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The early summer morn had bid pleasant birdsong and an even more pleasant breakfast with Lady Éowyn; without the company of Prince Faramir, unfortunately, for he had some duties in Minas Tirith that week, though his wife could repay all the conversation that was lost from his absence and more. Indeed, she was charming company, her wit sharp as the cherished ancestral blades she maintained in pristine condition and her humor arid as the sands the Haradrim walk, though she much loved to laugh. Until the meal had been finished Legolas hadn’t a thought for anything amiss—though clearly there was, for Lady Éowyn eventually demanded, in no uncertain terms, that Legolas simply tell her what agony had borne his newfound ill temper, he found no defensible answer.Instead he found remorse, for he hadn’t thought his temper to be something obtrusive, but if the ever-resilient Lady Éowyn had found it clamorous, then certainly he was mistaken.“If it is the sea-longing you’ve spoken of before, then excuse yourself from the work Ithilien requires of you, even if only for a handful of moons,” said she, her command gentle upon the air. “No longer are you on the road, surrounded by foreign races on one side and foes on the other.”“It is not the sea which pokes at my soul, be assured. The work here pushes that aside,” said Legolas. “I do apologize if my demeanor has upset your heart, or anybody else’s for that matter—I suppose, now that I think upon it,” and he thought not to lie, for he was an abysmal liar, “my ill temper is borne from the time I’ve spent apart from my love. I have not seen Gimli since his return to Erebor, and though I cherish every word of his letters, I now desire to have him stand before me.”Indeed, he spoke not a word of a lie—hardy to the typical distresses of time, the Elven race was by nature, yet one would not suffer time apart from their lover with any unique ease. His mind knew there was work to be done; day by day, season by season. Though his heart wished for an end to this winter; he wished for his sun to break the day. The Lady all but scoffed. “That is all? Why, what’s stopping you from seeing him?”“His own work in Erebor, of course! Months of siege exacted a mighty toll on their kingdom, as you would imagine.” Legolas directed his gaze to the nearest window. “And I will hardly garner the Dwarves’ favor by tearing away a beloved son of Durin in their most vulnerable hour.” Éowyn paused for but half a moment. “Do you not think Gimli capable of protecting your favor by his own skill?”“Oh, without a smidgen of doubt! For if he can sway the Lady Galadriel by his wordsmithery alone, then the Dwarves of Erebor are practically already tucked safely in his breastpocket. What gives me pause, mellon-nín, is the fact that much of Thorin Oakenshield’s old Company still lives; and I can say with no small amount of certainty that they will not welcome their captor’s son.” Now Legolas looked once more at Lady Éowyn. “Nevermind how they are hailed in the histories as heroes, their very words all but sacred. I simply wish to delay this scandal—which I am sure it will be, a scandal of untold scale—until our peoples are more stable, and will be less volatile in their denial of us.” After a moment of thought, Éowyn said critically, “See, but I reject that notion.”“You reject it?” asked Legolas, charged with confusion.“Yes! I disagree heartily with your reasoning,” she said with a shrug. “The world has changed, Legolas, can you not see? Here in Ithilien, outside that window, Elves and Men live among one another peaceably. The Men of Minas Tirith enter and exit under a great gate of Dwarven make, and celebrate their King and Queen whose mother tongue is an Elvish dialect. Why hide your novel union when the world has, perhaps, never before been so open to it?”“Their traditions have not changed for thousands of years. I am unsure if I might find a place in them,” said Legolas, wishing his words words would yet be untrue, yet saying them because they were true now. “And a place for him in mine, as well. Stone does not just move.”Éowyn seemed to sense his change of heart, and thusly her tone became something less offensive; something gentler, and something which restored in Legolas the very sense of hope he needed to bear his days and nights alone. “Perhaps not. It does break, though; it already has. So too does it weather and wear down, which is all you need.” That very night, Legolas wrote a letter to his heart’s love, declaring that it was so very foolish to ever delay their trips to Fangorn Forest and the caves beneath the Hornburg. The reply he received from Gimli warned not to send any other, for it would not reach him, as he would have certainly departed Erebor by the time any follow-up reached him. Also, that very same letter letter from Gimli had pointedly instructed Legolas to listen to Lady Éowyn more often—for, without any thought of consultation, she had written her own letter requesting Gimli visit, if only to stop his Elf from all his lovesick whining and dawdling. Gimli would, of course, oblige with glee, and then apologize to the Lady for her dreadful inconvenience.That was, perhaps, something of a diagnosis that Gimli had then bestowed upon Legolas—once, of course, all the embracing, kissing, and exchanging lovely words in their respective tongues had ceased—that remaining in one place for any considerable period of time was simply not a fate preferable for a particularly flighty Elf.Indeed, Legolas’ confession once upon a starry, watchful night had not slipped from his mind: that the world was beautiful, if not a bit haunting, to venture, and that he might love to do it for fun once this war had ended. Was that not the basis of these very ventures to Fangorn and the glorious caverns beneath the Hornburg? In a sense, yes. He would tell anyone who inquired that these trips were to see more of the world in peacetime; for it was indeed true that Legolas hadn’t much traveled beyond Greenwood, Rivendell, and the road connecting the two realms. So that answer would be perfectly truthful—though not the entirety of the truth.For as much as he loved to accompany the Anduin on her mighty path, to hear the distinct birdsong of the southlands—surely sweeter than most in the north—he also loved to be accompanied by his dear traveling companion; his love who pointedly hated horses and ponies, though admirably tolerated Arod for there was never any thought of debate about Arod’s joining; his warrior poet who still carried much of his armor, though not all of the burden he had insisted upon during wartime, even if he insisted it was never a burden; his very cherished Gimli, his fire in their nights, giving him warmth and light all without ever trying, for a flame need not try to provide those things. A flame just gives it.Indeed, he also had embarked on these trips to see more of Gimli, under the observance of nobody at all; no Elves, nor Dwarves, nor Men, nor wagering Hobbits. Only Elbereth and her stars, watching from above on one particular night as they sat about a kindled fire. All of Gimli’s actual armor had been shed since the war’s end, yet much of his so-called daily attire had seemed plated and overly protective. Perhaps for the first time ever, Legolas had not gravely misjudged that; for Dwarves, as he had been told, were not keen to travel about so improperly shielded. Yet all of this talk of attire flew away with the wind; Legolas would be wholly unable to recall even the smallest smidgen of it if he were to be asked. For tonight Gimli sat on the other side of the campfire, and the gold beads in his beard gleamed, and the sleeves of his tunic had been rolled up to his elbows.Under the firelight, his tattoos sunk low and stood out; designs and messages which Legolas could not make out a single letter of, yet he could not tear his eyes away from the sight. He stared like he were some scholar on the verge of an epiphany, and he mustn’t look away, lest it all slip away from him, never to return. He’d seen much of it before, on their travels; Gimli’s sense of Dwarven modesty couldn’t possibly last forever. And even when he found that spent, still his pride persisted, and he insisted that he wash himself last, and preferably alone—though since he could not be totally alone, just as he could not spend any considerable time or do any task all alone, he chose Legolas only because he’d heard how the Elves lacked propriety in this way, unlike Men. Of course the Elf had been instructed to keep his back to the lake, towards the woods, where any foe would likely come from, anyhow; and let it be said clearly that he’d followed those instructions duly, and only turned when his keen ears picked up some forceful thump.Alas, no enemy stood; it was only that a fawn, big yet still too young to go out on its own, had taken a small tumble. By the time Legolas had focused his gaze upon it, the mother doe had already begun whisking it away. But his eyes were still turned that way, even if just for a half-moment. A rather crucial half-moment, he would later acknowledge, for during it he had caught but a glimpse of the arrangement across the Dwarf’s back, from one shoulder to another and down both his arms.The recollection returned to him now, as he sat warmed by this peacetime kindling: initially, naught but horror. For an Elf would never think to mar themself in such a fashion! And if they so boldly dared, never would they cover it up! Nevermind the acute pain of the whole process—why, it was voluntary torture, was it not?The present-moment, more enlightened Legolas grinned with the memories. It was humorous to him now: how the grandness of the tattoos, and the sheer amount of skin they took up, planted within him some morbid curiosity, and thusly filled many of his more idle ponderings—especially in the night, when all others slept. For a long while he kept his patience and held an affectation of aloofness; Gimli’s customs may have been queer to him, but never would he outright defy them, because for all Gimli gawked of Legolas’ queer customs, beneath his haughty words were a level of respect.However, Legolas found most of his patience spent on an otherwise serene evening in the Golden Wood—why, when he had gleaned a bit of ink on Gimli’s wrist, he had very childishly been unable to resist asking, rather callously, just how many tattoos the Dwarf had collected over his years. The entire debacle seemed a silly thing now.“Must I begin guessing what amuses you in this current moment?” asked Gimli, retrieving Legolas from his trance-like state. Ready was he to start with their playful bickering.“No, I would not withhold it from you!” answered Legolas. “It is only that hindsight has yet again laid a layer of humor upon some recollections from our travels.”Gimli smiled, effortlessly charming. “At this rate, that may well be happening to us for the rest of our lives. What is the focus this time?”“Well, under these particular stars,” Legolas regarded Elbereth’s subjects for half a moment while he stepped around the blaze, then he took a spot beside his lover, “I have come to realize a grave error of mine. Your tattoos are striking, meleth-nín, and I have thought so since mistakenly catching a glimpse of them during our wartime travels. Yet, very regretfully, I’ve never said as much.”“Well, never be shy to celebrate my elegance,” across his own chest Gimli extended a hand, so that he might turn Legolas’ face to his own and grant him a short, saccharine kiss. Then his smile became one more solemn, though it dared not disappear even a bit, and he said, “But I thank you, my love. It gladdens me to hear you say that; but do not fret, for even in the absence of gratitude was never dismay.”“No, it is not that I thought you dismayed in any sense,” Legolas permitted his gaze to fall to the tattoos again, and let it linger there as he continued, “it is only that I thought you ought to hear it, and I thought of it now while I looked at you. Only a short while ago, those designs brought me the utmost distress, but now I think they’re beautiful.”“Ah, yes, we’ve been over this before, have we not? Most of your kind would go fleeing at the very sight of the needle.”“True,” said the Elf, and nothing more, as he joined his hands with his lover’s.“But then again,” said the Dwarf, taking those hands and meeting them behind his own neck, so his lover’s long limbs draped about his broad shoulders like a wrap-cloak, “you are not like most of your own kind.” “Clearly not,” smiled Legolas. “Well, let me consider it: I’ve left the company of my own people to travel the world with my scandalously Dwarven love—but not just anywhere! Our destination is a cave! And I’ve found myself wondering what every symbol and design signifies in his, somehow, even more scandalous tattoos! And, why, there’s one more fact yet which sets me apart from any other Elf I’ve ever met.”Then Legolas stopped. In the silence—not quite tense, but somewhat taut, without his conclusion—he grinned, and through this grin he let out a breath, hoping to expel some excess nervousness.Gimli, knowing perfectly well this little game, matched his smile and obliged, “Well, do not keep me buzzing from the suspense, my dear Elf! Go on!”“Perhaps,” answered the Elf, separating a strand of fire and twirling it very loosely about his finger, “it is the fact I’d like to marry him—now, under these very twinkling stars. Maybe then I might see every design, upon every inch they cover, and he might tell me what they all mean.” A silence was thus created; Gimli’s dark eyes, inviting as the night sky but warm like daylight, said little. But the Dwarf hardly shifted his focus a smidge—and what was Legolas to do but return it? How else might he demonstrate how truly he meant this?One of Gimli’s hands, purposeful from its many years of honorable work, moved itself to Legolas’ face; his thumb floated across the Elf’s cheek, back and forth a few times. He halted only to speak. “It will seemingly be a while yet until I know the first thing about your people,” said Gimli. “But I know you, Legolas. Tonight, I will know you.” “And your tattoos?” asked Legolas, newly giddy. “I spoke not a word of a bluff!”“Well, explaining them is a very long tale.” Then the Dwarf smiled, like he always did when he meant to bask in his own wit. “It will take quite a while.”“Oh,” Legolas scoffed, “Yes, I’ll have to find the time to listen to the whole thing before I die!” From then, few more words were spoken of tattoos, and even less of stars. It could be noted, however, that only the stars were their witnesses; but Elbereth’s subjects did not pass judgment, the Elves would say. If they ever truly did, even the keenest and most observant of the Eldar could never hear it, not from all the way down on the ground. ‘Til the world was made anew Legolas could twirl a pen in his hand and ponder how he might begin to describe what emotions befell him when he first laid eyes upon the glittering, gleaming caverns beneath the Hornburg. But alas, words never have—and likely never will—favor him the way they have always favored his love. Such was a fact of life, just as how the sun rose and fell every day. Blissful was their journey, and perfectly uneventful as they enjoyed the bounties of peacetime travel. To speak of conflict, nothing could be reported, for nothing happened. During they day they hunted freely about the forests and the fields, while squabbling as loudly as they pleased; then they ate their hunt around a little kindling while the summer sun bade them a kind farewell and welcomed the stars into her home. During the night they might have enjoyed one another, or merely chatted—or squabbled some more—until sleep inevitably lured Gimli away.Inevitable it was, indeed, though never resented. While his love rested for the next day, Legolas would track the constellations and hum some tunes. Many were from his youth long ago, whether plucked from jolly summer festivals among all the Elves of the Rhovanion, or what his mother and father would exchange with one another in the halls, just around a corner. Perhaps the Prince—because his father was not always the King—would start a melody and let his wife finish it, or the future Queen would’ve began it and her husband obliged.Why, Gimli could grumble and insist otherwise all he liked, but nobody in the world loved so truly and wholly as an Elf. Yet for all his dazzling, unmatched love, pretty words oft failed him; doubly so when he meant to write them on a page. So he thought not to weave the most gorgeous, world-shattering prose, and instead kept his message to Estel simple:
Let it be known I have no legitimate reason to send a King of Men a message written in Sindarin. I suppose I simply favor my mother tongue, just as all peoples do. Being among Dwarves and hearing their language, yet knowing not even a word of it, is a feeling I would call disorienting yet freeing, for they never expect an answer from me. I suppose I understand how our traveling party must have felt when you and I would converse in an Elvish dialect—beyond the bafflement I feel when I hear it spoken in my presence, Khuzdûl is a gorgeous tongue.
He wrote not a word of a lie. For a small team of Dwarves, only half a dozen, had received Legolas and Gimli above-ground. One of them had said to the Elf, “Greatly does it please us that you wish to see the cavern, surprising though it is,” and then turned away, rejecting any further conversation. Then all of them sprung into a lively conversation with one another in the foreign tongue Legolas knew not even a word of; it was rather amusing to imagine what they could possibly be saying to one another. Such musings served as a great distraction from his growing discomfort as they journeyed deeper below-ground. Just before they had come upon the entrance to the caverns, the group split from Legolas and Gimli, and the same Dwarf as earlier said to the Elf, specifically to him as though to translate, “We were only meant to confirm your safe arrival; now we shall let you two be, as our Lord Gimli requested this exhibition to his companion be a private one.”Something pinched the Elf’s heart, and he knew immediately just what it was. A single word, suitable yet not the entire. “Thank you,” said he, biting back the ache, making himself repeat the word. “My companion has spoken much and more of the splendor of this sight; I approach it with eagerness.” Yet again, he received no answer in a language he understood. So he took that as a cue to let his gaze wander—first to the scene some space before them all, where a Dwarven lamp on either side of the threshold to the cavern spilled warm light through it. Then, as the group spoke around him in Khuzdûl, he glanced at Gimli for a moment, his face likely betraying some mix of anxiousness and discomfort, for he didn’t know if he were making a good impression whatsoever.However, nothing like a row appeared to have broken out, for all the Dwarves had spoken very lowly and calmly the entire brief journey. Though, if there were any probability that he was wrong, then the grin that Gimli granted him was a beam of sunlight in that dark.The small receiving party left them after an exchange, and for a short yet agonizing moment, Gimli bade Legolas be silent, until the other Dwarves’ boots shuffling upon the stone could no longer be heard. The Elf—who grew to feel increasingly asphyxiated in such a small space, under a ceiling which loomed much closer to his own head than the one beside him—fiddled with the hem of his sleeves during that moment. “They questioned the trueness of your intent here,” said Gimli, wholly indifferently, “a fool’s concern, I told them. We are set to meet many fools, I must tell you.” “Yes, I suppose we shall,” said Legolas, a strain in his words. “Might we get out of this tunnel?”Gimli extended a hand, which his husband grasped before either a thought or a second could pass. “Of course, love,” he said, “I see your unease. Let us go.” “Elbereth above, how relieved I’ll be,” said Legolas, still wound up a tad bit, as they approached the final threshold toward the caverns, “I’m sorry, meleth-nín, but I simply am not meant…”
My dear Estel, there is nothing I can say to possibly convey such splendor to you. So I shan’t make an effort. You must see it yourself. Bring along Arwen; I invite her not as your Queen but as my own old friend. Bring along your son when he comes of age, and bring along every new child of yours in time.
His ending had been stolen away by an awe so profound he never would have thought to break it. Before him lay a scene radiant beyond overstatement; gleaming in the sunlight of ornate Dwarven lamps carefully spaced across the roof, it were as if dawn and dusk had broken at once, in a perfect symphony. As if Laurelin had joined with Telperion one final time, for one last hour. Yet—and this was a baffling, beautiful thing to Legolas—this light did not diminish. This dawn did not give way to the day, and this dusk did not kneel to the night. Instead the hues merely shifted, whenever the perspective of one’s gaze differed even the slightest bit. Even locks of Legolas’ hair—dark like his mother’s, never content to throw much light back outward—were tinted clear violets and deep, rosy pinks. For half a moment Legolas felt as though he might have been totally invisible, as if ten thousand beams of light could pass right through him like air. Together he and Gimli stood upon a great, unnatural balcony, where below them sprawled a great lake, which refused to reveal truly how deep it might have been, for its surface reflected every gemstone’s glimmer and gleam. Stars from beneath the earth. Gimli had spoken to him, yet the words fell on deaf ears. For Legolas had been gripped by the question: how could such a place exist? More pressing yet: even for all the beauty he came to expect, from Gimli’s tellings of white and saffron and dawn-rose, it was impossibly more dreamlike!Why, the Elf had walked these lands for hundreds of years—nay, thousands! Yet this sight defied all he knew! For dawn and dusk danced with one another; stars had strayed from their dear night sky, yet shined all the same when they were far from home. For an Elf stood entirely unarmed in the dominion of Dwarves—entirely vulnerable, beside the Dwarf he had welcomed into his heart. For that simple act, this Elf was permitted to hear their ancient, sacred language, and welcomed to lay eyes upon their new, sacred, glorious home. Finally he was granted a recollection, the simple conclusion to this grand epiphany: Lady Éowyn had been correct. The world had changed, so he must act boldly or later regret his caution. Wastefully would his days with Gimli be spent merely trying to weather the hardy front of both their peoples’ long-held prejudices, so he must shatter the stone entirely, for there would never be a more fitting time. “I suppose no danger lies in assuming you’re fond of the sight,” said Gimli, finally breaking his Elf’s trance. His hair, too, caught shimmerings of orange and indigo from the walls and roof; the little jewels upon his clothes and his beard-clasps glimmered, as if Aulë had made him for it. “May the histories note your speechlessness. Even a creature of root and flower can be stolen away by rock and jewel.” “Yes, I am fond of it. My, such an understatement has never before been said,” Legolas laughed, and it was still painted with awe. “I am fond of you, too, and how you glimmer and shine in your own right, my sun.”“Tragedy has stained much of my people’s history as of late. Erebor will be a hall of kings forevermore, but it may never be what it once was,” said Gimli. “There is no such glorious past here. Only the glorious future.” Legolas hummed. “I agree. A glorious future, just as another age of the world begins anew. Lady Éowyn is proven right, even in her own absence.”“This does not shock me. What did she say?”Legolas had observed, by living among the Men of Ithilien and Minas Tirith for some time, that everyone with only a measured time to walk these lands do so with a fire. In their soul they all kept an urgent desire to seize their fate before time seized them; the timeless Elf knew no such urgency. But then again, what of everything Legolas knew and did not know? This was the hour of dusk and dawn; a silver tree, standing beside his beloved golden one, looking upon a shining-new world.“There is no better time to be bold, meleth-nín. A union heretofore inconceivable has blossomed between you and I—shall we not put it forth to the world before each of our peoples fall back into their habits?”“Those sound much like your own words,” said Gimli, looking to his husband. The Elf was still taken by the sight before him. “Well, I’ve come to heartily agree with her,” said Legolas. Inwardly he made a little vow to apologize to the Lady when he returned to Ithilien, though he paid no more thought to it. “She was right. The world truly is changed, and I look upon proof of that right now.”“It is beautiful, is it not? To look upon something new and glorious, like an altogether unique color once you thought you’d seen them all? Is taking part in its creation not an endeavor worthy of pride?”When Legolas looked to Gimli, he found only his husband gazing back at him, as if utterly careless to the beauties surrounding them. He only watched the Dwarf in silence for a moment, as his focus flowed down every flower and vine upon the Elf’s drapes. So Legolas took a step forward—a reminder that he was not a star to be admired from worlds away. Adoration from afar seemed a terribly silly thing, now that they had been married. “Oh, you teasing, dastardly thing,” said Gimli, taking his own single step forward, thereby diminishing what little space had existed between them before, and all but dragging his husband downward by a hardy grip on a shoulder. “Bold, you say? Let us show them bold.”Before an accidental audience of many Dwarves, Gimli drew in Legolas for a kiss. In the moment—the blissful, carefree moment—the Elf thought naught of their peoples’ tradition, nor their past feuds, nor their current politics. He thought only of his husband, for it was only they two in a stunning place, drowned in dazzling light, in a marvelous new world.
I began writing this letter almost immediately after seeing the caverns—almost. Why, first, Gimli and I had to utterly scandalize ourselves before much of the colony Gimli plans to take authority over. It was only a kiss, I shall answer before you ask, and it was not I who began it! Any differing account my love would give you is a false one.
I pen this in Gimli’s office, connected to his chambers as the Lord of this settlement. My love has already taken to his work, much of which I figure is merely batting away—or perhaps embracing—the controversy of simply being an Elf-lover, not to mention an Elf-lover with so many witnesses. Even if I could speak their language, I would not yet throw myself into that. My powers of persuasion are laughable next to my poet lover.
Estel, I beg you visit this place. It is beautiful, and you may be merely a Man here, not a King of Men. Brief was my message, for there is little I can say. I await your response, as does my Lord of Aglarond, of course.
None had been so pleased to discover their union than sweet Arwen. Faster than a hummingbird’s peck had she placed Eldarion in his little crib and flew to Legolas, engulfing him in her drapes—hardly had her husband laid eyes upon the Elf before this unfolded before him. “Ai, how wonderful!” she cheered, her words muffled. Then she parted from the Elf, but kept her hands on either of his shoulders steadfastly. “I knew you would find this joy for yourself, mellon! We are both half an age tardy, perhaps, but still! Is it not blissful?” “It might be, with anyone else less wont to start singing,” jested Gimli, earning a laugh from round the room. “Then you should not have married an Elf!” said Estel, looking towards Gimli; but then he turned his gaze back to Legolas, placed a hand over his heart, and said, “My congratulations, mellon-nín.” “Even an Elf of some other fashion would do,” said Arwen, “why, this one is of the Lindar, the singers of old—what else could one possibly expect?” “Ah, my Dwarf cares little to hear about all the different names of all our different peoples throughout all the different ages,” sighed Legolas, lightly and without even a tinge of coldness, “he loves only for me to dangle across him and hum while he talks about his father and his father’s father and his father's father’s father—great Dwarves they were, but I fear our union may be a bit transactional.”“Sure! But it’s not without its treasures!” said Gimli, smiling. Then he approached the babe, whom he might be pressed to admit he enjoyed spending time with more than the babe’s father—pressed very hard, though. If one were to ask him, he would firstly complain about the babe tugging relentlessly on his beard, then secondly complain about the babe reaching for his beard-clasps and his rings.But he was very fond of that babe, and likewise Eldarion was fond of him. Moreso than Legolas, who could only hum a melody at him for so long until the babe grew bored. So while Gimli turned his attention elsewhere—accompanied by Estel, who went on to mumble a conversation with the Dwarf which neither the Elf nor the Queen cared to interfere with nor add to—Arwen properly parted. But her joy had not faded, and she clapped her hands together. “I must tell you, I read your letter to Estel,” said she, grinning with a young girl’s lack of remorse. “It is my fault for addressing it to him in the first place,” said Legolas. Then he gestured to the balcony of the King and Queen’s chambers, extended his hand, and put forth, “Shall we?”Arwen received it gleefully. “My husband and I will visit the caverns as soon as an opportunity shows itself—you must know how terribly Estel agonizes over his own absence.”“Of course! But be assured, no betrayal has been committed.”“Oh, I know that!” laughed Arwen. “But he has much to agonize over, at the time you find him. Winter will arrive soon, and the occasional Orc faction rears its bothersome head, and—most taxing to him—Eldarion’s fussing. The mildest cough convinces him that our babe has caught a fatal illness.”The Elf chuckled at the image she drew up: a mighty King of Men, the heir who restored a sullied line to its former glory, pacing across the floor in worry because his son is less energetic than usual one morning—because he had gone to sleep later than usual the prior night.Now, laughter spilled out from beyond the doorway—when Gimli howled in pain, though it was not true, grievous pain, for he played it up for Eldarion’s amusement. When the babe pinched the air with his little joyous squeals, the other two among him offered their own much lower and gruffer laughs.“Let us hope the day he tires of this comes soon,” said Gimli, whose Elf could hear the smile in his words. This all felt right, Legolas figured, as he looked upon the White City below; it felt like a life Estel was meant to have. “Such is the way of fathers with their first son,” said Legolas, letting forth a kindred sigh. “Well, I bid you visit without urgency; it is only that I want you to see this beauty for yourself. It has much changed how I look upon the world.”“Oh? Do explain!”“It is only that I had a discussion with the Lady Éowyn, back in Ithilien nearly two seasons ago—and, why, I’m afraid I required her intervention to see that many new stories are being written now, in this new chapter of the histories, and that I ought not to delay in writing my own.” The Queen hummed, sweet like a song. “Last I spoke with Lady Éowyn was at my wedding. I felt a restlessness in her, but a happy one; there is much she is eager to change, from what I can glean. I should like to see her again—perhaps I’ll visit you when you go back to Ithilien, after this.”“I’m afraid I’m not going to Ithilien after my business is finished. From here, Gimli and I shall make for the Greenwood,” said Legolas, looking outward if only to avoid the unsavory expression on Arwen’s face. “You have my best wishes,” said she, through her amusement. “I sense you’ll need them.”Now Legolas looked at her. “Very much so.” “Oh, I jest, but your father loves you, mellon.” Arwen laid a hand upon his shoulder, stroking her thumb back and forth. “And your husband’s charm is effortless. Truly, I’m grateful to witness you make a life you love.” He could not have said it better. Though ten thousand frustrations had yet to pass and ten thousand inconveniences stood before he and his love, Legolas felt as though he had only begun making this life that, indeed, he would come to love. Not a vestige of the lovely summer remained as Legolas looked upon his father’s gates. They found themselves all but engulfed in winter, in fact. “You’ve warned me plenty of the dramatics your father is likely to put on,” said Gimli, taking one of Legolas’ hands in his own, keenly noticing how the Elf had all but ceased breathing. “I approach this with bravery and an assured heart, know that.”Very faintly Gimli’s own hand trembled—which reminded Legolas that they were in his home, reaching out for his father’s blessing. So he gleamed a smile, squeezed the Dwarf’s calloused hand, and turned his chin up. “Dramatics indeed. No more,” said Legolas. “If you are ever in doubt, meleth-nín, you need only remind yourself that the Lady Galadriel herself would vouch for your character, Gimli Elf-friend. Remind my father of that, if need be.”“If only I could be certain he would not receive it as gloating,” said Gimli, restless hand still trembling. “Though I do have much to gloat about.” “Indeed you do!” Legolas let free a laugh—a small thing, which typically would be contagious, though seemingly not in this circumstance—and nudged the Dwarf’s shoulder with his elbow.Gimli did not laugh, but he smiled. That was enough, apparently, for he took a deep breath and assumed a more confident posture. They said no more.Legolas glanced around; even through the season’s chill, his home had gained a lighter, warmer air. The Elvenking had written in a letter that some of the Galadhrim had graciously volunteered to expel the beasts from the forest before they sailed Westward. Legolas would be unsurprised to find his father a tad bit cross that he had stopped sending letters, for he loved to hear of all his son’s work in Ithilien. However, his father would be massively cross to know that his son was never in Minas Tirith, but instead staying with his new Dwarven husband for months. Either way, some degree of indignation was expected. If not immediately, then eventually. But the sun would always rise the next day. Why, Legolas and his father must have quarreled a thousand times over their long lives—and so they must have also reconciled a thousand times. One more quarrel, even if it were larger or meaner than most, would not strike them down. So when the gate to this great hall opened, and Thranduil—glittering in countless jewels, rubies upon gold, for his wife had always favored silver—had a smile upon his face like he were being presented with a fun challenge, Legolas knew the quarrel would come later. He and Gimli’s hands had come apart, though he could not be sure who had wriggled out and away first.Without a word nor thought Legolas moved forward to accept his father’s embrace, large and engulfing like he were still a child. They held it for a long moment—each embrace seemed all too precious since their respective perils. When they parted, Thranduil did not waste a moment. In Sindarin, he merely looked upon his son and said, “You are changed. It is in your eyes, in your face; when you speak, I will hear it in your voice. Do not deny it, my little bird.”“What you say is true. Never would I lie to you about such things,” said Legolas; his father’s expression did not change in any considerable measure. “All I ask from you is civility—at the very least, not in a tongue the Dwarf will understand, or not until we have left his presence. I would not have you debase the courage this requires of him.” After a thoughtful pause, Thranduil spoke. “Of course. It is not our way to pledge our hearts on a whim, and I trust you. Even so, I still have my own questions for the one who seeks my only son’s hand—or, rather, who’s already claimed it.” “We expect no less. Now, might we turn to a language he can understand? He’s restless as it is,” said Legolas, still in Sindarin.“Very well,” said Thranduil—in Westron, to which Gimli perked up. The Elf raised his hands kindly. “I welcome you to my halls, son of Glóin. Not as an adversary, but as a father. Let us abandon our political motivations, if only for a single night.”“Heartily do I agree,” nodded Gimli, beginning a slow pace forward to match the Elvenking’s. “And humbly do I thank you for such a gracious reception. I see no need to discuss our histories much; nor do I need state my intentions here. I surmise that’s what you and Legolas were speaking about just now.” Thranduil turned away, concealing his expression. “My prayers have been answered that you wouldn’t choose some tall imbecile—a Dwarf was rather unexpected, might I say, but this one is clearly no fool.” He waved a hand. “Ah, I’d sooner cast you away than see you married to a fool.” Legolas hadn’t found it the cleverest of his father’s jokes, not at all. Why, he grinned, but he certainly was not inclined to laugh aloud—until he noticed the terror in Gimli’s eyes, as if he were ready for both of them to flee before reaching twenty steps within the gates. Then he giggled, one hand covering his mouth and the other falling to his love’s shoulder.“He jests!” said Legolas, who then felt a not inconsiderable amount of tension leave Gimli’s shoulder. “Count yourself lucky you haven’t spent a thousand years tiring of that particular joke.”“My son discounts my unmatched wit, of course, but he does speak truly.” Thranduil put a hand to his chest. “I’d meant to lift some of your unease, but it seems I only created more. My apologies.” “Very accepted, it is,” said Gimli. Not easily, but he did say it. That was worth very much. “Even a thousand years of practice is not enough to prevent one from misspeaking to an unfamiliar crowd, it seems,” said Thranduil, with a careless shrug. “Though your reputation for a silver tongue precedes you, son of Glóin. Any Elf would be negligent not to ask you about your quick loyalty which sprouted between you and the great Lady of Lórien. Tell me about it.” Legolas had once jested that Gimli could, without a smidge of exaggeration, sing the praises of the Lady Galadriel for an entire day. Now, his love had unknowingly proved him wildly correct, for he spoke in detail of the Lady’s striking beauty, and her unknowable power, and his great plans to enclose the light of her hair in a noble jewel and thereafter display it for all the dwarves of his glittering caves, until they three had reached the dining table.Barely thrice had Legolas thought to insert his own piece, and even fewer times had Thranduil asked him to. Why, he asked the Dwarf to speak, and very intently he listened to everything the Dwarf said. “I beg you tell me about your ultimate plans for these caverns,” said Thranduil as they took their places. “Legolas refused to describe them in his letter.” “Why, I might say to you what I said to Legolas as we looked upon their glory,” said Gimli. “Erebor is an ancient, sacred place, yet I fear its splendor may not be entirely restored. Will it be beautiful? Yes. But you cannot make a gem totally whole again after it has been shattered.” The Elvenking’s focus flickered to the table, then back up to his guest. “No, you cannot.” Those words pulled on the strings of Legolas’ soul in some terrible, discordant, melancholic chord. Yet his father continued. “So a permanent settlement, it shall be?”“Yes, though I’m afraid it may take a long while for any sizable number of Dwarves to move there—and I do not blame them. Quite simply, the space for them has yet to be opened up, and they will not make the long journey from Erebor for no good reason, even from a Dwarf of my station.” “And how many Dwarves are like to settle there?”The Elvenking leaned slightly forward in his seat, following intently. Indeed, he had spoken very friendly, and smiled very often, but Legolas noticed a certain concentration had never once left his father’s eyes. It was the concentration he assumed whenever he would go on a hunt.“Why, a good many, in time! And I will accept any and all who volunteer, whether five hundred or five thousand!” cheered Gimli, throwing up a hand and beaming; Legolas thought all about how much he loved seeing his husband shine with joy. “I know it is perhaps unbecoming of one to assume this sort of thing, but I’ve heard rumblings that I’m to be made their Lord of Aglarond very soon.”If only Legolas could see the twin sparks in he and his father’s eyes. But alas, he only could see Thranduil, who for the very first time had lost his grip upon his unrelenting, calculated gaze.“Might I ask,” he began, slowly as if utterly taken aback, “how you came upon that name?” “It was spoken aloud to me first by our dear friend Aragorn—King Elessar, as he is known—for he is fluent in Sindarin, though perhaps not entirely fluent in your dialect, if I speak correctly,” answered the Dwarf. “Though Legolas had written that in a letter to him, firstly.” “How fitting for such a realm,” said Thranduil, glancing at his son then back to the Dwarf. “Surely, founding your own Dwarf-realm is a deed mighty enough for a new tattoo?”The air about them went stagnant; all movement in Gimli’s face ceased, though Thranduil unsheathed the slightest hint of a smile. Whatever unnerving he had felt at losing the reins of this conversation, it was vanished. “Ada!” Legolas quickly scolded, “You know better than to poke!”“Well, I do not know the conventions, because Dwarves are so secretive,” said Thranduil, turning to his son and speaking with an all too aggravating certainty. “But I am safe in assuming you do, am I not? Since you’re his husband, after all?” “He is acquainted, of course!” cut in Gimli, with an utterly charming coolness, “But alas, they are complicated, and they are many. Our dear Legolas could not recount any of them, and I do not blame him.” He freshly refolded his hands upon the table, tactful but polite. “And since you ask, I should answer—yes, founding this settlement is quite worthy of a new tattoo, I reckon.” The Elvenking hummed, then said, “I see. Thank you for enlightening me, son of Glóin.” He glanced to Legolas, but his son was not looking back. “Indeed, Aglarond is quite a handsome name.”Indeed, the younger Elf was not looking; instead, he was exchanging a look of victory with his love, for he had passed the test! And with such grace! In lesser company he could have thrown himself across the table to embrace his love. Why, even throughout an ordeal akin to an interrogation, his confidence never faltered; Legolas could revel in it for hours. Like gemstones that never got boring to turn over in your palm.For the rest of supper, Thranduil thought not to poke again, for Gimli had inarguably overcome the trial suddenly put before him. So the chat remained light and quick, and Legolas simply relished in it—because for thousands of years he had but one soul he could entrust with anything, and now there was a second. And they spoke to one another easily! A fantasy only of his deepest dreams had come alive, and the words of Lady Éowyn had, once again, proven themselves true. By the time supper had finished, Gimli’s ability for chatting was not at all spent. Though, eventually, he had begun to glance twice or thrice very expectantly at Legolas, who similarly began to feel as though matters were being drug out longer than necessary. “Alright, I see your little exchanges,” said Thranduil eventually, cutting abruptly from the current topic, startling both of the other two. “I was young once, too. I know your restlessness, and perhaps it’s been selfish of me to prolong it.”“Why, you’ve not done such a thing!” said Gimli, utterly bluffing.Thranduil saw right through it, yet took no offense. “Of course I have. You made it clear when you arrived why you’ve come to treat with me, and I have not forgotten. I cannot forbid a marriage that has already happened, but I may give my well-wishes and blessings.” The Elvenking leaned forward and placed his hands, fair and slender, upon Gimli’s thick, calloused ones. Legolas watched with a silent tension, feeling as though he might explode if this went on for any long while. “You have kept your promise of civility with a great and impressive integrity, son of Glóin, and clearly you make my son’s heart alight with joy. There is no good reason for me to withhold my blessing, so I do not.” Legolas all but leaped from his seat and threw his arms around his father, cheering, “Thank you, ada! Thank you!”Gimli, predictably, received this with a much cooler head, nodding graciously and smiling. He was so utterly fit for lordship, with his charm and his grace, his coolness and bravery, in the face of all circumstances, whether dire or merely discomforting!The younger Elf’s trancelike elation lingered for a while, though it was brought to heel when his father asked to speak with him privately in his chambers. Though, first, Legolas was granted a word with his love. “Surely, he does not mean to quarrel,” said Gimli, once the Elvenking had stalked away and the door to their guest chambers had shut. “I’m afraid he does,” sighed Legolas, taking Gimli’s hands, “but his vexation could only possibly lie with me. His tone might not always betray his sincerity, but from my eyes I can say with certainty that you have truly charmed him. So let me quarrel with him, as I have done a thousand times before—you need only be assured that you’ve done your part, and delivered perfectly.” Gimli need not speak, for his face noted all the dismay he felt. Still, he did. “Very well. It would be unwise to sully the victory we’ve just won.” “Yes, it would. Be assured, meleth-nín,” Legolas brought a hand to his love’s face and brushed his thumb to and fro, gently and lovingly, just beneath Gimli’s deep, inviting eye, “that my father and I have survived much and more together. You’re very powerful, in war and word alike, but not even you could destroy us.” The Dwarf sighed, giving only a weak smile through his resignation, and a repetition of, “Very well.”The Elf meant to take his leave, then, but before he left, he said from within the opened door, “I knew we were always getting my father’s blessing, by the way. I noticed immediately that he wore his finest jewels. But your Lord of Aglarond comment was brilliant, meleth-nín—it is not often he is truly left in shock, so take pride in that.” Then, after committing to memory the now wider grin upon his love’s face, Legolas shut the door and began toward his father’s chambers, preparing for this row, though he could not prepare any particular defense. All he had on his side was passion. When he arrived, Thranduil had been standing by the window, his snow-white hair shining under the light of the moon. He was the picture of the great Elvenking Oropher, regal and deliberate in all the ways he moved and spoke; Legolas looked nothing like them. He took after his mother: dark hands and darker hair, a Silvan Elf of soil rather than starlight. “I had wished you would not be married when you sought my blessing,” he said in Sindarin, quiet but not fragile, gazing outwardly at the night. “Pieces of gossip floating about Erebor had reached my ears, of course; only, I had wished the Elf who scandalized himself under the roof of a Dwarven cavern was not my son.” “That was never our intention, ada, but a result of a passionate whim,” said Legolas in the same tongue. “If you saw that place for yourself, you would understand.”His father turned around, his features and manner combining to create a striking disposition. “No, I do not think I would. Nor would I understand why I suddenly stopped receiving messages from you for weeks, only for the next to forewarn me that I’m to treat with whom you’ve chosen to pledge yourself to—who is not just one of a mortal fate, and not just a Dwarf, but the son of Glóin! Whose forebear never saw my halls, only my dungeons!”“You enjoy his company, do not deny that. Direct your anger at the one who can defend himself before you now.” “I do indeed enjoy his company; he’s a witty and worthwhile partner for conversation. I would love to speak with him as a friend and then retire agreeably—but I could not, since you hadn’t a thought for the manner in which you’ve forsaken our ways in favor of your whims.” The Elvenking took a step forward, “Tell me something, Legolas. You say you would never dare lie about such matters; so do you exclude omission as a form of deception?” “Even if we had asked for it, I could not say you would grant your blessing,” Legolas spoke calmly, though he felt that hindrance would soon snap. “I would rather face your wrath than place the losing wager that you’d so quickly abandon your prejudices. Would you not continue to cling to them?”“I’m afraid such truths do not matter in our circumstances. I’ve been friendly, and I’ve granted what you desire; you need nothing more from me to freely live your happy, underground life.” “Ada, tell me you were not fraudulent! Tell me you were true, or I will take my love and leave this forest.” “How could I not be true? When the mere sight of him makes you so happy?” Thranduil’s shoulders sunk. “Our people have fallen for Men before, and it always ends in tragedy, one way or another. A Dwarf will spend more days with you, little bird, but he too will meet the same fate—could you not have spoken with me before you invited tragedy into your life?”“You would not have allowed it, because you only see tragedy!” Legolas’ voice rose, taken hostage by an anger finally boiling and bubbling up. “You have shut your eyes to all else! Our forest is warmer and kinder than it has been in a long while! Ada, you’ve worn beautiful rubies to receive a Dwarven guest!” “A guest who has married my only son. I’d like not to insult him.”“Fine! Strike that, for I can go on about all the ways the world has changed, if you would only look beyond your woods! Why, you need only look to the great city of Dale, which your people defended alongside Dwarves and Men as one force! Was your common goal of a better world any different than that of the Men and Elves of Ithilien? Hadn’t you read my letters?”“I loved your letters, until you stopped sending them. War is one thing—for my alliance with Dwarves and Men has since been dissolved—but love is another thing entirely. Weeks of absence, and suddenly you return… married?” His voice softened, and he stepped forward; after but two long strides he was close enough to take his son’s shoulders. “What has cast a shadow over my reign but tragedy and darkness? You were there; you saw it. You were my only companion, for a time, and I yours. But now there is another who can console you in your melancholy, and he creates in you some joy which I haven’t seen since you were small. You are my only son, and you are doing something entirely without precedent. Forgive me.” “All is washed anew, ada!” Legolas’ anger had been blunted into simple restlessness; he pried his father’s hands off his shoulders and simply held them. “You must come and see Aglarond. It’s beautiful.”“I cannot. There is work to be done here still.”“And when the work is done?” said Legolas, firmly, his feet upon the ground. “It is our way to eventually go across the sea, when there is nothing left for us here—but before you go, will you come and see?” Thranduil looked down, at the hands of he who looked just like her, but not gone away. “Perhaps.” “That’s all I wanted to hear from you now. I’m sorry, ada, for returning changed—it is not a bad thing, I promise.” He stepped back, toward the door. In a terribly slow fashion, Thranduil’s hands slipped away and fell to the air. But then one hand went to his chest, and he gravely smiled. His son matched the gesture, and then took his leave.Further apologies would be exchanged on the morrow; that is a crucial part of their cycle. It was a simple enough thing to understand: where Legolas was delighted to have another confidant, Thranduil was only afraid his trust was being stolen away. For a moment Legolas waited just beyond the shut door, further chewing that. At some earlier time he would have thought of all they said and everything they could have, but now, how could he? Hues of pink and orange and purple danced about in his memory; love under the stars, and all the newly planted trees of the White City, and pleasant midsummer breakfasts with Lady Éowyn came to mind.Yet again, she had proven herself right even in her own absence, for it seems even the densest and sturdiest of stones could he weathered. In some twist, though, Legolas figured himself also correct—for he did not have a place in his husband’s traditions, nor did his husband have a place in his. Longstanding, they were, but not unbending; and now it seemed possible for them to create their own places. With those truths verified in his mind and his heart, Legolas found himself having finished a mild quarrel in a good temper.