have been colored by his true affection for the elf, but what he said was not untrue. His tales of their victories, their defeats, their friendship, no, that could not have all been exaggerated. Thranduil knew with a sudden sickening thought that should he deliver this news to Legolas, his son would despise him more than he may already do. Or maybe Legolas would understand—but what is there to understand? Thranduil failed. He failed his son, he failed his friend, and he failed himself.

He hadn’t even apologized for what happened in the garden. Did Gimli know that Thranduil was sorry? That the elf was trying desperately to be better, to do better?

At the foot of the mountain, Thranduil took a deep breath, continuing around the base to where Gimli fell. What would he see there? Would Gimli have tumbled softly down one of the more gentle and gradual slopes that were plenty, his corpse waiting, burned at the bottom? Or worse—would he have fallen off a steeper side, and Thranduil would find his friend’s body mangled on top of his injuries from the lightning? What he did not want to find was Gimli’s body at all.

He knew he was getting close before he saw him. There was this foreboding feeling that rocked his stomach, a sickness that threatened to creep up his throat. Stepping over hundreds of dead orcs and trolls and wargs did not ease this feeling, and he felt ready to double over.

Still, he persisted. He could not leave Gimli’s body here, in the woods, among all of these horrid creatures. He would carry him into Amon Anwar, that was it! He knew dwarves wished to be buried or encased in stone. If Thranduil could do nothing else for him, he would bear him to the heart of the Halifirien, where they had first found the Demantur. It was by no means perfect, but it would do. It would pay him some of the respect he deserved. He certainly shouldn’t be left among the wretched creatures in the mud.

Holding his breath, Thranduil looked. And he saw.

Gimli’s body was not mangled, which was slightly relieving. Oddly, he was not too badly burned, either. Blood came from his head, and there was some burn, of course, but he looked far better than Thranduil could have ever expected.

This didn’t make it any easier, though, as he had desired. His heart still dropped to his stomach at the sight. He had done everything right! He had prepared himself for the worst and made plans for his next step! How could he still grieve so? How could it still knock all the wind out of him? How could it ache so?

This time Thranduil did fall to the ground, on his knees beside Gimli. The wound in his leg screamed, either from relief or exacerbation, Thranduil could not tell, nor was it at the forefront of his mind.

He simply looked at the dwarf for a while, amidst the wind and rain that raged all around. He wished that he could have apologized, properly, and now it was too late. Grief was his anchor in this storm, and it threatened to drag him under, yet—

He must be seeing things, things he wished to see. He thought he saw the dwarf’s chest move, but that was impossible because—

There it was again.

Thranduil blinked, his grief subsiding to confusion. Quickly, he put a hand to Gimli’s chest. Yes, there was a heartbeat. Somehow, someway, the dwarf was alive!

Thranduil scrambled to his feet, ignoring his own pain. “Praise the stubbornness of dwarves,” he said breathlessly.

He shook his head, tabling his relief. Gimli was alive now, yes, but he may not live much longer. A lightning strike like that, a fall like that, whatever kept him breathing until now must certainly have expired. And that head injury he had spied right away looked bad on top of all of that.

He had to think—Gimli needed to be brought to healers, skilled ones, if he was to survive this ordeal.

His first instinct was Ailan. She was by far the most skilled healer that Thranduil knew, and he trusted her. Yet, Eryn Lasgalen was too far to travel, and he’d be in the storm for nearly all of it. There would be no way he or his steed would survive in this weather traveling like that, at least not long enough to bear Gimli to Ailan.

Certainly no nearby village would have the talent to care for a case such as this. The closest city that would have all that Gimli needed was Edoras, and from what the Elvenking had learned, Éomer would welcome them in with open arms and provide only the best for his dear friend’s recovery.

Yet that wouldn’t work either. Edoras was close, yes, but in the wrong direction. The storm was much harsher in the west as it was heading east. They had not yet seen the true disastrous nature of this storm in the Firien. They would certainly never make it to Edoras.

Then he was struck with an idea. Minas Tirith. Far, yes, but closer than Eryn Lasgalen, and most importantly, they could ride at the front of the storm. If Thranduil could travel fast enough, the storm would remain only on his heels as they rode east, so it would not slow or stop their mission.

He trusted the healers of Minas Tirith well, and of course, this was where Gimli’s friends were. Where Legolas was. And if Gimli should not recover—an idea that unsettled him deeply—then at least Legolas and Aragorn would get to say goodbye.

Gimli has been gone from Minas Tirith too long, Thranduil mused. It is past time for him to return.

Chapter Text

The journey to Minas Tirith felt longer than it must have been. Thranduil had not slept in some time, and though he was an elf and more accustomed to such things, he still struggled.

Upon the elk, Thranduil rode with Gimli as fast as he could manage. They managed to dip in and out of the storm as they rode ahead of it—never fully knowing if they’d manage to be faster than the storm for the entire journey. If they slowed, or the storm quickened, then it might beat them to Minas Tirith, and even worse, kill them before they got there.

Thranduil always demanded that no elves of the Greenwood were to travel in times of a storm, and this mid-summer one came at an ill time with a power and force Thranduil had not seen for some time yet. Ahead of them, the sky was a light, clear blue, and behind them, the storm clouds were near-black. He hoped this was a sign of good things to come, but the darkness on his heels, chasing after him, did not bode well.

He was sure he must have made the journey in record time, only two and a half days, but it felt like years. He only had to stop twice a day to allow his elk to drink and eat—though the steed seemed to have far more power than Thranduil did, strong and persevering as the creature proved to be.

Each time they stopped, Thranduil checked on the dwarf. Still alive, yet critical every time. He feared the time he’d check and find that Gimli had passed. Yet the dwarf proved just as persevering, though he never woke.

Finally, Thranduil rode through the gates into the kingdom, and his elk thundered through the streets, up toward the palace.

~

It had been more than two weeks since the battle in the Druadan, yet Legolas still could hardly sleep.

Aragorn and Arwen had returned to normal, for the most part. Wandering the streets with smiles, dealing with their royal duties, and living life just as before.

It was not that Legolas had not tried. He spent much time in the gardens tending the plants. They’d never looked so lush, so beautiful, so cared for. Though Legolas knew that a mighty storm was about to arrive on their doorstep, he simply could not stop. If the storm destroyed his handiwork, he’d just do it again once it had passed.

Working in the garden was the only way for Legolas to get his mind off of Gimli. At first when Aragorn seemed to adjust, Legolas was furious. Aragorn had been as patient as possible, especially since learning that Legolas was in love with the dwarf. But they both knew Legolas couldn’t take his frustrations out on Aragorn—it wasn’t fair.

So Legolas tried as best he could to distract himself. He thought if he gardened enough, he’d be able to act like life was the same.

But it wasn’t. And with every day that passed without Gimli, the likelihood that he had perished increased more and more. Especially since the storm had blanketed everything west of Minas Tirith.

He just wanted closure of some sort. He knew he’d grieve for a long time if Gimli was proven dead, and he didn’t look forward to that, but at least it would be something. Some other emotion than this constant anxiety.

If Gimli came back perfectly fine, Legolas would be furious. He’d give Gimli a piece of his mind, after he would finally be pried off of him. And if Gimli came back, Legolas wouldn’t let him leave his site. He’d sleep on the floor of his room, shadow him as he worked with the dwarves, and echo his every footstep. And he did not care if Gimli would become frustrated with this, or even if it was hint enough for Gimli to realize Legolas’ true feelings. None of those things mattered, Gimli mattered.

It was midday, and Legolas and Aragorn sat around a smaller table in the kitchen, sharing lunch together. Aragorn had to pry Legolas from his plants to get him to eat, since he hadn’t touched anything at dinner the night before. Arwen was in the lower town today and wouldn’t be back until dinner, and Aragorn’s duties proved rather light, giving him ample time to care for Legolas.

The elf felt guilty—he should not have to be watched over like a child. For his part, he had been trying very hard to pretend everything was as normal, but it was still obvious. He hardly spoke—though he’d never been particularly talkative, at least before he didn’t always have to have everything repeated to him because he had been distracted—and he hardly ate.

Legolas was trying to think of some topic of conversation to discuss with Aragorn, something to alleviate his friend’s worries, but he didn’t have to. Breathlessly, Tannum ran into the room.

“My king, Prince Legolas,” Tannum greeted quickly.

“Where’s the fire, Tannum?” Aragorn joked, concerned. “Slow down, tell me what it is you ran here for.”

“I was looking for Master Legolas,” Tannum explained. “Your father, the King Thranduil, is here.”

Legolas’ eyes widened, thoughts of Gimli nearly gone for the first time in weeks. “My father? He’s in the palace?”

Tannum shook his head. “No, he was spotted riding up the streets in haste. Whatever prompts his urgency…well, I just thought you deserved some warning.”

Legolas nodded and hurried to his feet. He and Aragorn followed Tannum through the palace, matching the guard’s hurried pace.

“Do you think he’s angry?” Aragorn asked the elf.

Legolas shrugged, but he knew the answer was yes. He still had that letter he wrote for his father, but he’d never sent it. Though Thranduil would have probably charged into Minas Tirith with the same fervor had he read what Legolas had written him, so it made little difference. But why come now, just ahead of the storm? It was definitely a risk—the kind that his father never took.

“Just what you need right now,” Aragorn said bitterly. “For your father to come and criticize—you know, I can talk to him. Tell him what’s…going on, make sure he understands that now is not the time for his theatrics.”

Legolas let out a dry laugh. “Aragorn, mellon nin, I do not think that if you tell my father to let me be because I am lamenting a dwarf, he will react any better. No, it’s best to hear what he has to shout at me about, and go from there.”

Aragorn looked unsure, but nodded. “He’s your father. Perhaps if we give him a king’s welcome, he’ll soften.”

Soften? Legolas loved Aragorn, but the man had absolutely no idea who King Thranduil was. He’d soon learn.

Finally outside, they seemed to have perfect timing. A large elk came storming into the courtyard, and the Elvenking pulled the reins hard to halt the creature. It reared up on its hind legs wildly before stomping back down.

Legolas had seen many things in his long life, but absolutely everything about his father surprised him.

Thranduil was completely disheveled, he’d never seen his father look like such a wreck. He was covered in mud and what looked like orc blood. His usually perfectly combed silk-like hair was a mess of tangles and twigs, wind-swept beyond all understanding, and Legolas couldn’t tell if it was wet or dry or just…unwashed.

In blunter terms, it looked as though his father had climbed out of the ground. Yet that was not the site that caught Legolas’ breath.

Atop the very same elk, the one his father rode, was Gimli’s unconscious form.

“Gimli!” Legolas cried, and he ran forward to the elk. Looking exhausted, Thranduil slid off his steed onto unsteady legs. Legolas ran straight to the dwarf, a million fears going through his mind as he eased him off of the elk and onto the ground. Aragorn was on Gimli’s other side in an instant.

“Please, please, please,” Legolas begged, his voice breathy and weak, as Aragorn put his head to Gimli’s chest. The dwarf looked beyond death—he was in a similar state of messy disarray that Thranduil was, but he looked far worse. Dried blood ran in lines down the dwarf’s face that seemed to be his own, and he had dark patches of burned skin where Legolas could see his arms and legs. If Thranduil had climbed out of the ground, then Gimli had certainly been dragged. “Aragorn, please,”

“He lives,” Aragorn said, his voice laced with both relief and terror. “Yet for how much longer I know not. Tannum!” he shouted at the guard who was watching in surprise a few feet away. “Fetch a healer, now.”

“Which one, sire?”

“All of them,” Aragorn demanded desperately, and Tannum scrambled back into the palace.

Legolas put his hand on Gimli’s face and stroked his cheek with his thumb. “Aragorn, what has happened to him?”

Aragorn was busy examining the dwarf, lost in his work and concern. “I know not,” he admitted. He looked up and into Legolas’ eyes with stern conviction. “We will do everything we can, mellon nin, I swear it.”

Legolas could only nod at him with desperation. Gimli was alive, and that was far more than the elf had expected. But now he was gripped by the icy hands of terror, squeezing him tight. He just got Gimli back, and he could not lose him now.

Tannum returned with a dozen healers and a cot to carry him. Aragorn had to gently pull Legolas away so that the healers could lift him to the cot and carry him inside.

Standing again, Gimli quickly being carried inside, Legolas made eye contact with his father. Despite the insanity of his entrance, Legolas had somehow forgotten Thranduil was even there. And why in all of Middle Earth was he there, having brought Gimli of all people! What was going on?

Though his father looked exhausted and unsteady, a thought suddenly possessed Legolas that filled him with a white-hot rage. He stalked up to his father dangerously, Aragorn scrambling to follow.

“Did you do this?” Legolas asked, his muscles coiling up to spring. He felt Aragorn’s warning hand on his shoulder and whipped around on him. “I don’t care that he’s a king, Aragorn, or that he is my father. If he even touched—”

“I did not, my child,” Thranduil interrupted, drawing Legolas’ attention once more. His father’s voice was calm, but not the cold and calculated calm Legolas had grown so used to, but rather… a kind calm. An empathy. Thranduil turned then as the healers had reached the threshold of the palace, and he… followed.

Legolas was a bit stunned. His father simply left him there, to follow the healers? Still possessed by his suspicion, he ran even ahead of his father, just barely outside the huddle of healers that carried his dearest love. In doing so, he forgot his father’s presence once more, eyes only trained on Gimli.

Once in the sickroom, Legolas began to feel very ill. Healers flitted about, all talking to one another and over one another at the same time. He felt useless, and a little stupid as he couldn’t seem to catch what everyone was saying. He didn’t even notice his father watching them with the same frustrated intensity at first, but he saw him out of his periphery. After all, he was quite a sight in this messy appearance.

Legolas noted his father’s weariness as the Elvenking had to lean against the doorframe to stay upright. Yet, he seemed focused on the healers’ work, and Legolas was surprised.

He watched as Aragorn walked up to his father. “King Thranduil,” he said, ignoring the chattering of the healers behind him. “I bid you welcome to Gondor. I apologize that I have not greeted you in the… proper manner. There is just—”

Thranduil held up a hand. “His well-being comes first,” said the Elvenking. “I held no expectations of a parade or feast, believe me.”

If Legolas wasn’t mistaken, his father just made a joke.

“Please allow me to give you a place to rest and wait out the storm that approaches,” Aragorn insisted. “You look weary from whatever it is that brought you here. Please, have a few moments to yourself before we mercilessly pepper you with queries. Now would be the best time,” he continued, his voice now too low for Legolas to hear. “I feel as though none of us are up for conversation like that right now.”

Legolas had stopped listening anyway, anxiously chewing his lip as he watched every move of the healers. So wrapped up in Gimli’s state he had become that he was gripped by a now ever-constant fear that one of the healers would announce that Gimli had passed.

“I feel that would be appreciated,” Thranduil said in response to Aragorn. Tannum led him out, heading toward a guest room, leaving Aragorn and Legolas to watch and worry.

~

A bath had never felt so glorious.

The bath he took nearly a week past in Eryn Lasgalen was welcomed then, after an even longer period of time had passed without washing, but the battle had left the Elvenking so covered in muck and blood, not to mention the debris and water from the storm—needless to say, Thranduil had never felt so happy to run a comb through his hair.

Now presentable, he spent a long time sitting on the edge of the bed. Minas Tirith. He’d never been before, and it was quite a beautiful city, even if still in need of repairs. He knew he should get back, check on Gimli, check on his son—but he was so tired. And Gimli was in good hands.

Thranduil wasn’t sure whether or not he was surprised with his son. Certainly, he’d come to the castle expecting Legolas’ friendship with the dwarf—the last two weeks had readied him for that. It was only that he hadn’t quite expected to see Legolas the way he was. Sad. So sad, worried, and full of rage. No father wished to see their child suffering so.

He should have expected how suspicious it looked to bring Gimli to the palace the way that he had. After all, they both looked battle-worn, and they would have no reason to be allied—the assumption was rather obvious. Still, Aragorn seemed to still wish to impress him, so Thranduil knew that neither of them could truly think he’d hurt Gimli.

Finally getting up, his leg still aching, he returned the way he came and into the sick room where Gimli was.

There were no healers in there now, and it was far quieter than before. Aragorn and Legolas were now joined by Queen Arwen, and they were all seated around Gimli’s bed, speaking in hushed voices. Legolas looked pale, nearly sick.

When Thranduil cleared his throat, all three of them stood as if on instinct. “How does the dwarf fare?” he asked, ignoring how his son bristled.

“We do not know,” Aragorn admitted, unable to meet his gaze for a long moment, clearly tossed about by anxiety himself. “The healers have done all they can, but they cannot say with confidence whether he’ll make it through the storm or…” he was unable to finish his thought. Thranduil nearly smiled, understanding just how this strange little dwarf could manage to cause this much uproar. He wouldn’t dare smile though—not with Legolas as suspicious as he was.

“He will make it through,” Legolas said angrily, glaring at Aragorn.

Thranduil did hope that Legolas would not turn his anger against his friends. Changing his direction, he inclined his head to the queen. “Queen Arwen, it is lovely to finally meet you.

Arwen bowed her head and curtsied. “King Thranduil,” she greeted.

Thranduil shook his head. “No need for formalities today, my dear,” he told her. “It is as I told your husband, I did not come to your kingdom with any expectations of the sort.”

“Why have you come?” Legolas asked, accusation still clear in his voice. The Elvenking knew how strange this all must seem to his son, and felt patience in abundance. “And how have you brought Gimli? More than two weeks it has been since he was taken by an army of orcs.”

“Long is the story that brought me here, with Gimli,” Thranduil began. “But I should be happy to share it all with you, if that is what you desire.”

“It is,” Legolas said coldly.

Thranduil raised a calming hand. “Then, my son, you shall hear it. All of you shall. Will you sit?” he asked, motioning back to their chairs. Aragorn and Arwen sat dutifully, but Legolas stubbornly remained standing, arms crossed, eyes flicking between his father and his unconscious friend. The Elvenking only offered a small knowing smile that Legolas seemed to ignore.

“My tale is thus. Near three weeks past, Ailadir and I came across an army of orcs just south of Eryn Lasgalen. This army was led by the orc Razak, a wicked creature who wielded a poisoned blade. He stated his true purpose of riding out in such numbers—he was a general of Saruman and was now in search of the Demantur. He and another general, the one that the King of the Mark spotted riding east from Edoras and informed you of, had uncovered a map to the Demantur, and believed it lay in the heart of Amon Anwar, or the Halifirien, in the Firien Wood of Gondor.”

“I believed the Demantur was only a myth,” Arwen said in surprise.

“What is it?” asked Aragorn.

“A jewel—a diamond, to be precise, that grants any who touches it with bare skin immortal life,” Legolas told him. “Not just the immortality of elves, however, it also provides immunity to any death. After touching the Demantur, one could not even die from losing their own head.”

Aragorn shivered. “A disturbing image indeed,” he mused dryly. “An orc should never be able to get their hands on a thing like that.”

“I agree,” Thranduil continued. “I may have spoken quite extensively on the Demantur while talking down to Razak, and he believed the best course of option to be to capture me. Apparently, the other general, Shobog, who was sent to guard the entrance to Amon Anwar, refused to venture inside the mountain themselves. It was far too labyrinthine, and none wished to risk their necks for it.

“In a battle, I was separated from Ailadir and my army, and my arm was struck by Razak’s poisoned dagger. It only ached at first, but I had already been claimed by the orc’s forces. Carried I was for days before they rested still outside of the Firien. It was on this day I learned that they had fought another battle—in the Druadan.” Thranduil saw he had claimed all of their attentions, even Legolas’.

He continued. “I was bound to a tree for the night, next to Gimli, who had just been made prisoner. I had never met him before, of course, and he did not know who I was. Such… unkind things I said then, in all my frustrations. I could not suffer the company of a dwarf, I suppose.

“I had gone so far as to criticize his beloved family, as I hurled insult on the names of Thorin Oakenshield and Dáin Ironfoot. I had grown so angry at him, though his only slight had been being a dwarf and being… optimistic, you could say. He must have despised me then, surely.

“Yet, the Razak and a pair of particularly nasty orcs came to us and found me of little use now that they had claimed a dwarf to mine for them, so they readied to kill me. A blade was pressed upon my neck when Gimli interrupted and used his quick wit to save my life. He did not even have any real reason to do so—after all, he did not know that I was your father, Legolas. He knew nothing other than that I was selfish and prone to cruelty.

“All he told me when I finally revealed my name to him was that he knew you, Legolas. He said nothing else of any kind of kinship.” It hurt Thranduil to tell this part of the story, as he saw Legolas’ disappointment and hurt, but the Elvenking knew it was important.

“When we arrived at Amon Anwar, we were pushed in with gloved hands to find the Demantur and return it, believing there was only one way in or out. Gimli managed to work his way through the pitch-dark halls with alarming speed and intelligence.

“When we reached the Demantur, we knew only that we could not return it to Razak or Shobog, the other general, yet we knew of no other escape. Gimli taught me to listen to the sounds of the stone, and in doing so I discovered a tunnel, chimney-like, at the highest point of the cave’s ceiling. Of course, the dwarf had already known it was there, but I was rather… satisfied, to have learned a new skill.

“The climb up was long and difficult. My poisoned arm was proving to be a burden, and I realized soon that I would not be capable of climbing the rest of the way. I informed Gimli of this and told him to continue on without me, but he refused to leave me behind. So he… well, he was forced to climb up using hand and footholds, delivering me upon his back for hours.

“We made it out, quite obviously, and snuck down the mountain and out of the Firien Wood, with the orcs none the wiser. Though Gimli could have traveled back to Minas Tirith and likely have been gone less than even a week, he would not. He desired nothing more than to be reunited with you all, that much was clear. Yet he had decided on a course of action that took him further away. He wished to bear me to Eryn Lasgalen, fearing if he did not, that I would surely die from Razak’s poison.

“So we journeyed together, and it was… challenging. We had found common ground, but it was a difficult adjustment for both of us, and we still found ways to bicker, of course. Your friend is a stubborn one, you know?” Thranduil laughed as he said that, remembering quite a few things Gimli had said to him over the last couple weeks. “And after a long day of traveling we sought refuge in a tavern in Rohan.

“This tavern was owned by a man previously of the Rohirrim, Berren. I take it you knew him some, and fought with him. Gimli especially, as Berren had been in the Glittering Caves with the dwarf and Éomer. They drank together for a while before Gimli retired for the night, but something Berren said confused me. Something about his association with elves, such as myself. I understood then that Gimli knew Legolas, but there was some strange suspicion lingering after hearing Berren speak, and hearing how Gimli deflected.

“I approached Berren in private, knowing all I needed to do was ask and he would tell me everything he knew. And he did—he gave me a small glimpse of the… well, of how everyone in the Fellowship got along. And I came to understand that Legolas and Gimli were friends, not mere acquaintances. At first, I raged against this, but I had no confirmation of this from Gimli, and perhaps Berren was merely exaggerating, though, I did not truly believe so. I think I knew all along that Gimli was purposefully keeping things secret from me. Yet, I found no anger for him, only anger at… well, that is a long story in and of itself.

“That night, after we were attacked by a warg, I confronted him about it, to see if he would deny it. Yet he did not. After an interesting conversation, we had found common ground.

“Over our next days of travel he shared with me the story of the Fellowship. We got along amicably and made much progress. That evening we had more insightful conversation and I realized how much I had grown to… appreciate his company.

“But the next morning, I awoke paralyzed completely. The poison had spread throughout my entire body and I could make no sound, barely even twitch. When Gimli found me like this, though we had abandoned our steeds for the crossing of the Anduin, he knew he still had to bear me to Eryn Lasgalen, and quickly too, if I was to survive. I’d certainly be dead by the end of the day unless I could reach the cure that lay within my palace walls. So Gimli carried me, running the rest of the way to Eryn Lasgalen.

“The journey should have killed him, the state we were already in, and the weather—and it might have, but he was determined and persistent. He finally collapsed just within the Greenwood and I feared that I was looking at his dead body, still conscious but unable to move.

“We were lucky—I heard Ailadir’s voice as his patrol came soon after to where we were. I could see and hear his shock and confusion, after all, I’d been gone quite a long time already, and here I was, paralyzed from a poison that was visible on my skin, next to an exhausted and near-dead dwarf.

“My healer, Ailan, managed to speedily save both of our lives, and when Gimli woke the next morning, all seemed well. We had survived to Eryn Lasgalen, where we could recover during the storm to be back in fighting shape to wipe out Razak and Shobog’s armies, or at least those who the storm would not beat us to.

“But in the palace, still before the storm, we had a… falling out. And it was my fault, and it was a severe overreaction. I said the cruelest things I could imagine, and when I finally cooled off, I discovered that Gimli had left Eryn Lasgalen, and I could not blame him. Yet I knew he was riding to certain death, for I knew he would not return to Minas Tirith, but rather to the Firien Wood.

“I could not send out my army in the storm, so I followed him myself and did not catch up until we had both reached Amon Anwar once more. Gimli had a plan, and a rather clever one at that. Holding out the Demantur like a morsel of flesh, he managed to turn Razak and Shobog’s forces on one another, and the ensuing battle nearly wiped them all out. Gimli and I helped, of course.

“But in the end, Razak with about forty of his orcs stood victorious and went to claim their prize. We had no way of easily destroying the Demantur, so I bought Gimli some time. I managed to kill all forty of the orcs, but Razak and I were locked in a battle so heated that I would have lost, had it not been for Gimli’s interruption.

“Wielding his sword to the sky, the metal attracted a lightning strike so severe that the Demantur shattered to pieces, and turned gray instead of its shimmering blue. Gimli then tumbled off the precipice and I believed him to be lost.

“Yet somehow, by some miracle, he had not died. The lightning strike had not fried him as it could have, and the fall was gentle enough. I needed to take him somewhere capable, but the storm had been raging all night, and we would not survive if we rode within it. That was when I understood that if I rode east, I would be ahead of the storm. And that brings us to now.”

Throughout the tale, Thranduil had decidedly not been looking at his captive audience—he feared if he allowed himself to get caught off guard by a reaction that he would stop and never finish. But now he could look up, and he waited expectantly for some sort of… something.

All three simply looked stunned. Legolas more than the others.

“So,” Aragorn was the first to speak up, “you and Gimli have certainly done… a lot.”

That was one way to say it. “Yes,” Thranduil answered, unsure if there was a hidden question in there.

Legolas was quiet, and pale. Yet, unlike his emotional displays of sadness and anger, he was unreadable. Thranduil cleared his throat. “Could my son and I have a word?” Thranduil directed his question to the king and queen. They simply bowed their head in understanding, exchanged a glance, and left the room without another word.

“What else is there to discuss?” Legolas asked quietly, still not giving anything away. “You have spoken of quite enough today.”

“And yet it is not, is it? Enough, that is.”

Legolas shook his head. “No, father. No. You do not get to show up and… and… do this!”

Thranduil cocked his head in confusion, but his voice was patient. “You would rather I… not brought Gimli to your door? That I might instead have left him behind?”

“Of course not!” Legolas snapped, horrified. “How could you say that?”

Thranduil held his hands up in a non-threatening gesture. “I merely wish to understand what you meant.”

Legolas looked at his father in exasperation. “You’ve just gone and… befriended my friend!”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. “So I am not allowed to share one of your friendships?”

“No, you aren’t,” Legolas replied, tone entirely serious. “Adar, you have never cared for dwarves once in your life. You despise them. What would make you worthy of his friendship?”

Thranduil was a bit surprised at this. “I didn’t realize that you had to obtain a certain level of worthiness to receive Gimli’s kinship,” said the Elvenking.

“Well, you should have,” Legolas replied stubbornly. “Because he is near death. And you claim to care about him?”

“That is not fair, Legolas,” Thranduil reprimanded sternly. “You have many reasons to be angry with me, but you cannot blame me for this. Or do you find Gimli incapable of making his own decisions? Because believe me, my child, I did not ask him to risk himself to destroy the Demantur, and had I known, I highly doubt I’d have been capable of stopping him.”

Legolas looked to the floor, boring a hole in it with his furious gaze. “Not that you would have even tried.”

“Did you not listen to my tale, Legolas?”

“Of course I did! But how am I to know what was truthful and what was a lie? For all I know, you two might hate one another, or you may have ordered him to do as he did.”

“Alright,” Thranduil said with a sigh. “Say I did lie. Tell me then, my son, why would I have said how he carried me upon his back both up the inside of a mountain and again across the plains? Why would I have admitted to saying cruel things only for him to save my life? What would compel me to say such things to you that would have shamed me only three weeks past?”

“I don’t know!” Legolas exclaimed exasperatedly. Still, he seemed warier. “All I know is that you are not acting like… you! Where is the father who cursed the dwarves?!”

“Right here, before you,” Thranduil said earnestly. “I am the same elf who would have stepped over a hundred of Gimli’s kind. But I am trying to be different, my child. I want to be different. I want to be the kind of father who would make you proud.”

Legolas looked stunned, as though he’d been slapped. “Ada,” he said, his voice finally more calm and low than in his rage, “since when has that mattered to you?”

Thranduil looked away, shame rising in his chest. “Not long enough has it mattered,” he admitted solemnly.

The Elvenking practically collapsed into a chair in a defeated motion. Now seated, he was sure he looked far more pathetic as he looked up at his son’s face. “Tell me honestly, Legolas. Is Gimli the reason you have not written to me?”

“Do not blame him, I bid,” Legolas responded, glancing over at Gimli’s sleeping form. “He urged me to write to you—many times, actually.”

“That is not what I mean,” Thranduil said sadly. “Did you not write to me because you felt you could not tell me about your friendship?”

Legolas held his gaze for a moment. “I… maybe. Yes, I believe so. You must believe me, I wanted nothing more than to tell you everything. But I knew you would not approve, especially of my newfound friends. I suppose… everything had just been so wonderful since the Fellowship found victory, and I didn’t wish for you to arrive in some blaze of anger to lecture me.”

Thranduil nodded, hurt but unsurprised. “I guessed as much after Berren told me of your friendship with the dwarf,” he admitted. “I realized that perhaps the reason you had not written to me was that you didn’t quite want to. All I could think of were all the times we fought, and how dearly I wished to take it all back. You are my child, the most dear to my heart, and I realized that I had driven you away with my harshness.”

“Oh, Ada,” Legolas fell to his knees in front of where his father sat, looking up at him and taking his hands in his own. “I have never doubted your love for me. I know you’ve only ever wanted what was best. I just don’t think you really knew what was best. But I should have written something. It was selfish of me.”

“No, my child,” Thranduil said, cupping Legolas’ face in his hand. “You must not blame yourself for anything. I am your father, and it is my job to take care of you, to see to your health and happiness. But I fear that my own distance and prejudices have clouded my vision in the past. I am so sorry, Legolas.”

Legolas looked up into his father’s eyes, his own shining with near-brimming tears. “Thank you, Ada,” he said with a smile. “I had never expected to hear such a thing from you.”

Thranduil laughed. “Yes, well, I fear that dwarf has kicked so much sense into me that I have come out the other side a quite different elf,” he said humorously.

Yet, Legolas’ smile wavered. “Yes, he is known to do that. Quite often, in fact. Perhaps he kicks sense into me, even now.”

Thranduil grew confused at Legolas’ now disappointed expression. “Whatever do you mean, Legolas? What sense?”

“I thought… well, he is my friend, my closest one. I just… I thought he viewed me as a friend as well.”

“Why would you think now that he does not?”

“You said it yourself! Gimli did not say we were friends, only that he knew me.” Legolas spat out the word knew as though it were a curse.

“My child, of course you are his friend!” Thranduil nearly wanted to tell Legolas that Gimli held the elf far closer to his heart than simple friendship, but he wouldn’t dare spill the dwarf’s secret. “If you knew how much he cared, you’d curse your tongue for saying otherwise!”

“Then why did he say nothing of the sort to you? Why is it that Berren had to tell you?”

“You must remember, Legolas, we had far to travel with one another, and I was a rather aggravating travel companion, especially at the beginning. I did not even believe him when he said he only knew you—I called him serpent-tongue!”

“Adar!”

“Alas, it is true! Knowing that, it isn’t hard to understand why Gimli would not try and explain that you were friends. I would have cursed him, if I even believed it to be true! But understand this, my child, for it is important,” Thranduil squeezed Legolas’ hands in his own. “Gimli adores you. Of course he sees you as his friend. Do you really think he would have escorted a fool elf such as myself to such lengths if not for how much he cared about your feelings?”

Legolas smiled, his worry alleviated. “Yes,” he argued with a bit of a laugh. “I do, actually. Even if just to prove a point. You were right, earlier. He is so damn stubborn.”

Thranduil laughed along with him. “Oh, yes, definitely so. Did you know—when we met, the only reason I told him my name was because he kept on calling me ‘laddie’, which I hated with such passion. Yet, even after learning my name, he still called me that obnoxious moniker!”

This made Legolas laugh, and Thranduil felt overcome with warmth. This was what he missed, what he yearned for. He wanted his son to feel safe with him, to enjoy his company, to feel comfortable enough to share his life with his father.

Quite too late, however, Thranduil realized that Legolas’ laughs had turned to cries—sobs that his son tried to muffle with his hand pressed against his mouth.

Quickly, Thranduil reacted. “What’s wrong, my child?” he asked as he stroked Legolas’ hair.

“Nothing, I’m… I’m sorry,” Legolas said, trying to calm himself. “I am happy to hear that he has been somewhat well these past few weeks, I am. But now I fear… oh Ada how I fear for him so! I would part with every last second of my immortal life if only he would wake! Even if it was simply to curse me, I should be so lucky to hear it!”

“Do not speak like that!” Thranduil commanded. “If Gimli were to wake, he’d strike you for saying such a thing! We can only be patient, and trust in his strength and stubbornness. You do trust him, do you not?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then you must trust a while longer.”

Chapter Text

Another day had passed, and Gimli had not gotten better. In fact, he seemed to be getting worse. His skin was abnormally pale, and his body seemed to reject the water and soup the healers attempted to force him to have.

The healers had moved Gimli to his own room in hopes that the extra comfort would provide some incentive to wake, yet it didn’t work. Though it did provide the illusion that they had just caught Gimli peacefully asleep, rather than the reality of his state.

Legolas hardly left his bedside, so neither did Thranduil. The Elvenking was at a loss for what to do, and though he had been the one to urge patience from his dear son, he himself was a horribly impatient thing.

But what else could he do? If he let his impatience show, Legolas would surely notice that his father was not, in fact, the very fine figure of strength and hope that he was attempting to be. Thranduil worried for Gimli himself, but his worry paled in comparison to Legolas’.

He had been surprised at how much Legolas cared for the dwarf. True, he had known beforehand they were close, but it was a different thing to see with his own eyes.

Thranduil wished that Gimli understood his friend’s dedication, for then he may have not had to fear admitting that Legolas was his One. Legolas definitely wouldn’t have scorned him or ran away, he would have been kind and delicate. When Gimli finally woke, Thranduil knew he would have to tell him as such.

If he woke, that was.

It was late afternoon, and the two elves sat in chairs they had brought up beside Gimli’s bed, both lost in quiet contemplation, as they had spent much time since Gimli was moved. Aragorn and Arwen still had their duties to attend to, though it had been rather difficult for either of them to continue during this time.

“Adar?” Legolas’ voice finally broke the long silence that had settled over them.

“Yes, Legolas?”

“What did you fight about?”

“What do you mean?”

Legolas turned in his seat so he was facing his father, tucking his legs beneath him. “You said that you had a falling out in Eryn Lasgalen. You said it was bad enough that he left the palace to fight those orcs on his own. What did you fight about?”

“Oh Legolas, don’t ask me that, I beg,” Thranduil replied in earnest. He did not want to tell Legolas, because if he told him the truth, he would have to spill Gimli’s secret of being in love with him. He didn’t particularly wish to lie either. “I don’t even want to think of what I might have said in my anger then. And I had no right to that anger.”

Legolas watched him intently, before letting out a small sigh of frustration. “Alright, I suppose I cannot force you to tell me,” he acquiesced in defeat. “Still, I would like to know.”

“Why is that?” Thranduil asked with a wry smile. “You want to know whether or not you still forgive me?”

“Maybe!” Legolas answered impertinently. “Father, you must understand, I think I am right to trust you, but I have only heard your side of the story. You must see it from my perspective—what if you said something truly unforgivable in Eryn Lasgalen? I would have no way of knowing because you wouldn’t tell me!”

Thranduil pondered this for a little while. “Alright, I understand,” he said, “but you must see it from my perspective. The conversations I had with the dwarf were ours and ours alone. I should be able to share them or conceal them at my discretion, no? And what of Gimli? What if our fight contained something he does not want you to hear or know?”

Legolas looked taken aback. “Gimli and I tell one another everything—there are no secrets between us.”

“Is that so?” Thranduil asked, raising his eyebrow cynically but amused. “I don’t believe that for a moment. Everyone keeps secrets, even from their closest of confidantes. There is always at least one thing you’ll take with you to Valinor, never to be uttered.”

Legolas crossed his arms. “So you mean to say Gimli keeps secrets from me?”

Thranduil shrugged noncommittally. “Do you really keep no secrets from him?”

Legolas seemed to shrink in his seat. “Maybe… one, probably. But it’s okay to keep that a secret.”

Thranduil gestured around him. “See? If you have something you keep from him, then you can be sure he probably keeps one or two of his own.”

“But that’s so… bleak.”

“And yet intriguing, yes? Possibly maddening?”

“Definitely maddening,” Legolas agreed with a huff.

Thranduil threw his head back and laughed. “My my, Legolas, sometimes I think you’re so different, but then you say something that reminds me you are the same elf I raised in the Greenwood.”

After the laughter had died down, Legolas' face became anxious and uncertain. He pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket. “Ada, there is something I want to show you.”

Thranduil narrowed his eyes, trying to guess what it was but at a loss. “What is it, my child?”

Legolas stared at the paper in his hand. “I did write to you. Not before, obviously, but I wrote this letter about a week after Gimli was taken. It… well, I’m not sure what you’ll think of what I had to say. I never got the chance to send it, I was too worried about your response, too worried for Gimli’s safety. And I suppose giving it to you now might be worse, because you are close enough to strike me.”

“Strike you? Legolas, whatever could you have written to me that would warrant that?” Thranduil asked, surprised. “Especially now! You need not fear that I disapprove of your friendship.”

“Yes, even still.” Legolas continued. “I wrote it when I was scared for Gimli, and I needed my father. My Ada. I suppose I’ll never really be ready for you to read it, but now—” Legolas stilled for a second, cutting himself off. “Do you hear that?”

“Legolas?”

“Something’s wrong,” he said, his gaze automatically flicking to Gimli.

Thranduil listened intently. “You may just be paranoid, Legolas. I hear nothing. It’s a bit eerie, to be honest.”

Legolas nodded. “Yes, that’s it. It’s quiet, but it’s wrong.” He shot to his feet, a look of realization dawning on his face. “I can’t hear him breathing!” Legolas said, his words breathy and panicked as he ran to Gimli’s bedside.

Thranduil didn’t take a moment to question him. “Guards!” he shouted as he ran to the door. “Fetch a healer, now!”

Thranduil returned to the bed to see Legolas pressing an ear to Gimli’s chest. “His heart still beats, but he does not breathe! Ada what do I do?” Legolas’ voice was desperate and scared.

Luckily, Thranduil was saved from having to fumble for some unfounded platitude as a healer came bursting into the room. The healer came quickly to Gimli’s bedside, opposite Legolas, and held a hand over Gimli’s mouth and nose to feel for breath. Then her hand came to Gimli’s neck to feel for a pulse.

Thranduil had to pull Legolas away forcefully as the healer glared at them. Thranduil held Legolas in his arms as both of their eyes were locked on the dwarf.

The healer made quick work of a plan. She climbed onto the bed and knelt above Gimli, pressing her hands to his chest and pressing down hard. Up and down she pumped, and Legolas let out a small cry at the violence of the action. Thranduil held Legolas’ head against his chest, a hand stroking his son’s hair. He himself was terrified, but he could not show that to Legolas.

The healer slid off the bed, but Gimli still did not make a sound. She bowed her head at the elves. “My lords, I am so sorry.”

“No,” Legolas’ voice was only a whisper.

“He will not breathe any longer. He will be dead in only minutes. I’m sorry—there was nothing else to be done for him.”

“You all said if we were patient, he’d recover!” Thranduil shouted at her, perhaps unfairly.

“My lord, we said he may recover. We also said he might not.” She looked guiltily between the elf prince and king. “I really am sorry. I must fetch the king.” She scurried from the room.

Thranduil’s mind went blank, and he felt numb as Legolas slid out from his father’s grasp and went to the bed, falling to his knees beside it, only because they were unable to hold himself up any longer. The letter he had been preparing to give Thranduil fell to the floor, forgotten by the prince, and it fluttered toward Thranduil’s feet.

Legolas put one hand on Gimli’s chest, over his heart. Clearly it still beat, even if it wouldn’t for much longer. “Gimli, please,” Legolas whispered, tears silently running like rivers down his cheeks. “Don’t do this to me, please. I haven’t gotten to say goodbye.”

Thranduil looked between them, something familiar blooming in his chest. Something he was unable to name passed between them, and perhaps had the Elvenking felt less numb he would have known in an instant.

His eyes drifted down to the floor, at the letter Legolas had let slip. He knew there were more important things, that his friend lay dying, but somehow he knew he needed to read that letter.

As if drawn by some invisible force, Thranduil picked up the letter from the ground, Legolas’ whispered pleas to Gimli fading to the background as he read.

Dear Adar,

I am scared tonight. Of many, many things, and I need my Ada with me. Yet you are so far away, in so many ways, and I fear that we can never remedy that. But on nights like these, where my heart despairs so, I wish nothing more than for you to stroke my hair beneath the leaves of my home.

My friend is gone, father, and I fear for him deeply. He has been taken by a force too strong to attack, and too tricky to follow. He is a dwarf, father, and I know that you might rip this letter up right now, reading no further, and that is alright if you do. I cannot stop you, and I cannot force you to be okay with my newly discovered friendship. But he is important to me father, and if you cannot live with that, then I implore you to rip this up, because I care not for your criticism.

He has been gone a week, and I can hardly sleep or eat. I have never been so fearful in all my life. In battle, I have always remained levelheaded, but something about this dwarf has shaken me to my core. I fear the unknown—what may happen while he is gone. What may have happened already.

I love him, Ada. Yes, you read that correctly, and it is truer than anything else I’ve ever felt. I am in love with him, Adar, and it is neither some whim nor passing fancy. You know that I will only love once, as we all do, and it is him I love. More than anything.

You need not worry, for he loves me not. He cares for me enough, sure, but it is not love. And I know you will be angry, absolutely furious, but I needed to tell you this. For if he is found dead, then I will surely crumble and fall, and it may be selfish, but I will need my father. My Ada. But I will need you to help me and to tell me it will be alright—even though it would not be. Ever again.

If he should return to me unscathed, then this letter still holds meaning. I need you to know why I have not written, why I have not returned. I will return to Eryn Lasgalen one day, soon. And you may welcome me or send me away, but you needed to know. I needed you to know.

〰 Legolas

The moment Thranduil finished reading the letter, Legolas let out a wail loud enough to ring through the entire kingdom. The Elvenking knew then, Gimli’s heart had finally stopped beating.

He was dead.

Thranduil let the letter slip from his fingers, and he stared at his son, an arm thrown atop the dwarf’s lifeless form, sobbing loud and recklessly, still on the floor, barely able to keep himself upright enough to even reach Gimli on the bed. Thranduil watched as the prince shattered as his friend died.

No, not his friend. His love. The only one he’d ever had—would ever have.

“It is better to have loved at all,” Thranduil whispered to himself, Gimli’s words ringing in his ears.

Aragorn and Arwen burst into the room hurriedly, but neither elf even acknowledged them. They ran up to the other side of the bed, but Legolas’ sobs must have been sign enough. Aragorn stumbled and fell to the ground, his eyes wide and his face pale. Arwen went down after him, placing her arms around him, tears beginning to form.

“No,” Thranduil stated, his voice now loud and clear. Legolas paid him no mind, not pausing once from his grief. None of the mourning friends seemed to, and Thranduil did not care, because he was not talking to them. “Dammit, you stubborn, foolhardy dwarf! It’s always about you, isn’t it? And now you won’t even be so fair as to let me apologize?!”

Though they all still cried, Legolas, Aragorn, and Arwen turned their heads to look at Thranduil, confusion mixing with their sadness. But Thranduil did not notice nor care.

“Well, I won’t let you. You will not get the last word! You do not get to stomp your way into my life and… and… interrupt it! And change it! And change me! I am King Thranduil, King of the Elves of the Greenwood, King of Mirkwood, dammit, and if I say you will not die, then you are simply not going to.”

Thranduil whipped his head around the room, a terribly useless idea in his head. All he knew, all he could think of, was how unfair this was. He would not lose the one person who had managed to get through to him, to teach him things he should have always known, to remind him that his son was the most important thing in the world.

And how dare he leave Legolas behind? Where did he find the nerve, the gall? Legolas loved him, dammit, and Legolas was a prince. A prince should get what he wants, that was always what Thranduil understood. They were the royal family of Eryn Lasgalen, and they always got what they wanted. They demanded it.

Grabbing Gimli’s pack from where it had been left on his desk, Thranduil thrust his hand inside, grabbing all of the sharp gray shards that he could touch. He tightened his fist around them so hard that his palms bled, but he ran over to the bed, leaping on top as the healer had, and he thrust the shards down atop Gimli's chest.

They sat there, gray and lifeless, and not at all like the Demantur had been before. "Come on!" He shouted at the shards. He had no awareness of how crazy he appeared.

"Thranduil," Arwen said, her voice light but stern. She was clearly the most stable of all of them, and able to reason. "The Demantur is broken. It won't work darling, you know that."

"This cursed jewel has caused nothing but ruin!" Thranduil shouted back angrily. He thought to himself that he must be missing a piece, so he stormed back over to where he had strewn the pack across the floor. "It ruins lives. It ruined Gimli's life—and all I demand in return is that it does its damn job just this one time!"

A-ha! One last tiny gray shard had fallen to the floor. He picked it up and ran back over to Gimli, setting it on his chest with the rest. "It will work, it must!"

"Father, stop!" Legolas cried, his voice cracked and shaking, throat scratchy and dry. "This is madness, father, please! He's gone."

"The Valar built Amon Anwar, the Halifirien, around the Demantur. They did not destroy it, don't you see? Don't you all see?!" Thranduil's voice did sound a bit mad, but he ignored it. "They must have saved it for a purpose, saved it for the day we discovered it! And it will breathe life back into him, even if only a sliver, because it has to. It must. I will allow nothing else! It will do this one last thing."

"Thranduil, please, calm yourself!" Arwen pleaded. "For Legolas' sake! Gimli would not want—"

There was utter silence in the room as a faint blue glow began to emanate from the gray shards on Gimli's chest. The same crystal blue, albeit dimmer, that had defined the Demantur before.

Everyone was stunned, even Thranduil, and took a step back. The blue glow grew brighter and brighter and brighter, and all of a sudden they found themselves shielding their eyes.

Finally, the light died like a flame being blown out, and they all blinked, readjusting. When their eyes focused once more, they all saw that the shards were gone. It was not like when the Demantur had first broken, now it was just gone, completely disappeared.

More remarkable, however, was that Gimli's chest began to slowly move up and down.

"He's breathing!" Aragorn said breathlessly, eyes wide.

Legolas quickly placed his head over Gimli's heart again and whipped back up, astonished. "I… do not understand it. He lives once more." The elf prince seemed completely in shock.

Arwen made her way to the door. "I'll fetch the healer again. We do not know if this will last." She whisked out the door.

Aragorn looked to Thranduil in amazement. "How did you know that would work?"

The Elvenking simply shrugged. "I don't… I don't really know," he said distantly, his fervor finally fading. "I just knew that it had to work, because I would not abide his death."

The healer came in the room on Arwen's heels, her eyes about to pop out of her head when she saw Gimli's chest construct and contract.

"I've never seen anything like it," she murmured as she felt for his heartbeat. "He's… alive."

"Will it last?" Legolas asked urgently and desperately.

But the healer only shrugged, her usual professionalism disappearing like the shards of the Demantur. "I've never seen this happen before. All we can do is wait until he wakes, just as before. But his coloration is better, his breaths are deeper, and even his heartbeat is more regular. He seems to be recovering."

Legolas looked slightly hopeful, but he bit his lip anxiously, wiping the tears from his face. "But he will wake?"

"I cannot say for sure, but I am hopeful. Be cheered, my lords and lady, for I've never seen a miracle such as this in all my life."

Aragorn and Arwen embraced, each one with relieved smiles on their face, but Legolas looked the same—worried and scared. He stroked Gimli's face with his hand, still terrified for his life.

Thranduil could not blame him. If Gimli did die for any reason now, Legolas would only feel worse for hoping. The Elvenking could only hope for himself that Gimli would soon wake.

~

Gimli blinked blearily into the dark.

His body ached, and he felt as though he were naught but a corpse rising from the dead based on the stiffness of his muscles and the pounding in his skull.

He sat up with much effort as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He knew this bed, those tall windows, these sheets. He realized with much surprise that he was in his room in Minas Tirith. Starlight shone in through the windows, and Gimli guessed that it was likely very deep into the night. He could hear the pounding wind and rain against the glass—the storm, a sound he was much used to by now.

What was the last thing he remembered? He had a thought atop the Halifirien, what was it? To destroy the Demantur… a lightning strike had to be strong enough, powerful enough, to shatter the jewel and render it useless.

Oh. Oh, Aulë's beard! He had been struck by the lightning! That was it, he used Berren's sword as a lightning rod to destroy the Demantur!

Was he dead? He didn't necessarily feel dead—quite the opposite, he always thought that death would feel peaceful, this felt just as painful as life.

So, if he was alive, and in Minas Tirith, then that meant had to have gone right, right? Or maybe something had gone horribly wrong, but he remained overall hopeful.

He finally took in his surroundings, and his eyes widened with a start. Thranduil and Legolas were both in the room with him, fast asleep in a rather awkward position on chairs that rested against the wall on his right. Legolas had curled into his father, angled toward him, and wrapped in a tight ball with his legs beneath him. Thranduil was the opposite, his legs sticking out as far as they could, rather like a starfish. Gimli giggled at the sight, a warm feeling in his chest. At least, it seemed, Thranduil had managed to fix his relationship with his son. Gimli felt proud.

Gimli’s eyes remained on Legolas for a while, the elf prince’s face peaceful in sleep. Gimli knew it hadn’t been all that long since the battle in the Druadan, but after everywhere he had gone and all that had happened, it felt as though he hadn’t seen his One in a year.

His heart warmed as he understood that Legolas had remained by his bedside as Gimli healed. He really was a wonderful friend—however much Gimli might have wished for more. He felt now as though he could burst into tears, just seeing Legolas again. It was all he had longed for in his absence, but he had given up on the notion the moment he made up his mind to leave Eryn Lasgalen alone. He had doubted he’d live so long to see him again.

Carefully, as not to wake his elven guests, Gimli climbed out of bed. Water, that was his new mission. And stretching his legs wouldn’t hurt too badly either.

The palace was eerily silent in the late hour, and Gimli made it to the kitchen without seeing another face. The water soothed his throat and let Gimli know how rough and pained it truly felt. How long had it been since the lightning strike? It must have been more than a couple of days since—the journey to Minas Tirith would take days in and of itself.

It struck him then exactly what must have happened. Thranduil had taken him home, something obvious yet surprising.

As though summoned by his thoughts, the Elvenking’s voice came from behind him in the dark kitchen.

“Sneaking away from another palace, Gimli?”

Gimli whipped around to face him, startled and nearly dropping his glass. “Of course not!” he said, then paused. “You were just… joking, weren’t ya?”

Thranduil smiled, his eyes gleaming mischievously in the dark. “Why, you’ve become a bit slower, haven’t you? That lightning struck all the wit from your brain?”

“Hilarious, laddie.” Gimli said with an eye roll. “Is Legolas…?”

“Asleep, still. I think he wore himself out today. It’s been a strange one.”

“Strange?”

“Well, you died, for one.”

Gimli’s eyebrows raised. “Come again?”

“I mean it,” Thranduil said honestly. “You had died only this afternoon. The Demantur brought you back from the dead.”

Gimli’s eyes bulged. “So I failed? That damn jewel’s invincible!” Suddenly, he was overcome with panic. “Wait, am I immortal now?”

Thranduil cocked his head. “Do you feel immortal?” he asked, curiously.

Gimli considered this and laughed. “I suppose… well, it couldn’t be that easy to tell, could it?” Thranduil shrugged. “Well, if it is, then I would say… no, definitely, decidedly not immortal. Besides, doesn’t the story of the immortal man say that the moment he touched the Demantur he transformed to his younger and stronger self? Well, I may be young for a dwarf yet, but I do not feel particularly strong. I quite rather feel as though I’ve been struck by lightning, in fact.”

Thranduil grinned humorously. “So, can we safely say that you aren’t angry with me then? I honestly hadn’t considered how you might feel about the Demantur’s immortality—had it worked, I mean.”

“So it was your bright idea? You know, I would have killed you if I became immortal! I like my mortality just as it is, thank you.”

“Yes, well, it seems as though the broken jewel had just enough power left inside to set your heart beating once more. The horrid gem did one thing right, at least.”

Gimli sighed. “Aye, you could say that. Where is it now?”

“Gone,” Thranduil admitted. “Disappeared after it brought you back from the dead.”

“Interesting.”

“I agree. Maybe it went away because it had fulfilled its penance, but I do not know. Some things we are not meant to know.”

“Penance? For what, Thranduil? It’s a stone. A pretty one, aye, but a stone. And it’s gone now, thank Mahal. Let us waste no more time on what the Valar may have intended that cursed thing to do.”

Thranduil nodded his head in acquiescence. “Alright, alright. I understand.” He hesitated a moment. “Gimli, you need to go back in there and wake my son.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I know you tried not to wake him, but you must. Go now, waste no more time here with me. Wake him, and tell him the truth.”

“The truth of what?”

Thranduil gave Gimli a knowing look. “You know of what.”

Gimli took a step back. “No, Thranduil, are you out of your fool mind?! I can’t just—”

“Yes you can,” Thranduil said as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “Tell Legolas you are in love with him. That he is your One. You must not keep this a secret any longer. Your mortal life is far too short, believe me. So you must tell him.”

The dwarf looked down at the floor. “And what if he thinks me strange? What if he grows uncomfortable, or disgusted that a dwarf… well, what if I… what if I lose him?”

The Elvenking closed the gap between them and knelt on one knee to be eye-level with Gimli, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You will never know if you never try, Gimli. And I do not think Legolas would turn his back on you, ever. There is much to be found, Gimli, trust me when I say that.”

Gimli was still nervous, but he bowed his head and began to walk past Thranduil, who followed but stopped in the doorway.

“Gimli?” Thranduil called as Gimli was halfway down the hall.

“Yes?”

“About before. In my garden, I was wrong. I’m so—”

“None of that now,” Gimli said quietly, a gentle smile on his face. “You followed me from Eryn Lasgalen to fight an army of a thousand orcs. You bore me to my friends once again, saving me from certain death. Anything you might say, Thranduil, trust that I already know.”

Thranduil smiled at him, his face betraying far more emotion than it usually did. “Of course you do,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Now go.”

Chapter Text

Gimli returned to his room silently, still unsure of how best to wake Legolas. Thranduil seemed insistent that he do so, but it felt a bit awkward regardless. It wasn’t as though Gimli hadn’t missed him, or didn’t desire to speak with him, but rather that it felt a bit selfish, with the elf prince sleeping so soundly.

However, this time as the door latched behind him, Legolas stirred. Gimli stood in front of the door, still across the room, unsure of what to say as he watched the elf blearily collect his bearings.

The moment Legolas’ sleepy gaze landed on Gimli, he tried to stand so fast that he clumsily fell on the floor.

Whatever Gimli had been expecting, it was not that, and a laugh left him, completely involuntarily. Very quickly he put a hand over his mouth to stop himself, feeling guilty.

“I’m sorry, that was… rude,” Gimli flailed for what to say as Legolas stood back up and began to march over to where the dwarf stood. Was he angry? Gimli wondered if it was too late to run back out into the hall.

Fortunately, he was saved as Legolas reached him, fell to his knees, and threw his arms around him. He did it with such force that Gimli, in his weakened state, nearly stumbled backward. Yet he remained steady enough.

He was so surprised that he simply stood there, arms awkwardly hovering in the air. Yet it seemed the elf was full of patience, and only tightened his grip, resting his head in the crook of Gimli’s neck.

It seemed to be this contact that brought Gimli back to himself, and finally embraced Legolas in return, holding as tight as he could, with one hand on the back of Legolas’ head.

“I’ve missed you,” Gimli admitted, and Legolas pulled away, looking at him with wide eyes, shining in the dim moonlight that illuminated the room nearly the same color as the Demantur. He feared that he had misspoken as Legolas had moved away so quickly. “I only meant… well, I don’t mean to… obviously I did, but perhaps I should not have…”

Luckily Legolas took pity on him, realizing that his silence had upset him. The prince put his hands on both of Gimli’s arms, falling back so that he was seated on his knees and looking slightly upward at his friend.

“Oh, mellon nin, I missed you far more, believe me,” Legolas said, punctuating his sentiment with an emotional laugh. Gimi was sure a relieved smile must have come to him then. “You have no idea how you scared us! When we couldn’t find you in the Druadan…” Legolas looked away, about ready to cry again.

Gimli was surprised at Legolas’ display of emotionality, but he didn’t quite see it for what it was. All he could see was his friend, hurt and sad because of what happened to him.

“I’m so sorry, Legolas,” Gimli told him earnestly. “I would have done just about anything to return to Minas Tirith, but I became so busy with helping your father, and the storm, and then I became so angry and obsessed with revenge that—well, I should have come straight here from Eryn Lasgalen, and I’m sorry that I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking.”

Legolas still looked overwhelmed, but he put one hand and cupped it around Gimli's cheek. "It's not your fault, I understand."

Legolas touching his face suddenly felt like too much, and Gimli stepped back, away from the elf. He felt guilty as he watched the elf's face fall, a look of hurt and fear at Gimli's retreat.

Thranduil's words were ringing in Gimli's ears—the urge to tell Legolas the truth. Gimli felt as though he'd be betraying Legolas if he allowed him to say such kind things to him, to in fact be so kind to him, if he would only recoil in disgust soon after.

"Gimli, if I have said or done anything untoward, I did not mean—"

"I love you."

There. Out in the open, at last. Though Gimli had no idea why Thranduil wanted him to display this honesty, he understood that he too could no longer keep it a secret. It was chipping away at him, and Thranduil had been right about one thing. Gimli's life was short. Too short to waste it lying to the one person he loved more than anyone in the world.

Legolas stood, looking stunned, as though Gimli had just slapped him across the face. "I… I don't understand," he said slowly.

Gimli took a deep breath to gather his courage again. "Well… pardon me, Master Elf, but what is there not to understand? I love you! And not as a friend, like how I love Arwen, or as a brother, like how I love Aragorn. I love you like… I love you, like I love none other than you, neither before nor ever after you.

"You are my One, Legolas, and all I could think of when I was traipsing around Middle Earth with your damn father was how much I longed to be by your side once more. Even when I first met your father and did not know who he was, all I could think as those orcs held a blade to his throat was what if this were Legolas? and what would Legolas do? And I knew then that I couldn't abandon him. Imagine my relief at having done so when I finally did learn who he was!

"I know that this is coming out of nowhere, and it's the middle of the night and you only recently awoke, and we haven't seen one another in weeks, and I was dead mere hours earlier, so I understand how odd this must sound. And if you hate me from now on, I will understand. If you wish to never see me again because of all the discomfort I have caused you, you need say nothing more. I will be the one to part from Minas Tirith so that you may stay here with Aragorn. I only hope that one day you might forgive me for this… this ruination of our kinship."

Finally finished with his rambling, he looked up at Legolas, waiting for a reply. Of any sort, really. No matter Thranduil's assurances, Gimli couldn't help but imagine the worst. He knew he was crying, which only embarrassed him further, but he stood his ground and waited silently.

Legolas walked up to him again, kneeling again, and took Gimli's hands in his. "Gimli, meleth nin," he said, an elven phrase the dwarf was unfamiliar with. "Every day you were gone felt like a dagger in my chest. I could hardly sleep—hardly eat, my stomach turned so! You were my first thought every morning and my last thought every night. And you would think I could ever hate you? Never, not even if you were to slit my throat here and now would I even then hate you. You say this is the ruination of our kinship? It only strengthens it."

Gimli sniffled a bit, relieved, but still in denial over what he was really hearing. "So you would remain my friend, even knowing how I feel? It does not make you… uncomfortable?"

Legolas looked at him in confusion, before realization dawned on his face. "Oh, meleth nin! Do you know what that means?" Gimli shook his head and Legolas had a wicked smile on his face. "Allow me to show you."

Gimli was only left unsure for one more moment as Legolas leaned in and pressed a kiss to Gimli's lips.

This time, Gimli did not hesitate. With one hand looping around Legolas' head, he returned the kiss in kind. His brain hadn't quite caught up, but luckily his body seemed to swoop in for the rescue.

As they pulled away, Gimli saw how flushed Legolas' face had become. "It means 'my beloved.'"

Gimli could only look at the prince with wide eyes. “You… you cursed elf!” the dwarf shouted angrily. “Why have you never said so?”

Legolas narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t exactly been upfront either!”

“That was because I didn’t know how ya felt!”

“Oh, and I was supposed to know how you felt?”

“Well, I think I was bein’ rather clear, all things considered!”

“Really, Gimli? Clear?! You avoided me for half of the days we spent together! How was I ever supposed to know—” Legolas was not given a chance to finish his sentence as Gimli captured his lips in another kiss, to which Legolas acquiesced with no argument.

When Gimli pulled away once more, he smirked. “Like I said. Clear.”

“You are a fool, Master Dwarf,” Legolas said, but he was smiling. When he let go of Gimli, the dwarf stumbled a moment, still feeling weak and pained. This seemed to bring Legolas down to earth. “Oh, Valar, Gimli! You must lie down! You were dead this afternoon; you must rest!”

Legolas’ worriedly guided Gimli back to his bed while he protested. “I’m alright you nosy elf!” he grumbled as Legolas gently pulled the blanket over him. “I’m just tired is all.”

The look of worry on the elf prince’s face only grew. “Do you feel alright? How is your head? Do you need anything?”

“Legolas, I’m not going to die in my sleep!” Gimli said in a way that was both stern and joking.

This seemed to be a poor choice of words, however, and Legolas’ face fell, his eyes widening, not even considering that possibility. “That wouldn’t happen, would it? No, I will be sure it doesn’t! I cannot lose you yet again, I will not abide it! I can’t… it won’t…” Legolas trailed off, his voice breathless and desperate, tears brimming once more.

Gimli reached for him from his position, sitting up against the headboard. “Come here, my love,” he said gently, liking the way that ‘my love’ could now roll off of his tongue. He patiently waited as Legolas tentatively climbed atop the bed, sitting cross-legged next to him.

Gimli took Legolas’ hands in his own. “Ghivashel, I am here. This is all… rather odd, aye, I’ll admit that, and I’m still havin’ a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that you even could love me. But,” Gimli amended quickly as Legolas opened his mouth to argue, “I have always trusted you. I know you would not lie to me, nor lead me astray. I am right here, Legolas, and I am not going anywhere. I would not lie to you, either. I will not lead you astray.”

Legolas’ eyes were still brimming with tears, a few slipping every once in a while. “I watched you die, Gimli,” he said in a whisper. “Do you know what that was like? It was as though the entire world had lost its meaning to me. I was gripped by a fear so strong I felt as though it would take me with you—and I didn’t mind it if it would. All I wished then was to look upon you once more,” Legolas said, holding Gimli’s face in his hand. “And here you are, yet all I can think about is the myriad of ways I could lose you once more. It hurt me, Gimli, to think I could lead a life without you by my side. I never knew how much I needed you until I had you.”

Gimli moved his face within Legolas’ grasp to press a small kiss to Legolas’ palm. “You have me,” he repeated. “We have one another. That’s all that matters to me.”

Legolas shifted in the bed so that he was lying against Gimli, his head resting against Gimli’s chest. The dwarf needed only to tilt his head down to press a kiss to the top of the elf’s head as he wrapped his hand around him, pulling Legolas firmly into his arms. Legolas let out a comforted sigh as he relaxed in the dwarf’s embrace.

Gimli could not yet sleep, and rather looked out of the window at the brightly shining moon. How had all of this happened? He was still recoiling from it himself. Doubt in his mind told him he was dreaming, or perhaps dead, and Legolas did not love him as he hoped.

Still, he trusted this, against all odds. Legolas was warm and solid in his grasp, and the rise and fall of his breaths made evident that this was real. Legolas loved him. Gimli had never imagined it even possible, but somehow it was. Legolas was Gimli’s One, and Gimli was the elf’s. It was something he could never have hoped for in all his life, yet fortune seemed on his side.

“Legolas?”

“Meleth nin” Legolas replied, exasperated. “Please, rest so that you may regain your strength. I only want—”

“I love you,” Gimli said simply. “I like the way that sounds. I love you. I like being able to say it out loud, you know? I love you, Legolas.”

The elf prince giggled. “Gimli, you’re ridiculous,” he said, but he was clearly flustered.

“Aye, that I am. Falling in love with an elf is rather ridiculous, isn’t it? But I love you. And what a glorious feeling it is to say it!”

Legolas still laughed. “Go to bed, Gimli!”

“Alright, alright,” Gimli acquiesced, smirking to himself.

Gimli did close his eyes this time, feeling overcome with a peace that eluded him for quite a long time. He knew that when he woke, Legolas would be there. That was all he needed to know for now.

“Gimli?”

“I’m going to sleep, I swear.”

“I love you. With everything I am, I love you.” He paused. “You’re right, it is wondrous to say aloud.” He perked his head up and looked into Gimli’s eyes. “I think I’ll continue to say it, if that’s alright with you.”

Gimli guided Legolas’ face to his and kissed him once more, smooth and rich as honey. “Aye, that will do,” he replied.

Legolas’ ears perked up and he looked away from Gimli. “Do you hear that?”

“No, what?”

“The rain. It’s stopped.” Gimli listened and realized that Legolas was right. “The storm has finally passed, meleth.”

“Aye,” Gimli agreed. “I believe it has.”

~

Legolas woke as the sunrise filled Gimli’s room with light. He blearily recalled the events of the previous evening, and the realization of what happened hit him with a jolt that left him entirely awake.

He was here, curled and tangled with Gimli, the most beautiful creature he’d ever met in his life. And Gimli loved him, and Gimli breathed.

The dwarf was fast asleep, something for which Legolas was eternally grateful. His beloved certainly earned a year’s worth of rest.

Legolas crawled out of the bed, careful not to wake Gimli. He bent over him and laid a kiss on his forehead. He wanted to go fetch breakfast from the kitchens and take it back to the room so that Gimli would have something to eat—when was the last time his love had eaten anything?! Legolas would take as much time as was necessary to help Gimli recover.

The elf knew that he had some underlying anxieties to work on. His fear for Gimli’s wellbeing would likely not diminish in the coming days, and he knew that he’d need to remind himself of Gimli’s self-reliance and cunning soon enough. It simply would not do to spend the rest of their lives in constant fear that Gimli may get hurt or fall ill. Yet, Legolas knew he would struggle with this, especially now that they were in love. If Gimli was to be his partner, Legolas would need to loosen the reigns again, and go back to trusting him as he had before. It would take time, but Legolas knew Gimli would patiently let Legolas fret for a few days more.

Legolas slowly wandered the halls toward the kitchen, his mind still mulling over all that had happened. The story that his father had told him of Gimli’s adventure had left Legolas a little fearful but a lot proud. He always knew that Gimli was the bravest man he’d ever met, and the selflessness evident in the story on the dwarf’s part was astounding. He was sure that Gimli and his father came to blows over their competing levels of stubbornness, but it seemed as though Gimli had come out the other side of some rather invasive trials. The elven prince had many questions to ask Gimli about what happened, and he planned to make Gimli go over the past three weeks in excruciating detail very soon, so Legolas would know every little thing that befell him.

When Legolas entered the kitchen, he froze as he saw his father sitting at the table. “Ada” Legolas greeted, trying to hide his surprise. Though it was his father he’d spent the last two days with, in the rush of Gimli’s confession Legolas had practically forgotten that Thranduil was still in the castle.

Thranduil looked up at him and laughed, a spark in his eyes. “Forgot about me, I presume?”

“What? No, I… well, of course I didn’t… if you thought that—”

“Peace, my son,” Thranduil said, still grinning mischievously at the prince. “I assumed you’d be a bit… preoccupied. Distracted. I’ve been as well—I haven’t actually left this kitchen since the middle of the night.”

Legolas narrowed his eyes as realization dawned on him. “You knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night, I fell asleep with you at my side, yet when I woke, you were gone and Gimli was returning to the room, finally awake. You played a hand in it all, didn’t you?”

“That depends,” Thranduil replied honestly, “on whatever happened last night.”

“Gimli told me he loved me. I told him I loved him.”

Thranduil smiled in victory. “Well then, yes, I may have played some part.”

Suddenly, Legolas’ eyes widened. “That’s the secret that Gimli was keeping from me! When you told me yesterday that he might keep secrets, I didn’t realize that it was this he chose to keep secret!” the elf paused, stunned by all he was understanding. “How long have you known Gimli loved me?”

“Since we were healed in Eryn Lasgalen,” Thranduil admitted. “I took him to our gardens—I know how you love them so, and apparently so did he. The way he spoke of you, with such reverence, I knew then that you were his One.”

Legolas crossed his arms. “That is what you fought about? That terrible fight that drove him back to Amon Anwar, it was about his love for me?”

“I regret it, but yes,” Thranduil said with a sigh. “He and I have worked that out, Legolas, even if he won’t allow me to make an actual apology. And before you surmise this as though it were some big secret, yes, Legolas, I read the letter you wrote for me, and that is how I knew you loved him as well.”

Legolas looked at him, unsure but slowly learning, like finally putting the pieces of a puzzle together. “And last night, you told Gimli to tell me the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Because you knew… you knew I loved him as well?”

“Quite right, my child.”

“Adar, I… I know Gimli is your friend, but I cannot understand what your goal is here.”

Thranduil finally stood and walked over to the prince, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I read that letter, finishing it just as Gimli’s heart stopped beating yesterday afternoon, did you know that? I had just learned the true extent of how you cared for him, and he died. And it was no longer about elves and dwarves and petty grudges. It became about you, and the one that you loved. I could not let him die, I could not let you down. I’ve lost the one that I love, and when your mother died it was the worst thing to ever happen to me. What kind of father would I be to let that happen to you? I won’t always have the fleeting bits of a magical, life-restoring jewel handy, but I will always stand by you, Legolas. And you love Gimli, so I love Gimli. Besides, not everything is about you, you know. I wanted him to live for my own selfish reasons.”

Legolas just stared at his father, who seemed to wait for his response. But Legolas had nothing to say. Instead, he lurched forward and wrapped his arms around his father, beginning to sob.

Thranduil returned the embrace worriedly. “My dear child, what is wrong? Have I said something to hurt you?”

Legolas only sobbed harder, his entire body shaking like a leaf as his father held tight, trying to steady him.

The prince cried harder than he had in a long time, harder even than he’d cried when Gimli died the day before, though that may have only been because of the shock that flooded him then. His sobs were loud and ugly, the kind of hard sobbing that left him gasping for air as he violently shook, his throat swollen and scratched.

“Thank you, Ada,” Legolas managed to choke out, still sobbing and shaking in his father’s arms. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Chapter Text

A week later, a large feast was held in the palace courtyard to celebrate—well, to celebrate quite a few things.

It was a cheery affair, the guests consisting of Thranduil, the dwarven builders, a few soldiers that had fought in the Druadan, Ailan, Ailadir, and Berren.

When the storm had passed, Ailadir decided it best to head to Minas Tirith to inform Legolas of his father’s absence, hoping in fact to find Thranduil there. Ailan would not allow him to leave her behind, naturally, and was consumed with a curiosity of her own.

Berren arrived following the storm with a mind to tell Aragorn and Legolas that he had seen Gimli. He figured that if Gimli had not yet returned safely to Minas Tirith, Aragorn and Legolas would likely be grateful to hear that Berren had seen him nearly three weeks past.

Gimli was feeling back to fit shape when the three new guests arrived, and he was practically knocked back into his pained state from the tackle of a hug that Berren offered him.

Legolas had demanded every detail of Gimli and Thranduil’s adventures from them, and they had spent the past week lounging around Gimli’s room and regaling the prince with as many specifics as they could remember.

Thranduil had not yet left, but it was looming over the horizon. It was not lost on any of them that Thranduil would return to his kingdom soon, and the feast was only another nail in that coffin.

When the early dusk wind grew warm and the food was long forgotten, everyone spoke in loud, boisterous tones full of proud laughter, enjoying one another’s company.

Gimli felt at peace. He had rested long, and knew that come morning he’d be climbing the walls, demanding to return to his projects, restoring Minas Tirith. But he allowed himself one more night of friends and fellowship.

“I must ask, Legolas, is Ailan seeing anyone?” Berren asked as he, Gimli, Legolas, and Aragorn stood around talking.

“That’s a right awful idea, lad,” Gimli corrected him quickly. “She’s far too good for you.”

“Is that so? Sounds to me like a challenge, old friend!” Berren replied with a wicked grin before turning and strutting up to her.

“Oh, this can only end horribly,” Legolas said.

“I agree,” responded Aragorn. “We should definitely watch, though, right?”

“You read my mind, mellon nin,” Legolas told him mischievously as they went to follow. Legolas paused and looked over his shoulder at Gimli. “Are you coming, my love?”

“I think I’ll sit a while,” Gimli replied.

Legolas frowned. “Do you feel unwell? We can retire for the evening. Do you need water? Do you feel faint? I—”

“Legolas, ghivashel, I am quite alright,” Gimli said with a laugh as Legolas eased. “Go, have fun.”

Legolas hesitated but turned to go after his friends. Gimli shook his head fondly. He knew that his absence and injury and, well, death, had frightened Legolas more than he realized at first. The elf prince was now prone to hovering and worrying far too often, even when it didn’t feel wholly necessary. Gimli’s own stubborn individualism raged against Legolas’ overprotectiveness, but he remained patient. It was only because Legolas loved him so, and that was never something Gimli had expected. He could wait a little while if only to ease his One’s worries.

Gimli took in a deep breath, enjoying the weather and the joy he felt. He was thankful for his regained strength, and for being surrounded by those he loved.

The dwarf spied Thranduil sitting on the ground at the edge of the garden. The Elvenking was alone and seemed lost in thought.

“Mind the company?” Gimli asked as he walked over to him.

Thranduil smiled warmly at him. “Do I ever really have the choice of your company, Master Dwarf?” he asked humorously. “I seem to recall a time when you wouldn’t leave me alone, even as I begged you to.”

Gimli smirked at him, glancing over as they now both sat facing the festivities. “I seem to recall a time when you needed me, Thranduil. I believe we are remembering that time differently.”

“We’re not,” Thranduil admitted. “I remember it the same. I never would have survived to Eryn Lasgalen without you. And who knows how the confrontation with Razak would have gone? I mean, having the two armies turn on one another? The thought never even crossed my mind.”

“I’ve been known to have a bright idea or two,” Gimli replied. “In turn, I would have died at the foot of the Halifirien had you not brought me to Minas Tirith. And I never would have told Legolas of my love for him. For that, I am eternally in your debt.”

Thranduil waved a hand through the air. “No, no debt. We both feel as though we are in some great debt to one another, so let us wipe the slate clean. We are not people who did a stranger a favor. We’re friends.”

“Wow,” Gimli said, grinning. “Did you ever think you’d say that?”

“If you told me a month ago that I would be friends with a dwarf, a shiver would surely ripple down my spine,” Thranduil said in a dry voice. “But I’m not overly proud of that.”

“I know.”

“And as your friend, Gimli, it would be remiss of me not to discuss what was said in my garden—”

“It is already forgotten.”

Thranduil laughed. “Will you ever let me apologize for that?”

“Apologizing doesn’t fit you, Thranduil,” Gimli told him honestly. “Not to cause offense,” he added quickly, “it’s not that I find you incapable of sincerity. It is only that your apologies are to mollify yourself, and yourself only. You think that it’s expected of you, now that you’ve overcome your distaste for my kind. But why say words like those when I already know? Your actions, Thranduil, now those are your true intentions. Because believe me, if you start apologizing for every little thing that you feel guilty for, you’ll never stop.”

Thranduil thought on this for a moment. “You don’t like apologizing, do you?”

“Definitely not.”

“Well. Alright. No more apologies, I promise. So long as you promise that there is nothing I have left to make amends for.”

“I swear it,” Gimli said honestly.

They remained there for a long while, enjoying the sight of their friends arguing and laughing. Things were good, something neither of them had been able to say in quite some time.

“You’ll be leaving soon, I take it?” Gimli asked, breaking their silence.

The Elvenking nodded soberly. “Yes, I cannot stay here forever. Ailadir and Ailan will escort me to Eryn Lasgalen in the morning.”

Gimli nodded at this as well, having guessed as much. “Legolas will miss you. I will miss you. You’re not so bad, ya know.”

Thranduil laughed, a light and airy sound. “I will miss the both of you. But I am hardly a fixture of your lives, remember. Only a month ago you had never even met me before, and I was only the elf who imprisoned your kin.”

“True, but you were always Legolas’ father. I always understood that much.”

“Take care of him, will you?” Thranduil asked, which surprised the dwarf.

“Aye, I will,” Gimli replied, confused. “But he’ll be fine, Thranduil. He’s always been good at taking care of himself.”

“He’s hardly had reason to be vulnerable before. At least, most certainly not with me. I saw a side of him last week that scared me, dear friend.”

Gimli sighed, understanding. “I see. He has never known how to be vulnerable with you, Thranduil. But believe me, he is just as strong and self-sufficient as he always is. Legolas is the strongest creature I’ve ever met.”

Thranduil looked unsure. “He is full of might, I know this, but… he is the branch, Gimli. Remember that? You said I was a branch and you were a boulder—well, Legolas is the branch, same as I. I fear that in this most recent storm, he was tossed about by wind and wave, battered by all he saw and felt.”

Gimli looked across the courtyard and his eyes found Legolas, standing beside Aragorn who had his arm thrown around the elf’s shoulders. They were laughing with Berren and Ailan, as Ailadir stood to the side, looking rather offended. Arwen seemed to be trying to contain her laughter to soothe the soldier, but it was hardly working. Legolas looked so happy, which was exactly what he deserved to be.

“He’s not so fragile as you think, Thranduil,” Gimli said simply. “Nor are you yourself. A branch would have snapped ages past, but not you. Not him.” Gimli turned to look at the Elvenking. “Nor am I as strong as a boulder—or even as strong as you think. I am beginning to think my metaphor only worked in that tunnel in Amon Anwar.”

“And yet you’re the strongest creature I’ve ever met,” Thranduil told him. “Perhaps we will never agree on this.”

“Well, add it to the list,” Gimli said with a shrug.

“I shall miss our arguments, Gimli.”

“Aye, me as well.”

Gimli looked back at Legolas, who turned and met his eye. He smiled at him, a wide and comfortable smile that warmed Gimli’s heart. He knew then that he’d be with him for all eternity, and no time would stand in their way. He’d take a page from Thranduil’s book and simply not abide it.

“Thranduil, go, enjoy your last night with your son before you leave,” Gimli said as he stood, reaching out a hand to lift Thranduil from the ground with him.

The elf took it and climbed to his feet. “I think I will,” he said. He took only a step before turning, realizing Gimli did not follow. “Are you not coming?”

“I think I’ll retire for the night, not feeling entirely strengthened now,” the dwarf admitted. But do me a favor, do not tell Legolas I said that. I want him to continue in his merriment.” Thranduil nodded in understanding. “Besides,” Gimli continued, “I have the rest of my life to spend with him.”

Thranduil gave Gimli a look that Gimli didn’t understand, one of hope, yet one of sorrow. He bent down and pressed a kiss to Gimli’s forehead. As Gimli looked up into Thranduil’s eyes with wonder, the elf smiled at him. “I hear their song.”

“Sorry?”

“The gulls,” Thranduil said, his head turning westward. “They call for me. I have long awaited their beckoning, and here they finally are.”

Gimli’s eyes widened. “You will travel to Valinor? Now?”

Thranduil nodded. “Do not look so sorrowful, Gimli. I heard their call as you told me you had your life to spend with Legolas. I know now that I am leaving him in good hands. He will be safe, he will be happy, he will be loved.”

Gimli felt tears brimming in his eyes. “This is so typical of you elves, you know, this flightiness. You’ll go where we cannot follow, now, after you’ve finally found purpose?”

“Peace is what I have discovered, Gimli. I finally know peace.”

Gimli wiped his eyes with his sleeve, glancing at Legolas, who was none the wiser. “What shall you tell him?”

Thranduil looked toward him as well. “Nothing, not tonight, You were right, he deserves to be happy tonight. We will talk in the morning.”

“Then this is goodbye,” Gimli said in realization. “Once you go to Valinor, I will never again see you. I’d never have supposed a month ago how devastated that would make me feel.”

Thranduil furrowed his brow, and knelt beside Gimli, a hand on his shoulder. “Gimli, you must listen to me. When Legolas’ time comes, have him build a boat.”

“A boat?”

“Yes, a gray ship, fit for two. He must build it himself, you see, a ship not meant only for elves, but meant for you.”

“Thranduil, what—”

“You will sail with him to Valinor.”

“They’d never let me in! Thranduil, I appreciate how sentimental you are now, but Valinor was not meant for me.”

Thranduil shook his head. “I care very little for who Valinor is meant for, Gimli. But this is why I am telling you, and not Legolas. It is your decision. If you would simply like to pass away as your ancestors have, then never tell Legolas what I am telling you now, and he will never know that you might have been brought with him. But if you change your mind, then tell him when it is his time, and go with him.”

Gimli stared at Thranduil, his eyes blank. Thranduil bowed his head rather sheepishly. “I apologize, Gimli, I am overwhelming you. I tell you I am departing these lands, and then ask you to think forward to your own death. It is selfish of me. I’ll allow you to retire for the evening now. I meant not to overburden you so quickly.” Thranduil bowed his head to him. “I will see you in the morning.” Thranduil turned, walking toward Legolas.

“Hey, pointy?”

Thranduil turned back, an eyebrow raised.

“Say I do want to go,” Gimli told him. “Who’s to say they’ll even let me in, eh?”

A wide and satisfied smirk grew on the Elvenking’s face. “That is simple Gimli. I will be there, waiting for you.”

“And you alone could convince the Undying Lands?”

Thranduil laughed, a spark of mischief present in his expression. “You must have learned by now, Gimli. I’m a stubborn creature. I demand what I want, and I get what I want.”

Chapter Text

When Legolas heard the gulls cry, he clung to his husband and sobbed, so grieved he was for the life they had together, and the time they'd never get.

Gimli held his treasure in his arms and rocked him gently, uncaring of the bruises that would surely blossom in the wake of his husband's fingertips.

Legolas' fearful confession was whispered into the sleep-warm skin of the dwarf's sternum. "I will lose you," his hot breath burning the words in place. "I will lose you for eternity. There is no joy to be found in a place you cannot follow me to."

Gimli's calloused fingers ran through the elf's fine silken hair. "Meleth nin," he cooed gently, relishing the shiver that the elven endearment always brought to his lover's body. "I will age—I have begun already, or have you not yet noticed the grays in your old husband's beard?"

Legolas lifted his head, eyes still red with tears, but he leaned forward to give Gimli a deep, passionate kiss. When he pulled away, he tangled his fingers in his partner's beard, his thumb brushing the dwarf's kiss-bruised lips. "My handsome husband," he corrected, his voice soft and enamored, "whose visage changes like the leaves in fall." The elf buried his face in Gimli's beard, holding him tightly. "How can I go on without you? There is nothing in Valinor so beautiful, so precious to me as you!"

Gimli pressed a kiss to the crown of Legolas' head, keeping him secure in his arms. His mind wandered back to the start of their relationship, many years ago in the halls of Aragorn's castle in Minas Tirith. He remembered his final conversation with the Elvenking—his friend, who was sorely missed.

"What if there was a way..." Gimli hesitated, but Legolas had gone rigid in his arms, alert. "What if I told you there was a chance that I could come too?"

~

Thranduil paced the shores of Valinor, ignoring the anxious mutterings behind him. He could feel it—they were here.

"Peace, King Thranduil," the old wizard Gandalf said with a chortle. "You will wear a strip out of the beach at this pace."

"He is only excited," the young hobbit scolded his dear friend. "As am I, to see two members of my fellowship once more."

"What if the Valar have decided against it?" Thranduil turned to face the small greeting party. None seemed as anxious as he, but then again, it was not their son arriving at any moment.

Lady Galadriel dipped her head. "The Valar have heard your pleas, dear friend. This is your reward for such a change of heart. They will come."

"Peace, old friend," Lord Elrond said with a smile. "I see a gray ship through the fog."

Thranduil spun on his heels, just in time to see what Elrond pointed out. Fast approaching was a ship, built for two. It glided, unimpaired, atop the frothy waves. There was not one, but two figures aboard.

The king could not wait as the ship neared, running out to meet them. His boots and trousers became soaked, water splashing all around him as he ran as best he could.

The water was up to his knees where he reached the boat, and the two crewmen each lept from its deck, just as impatient as the Elvenking.

"Ada!" cried Legolas as he landed in the water, hand firmly intwined with the other's. Thranduil grinned from ear to ear as he saw the silver and gold rings on their fingers.

The king of the Greenwood swooped forward and gathered the men in his long arms, ocean be damned.

"My sons!" he said through a sob. "My sons have come home!"