It started with a kiss. It was a chaste kiss, totally innocent, and acceptable, but the moment their lips touched a fire was kindled. Their lips met again and parted, tongues searching and duelling together.

Legolas melted, turning fluid beneath his hands. Gimli pressed closer, his body settling into the curve of him, feeling the elf strain against him.

Hands touched, pulling the other closer, shoulders, backs, buttocks. Breaths deepened as the kisses continued. Gimli was aroused and the heat from the elf was intensifying the feelings. Pressing his groin ever closer, he thrust forward, dipping his fingers into the cleft at the back of the elf’s thighs.

Legolas moaned deeply. He parted his knees feeling the point of the dwarf’s desire stab at him through his clothing. He groaned, trembling at the feel of him. His hands grabbed at his buttocks, desperate to feel him thrust again. He was not disappointed.

Legolas gasped with delight and arched against him. Gimli controlled his desire, channelling his thrusts to slow, prolonging the moment. Anything more was forbidden, and he pushed aside the anger and sadness that accompanied the thought. He would enjoy this moment. The elf beneath him certainly was.

They were still fully dressed, still decent, both knowing that what their bodies desired the most would get them killed. Or, if the king was in a particularly good mood, exiled. But in that moment, neither of them seemed to care.

Gimli pressed harder, thrusting against what he could tell was a sensitive spot. Legolas wiggled beneath his ministrations. Each time he thrust a delicious shiver rolled through the elf’s body, and Gimli wanted more. It was addictive, a desperation, a life and death struggle, and he could not stop it.

Legolas lifted his knees higher, pressing his body closer against the dwarf’s hardness. He thrust back, meeting each move that gouged at his being. And the kiss went on, tasting and cavorting together, tongues invading the other in a mirror of what their bodies sought. Moans became cries of need. hands crazed with love and lust pressed flesh ever closer in a frenzied struggle.

Gimli growled low in his chest, feeling a hand slip beneath his clothing to grasp his buttocks. He moved faster, his own hand relieving the buttons of the woollen leggings that barely contained his straining body. With more room, both elven hands pressed him closer. Gimli copied him, work roughened hands smoothed over soft elven flesh. He trembled and thrust faster.

Cloth parted and slipped off hips, skin touched heated skin. Instincts met love at each press of bodies and suddenly they were touching and being touched.

Legolas’ head tipped back, eyes wide and panted breath dusting against hirsute face. "No! Gimli! Stop!" His whispered gasps were superseded with a violent shudder.

A grunt of release rolled through Gimli before he even realised just how far too far had gone. His eyes snapped open and he stared down at his love. “Aaww, sceadan!” He pulled away and got to his feet, less than steady on them. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeated softly.

Legolas panted heavily and covered his face with his hands. Gimli straightened his clothing and saw the elf’s shoulders shake. He knelt beside Legolas and leaned in close to kiss his hair. Arms swallowed him into an embrace. Gimli was right, he was in tears.

Holding the elf close he whispered, “I’m sorry, Legolas. I just wanted to kiss you. I liked kissing you.”

Legolas pushed to sit up and captured his lips with his own. “I am not sorry that we did this . . .but we should not . . .Gimli, if someone were to . . .we could die.”

“We don’t need to stay in Mirkwood, lad. We can always leave and go somewhere else.”

“Where?” Legolas whispered.

“Gondor, or Rohan, anywhere but here. Outside your lands, elven law means nothing, and we would be welcomed. And, we have work to do that can’t be done from way up here. Besides,” he added, drying the tears from the elf’s cheeks with his thumbs. “That is no reason to cry. We have been through more frightening and dangerous situations.”

Legolas understood the clear headedness, and Gimli was right, they did have work to do. He pulled away and donned his clothing. He looked down at himself, he looked presentable, but other elves would know that he was plighted, it was useless to hide that fact. What was he going to tell his father? A frown flitted across his brow, and his hand ran down the centre of his belly in bemusement.

“What is it, Legolas?” Gimli asked softly.

Legolas lifted his eyes to the dwarf’s face. “I did not conceive.”

Gimli hesitated. “Well . . .did you expect to? Did you want to?”

“No . . .yes . . .no . . .I did not think about it . . .yes it occurred to me that it could . . .it did not.”

“It would be a little difficult and ill-timed right now,” Gimli decided. “We have enough to contend with. we have to arrange an audience with your father.”

Legolas felt a chill seep into his being. “We must bathe and change. I will speak with my father’s aide. No doubt my father will be so busy that he will not get a moment to see me, that is us for at least four days . . .with any hope,” he added

Thranduil smiled brightly as his son stepped into the light of the moon, which set his hair alight as a mithril flame down his back. The dark and light of his face a contrast in poetry, to which the music was his voice.

“Ada?”

“My son, you are well?” the king asked.

Legolas stepped from the portico and into the room, and into his father’s arms. He felt the hands tip his fair head and the lips press a kiss to his brow. It was as much physical contact as he could stand before he stepped back. “I am well, Ada,” Legolas replied, coolly. “It was most gracious of you to see me at such short notice.”

Thranduil’s smile faded and a frown took its place. “Most gracious? Legolas, you are my son. You could barge into my council chamber, naked, it would make no difference.”

“What if I was to bring my husband, naked, into the council chamber?” he inquired, tipping his head slightly to his right, as if as a cue to one waiting in the shadows.

Gimli stepped forward, his mithril crown shone on his brow. “Gimli, King of Erebor,” he introduced himself.

“Husband?” Thranduil spluttered. “You married a dwarf!”

“Not just any dwarf,” Legolas informed him. “He is Elf-friend, bearer of the Lock of the Lady Galadriel.”

“So he might be,” Thranduil responded flatly. “But my son is my heir, and my heir marries whomever I deem fit to approve. I do not approve of this.”

“I choose for myself, ada,” Legolas replied tightly. “I tired of your matchmaking fifteen centuries ago.”

“Do not be insolent with me, Legolas,” Thranduil warned. “You never too old to cross my knee!”

Gimli stepped forward. “King . . .”

“Silence, naug!” Thranduil roared. “This concerns you not! Be gone before I throw you out!” The king turned his attention back to his son. “I am well aware of who this tunnel-rat is. Celeborn told me of him some time ago, when the war was won. We won that war alone, without you and your self-taught skills. So high and mighty you have been all your counted years and yet when battle is upon us, you fled like a coward. Where were you when the orcs poured like water from the mouths of Dol Goldur? Where were you when the orcs of Moria spilled like lamp oil across the Nimrodel into Lothlorien? Where were you when our people were dying?”

“You know where I was, ada. Why ask such a thing?” Legolas demanded.

“You were ordered to deliver the message and return at once, Legolas, not tarry with the lesser folk of this world. That entire business was the fault of men. It did not concern us elves. Are we always to run at their beck and call every time they make a blunder?”

“Ada . . .”

“No, Legolas. It will be said. Men have been making mistakes that have cost the lives of elves since before the dark days. It is because of them that we even had truck with the tunnel-rats, which resulted in our exile!”

“Ada!” Legolas cried out.

Gimli was startled. Never had he seen Legolas so angry, nor it seemed had the king. He watched dumbfounded as the one he called mate boldly stepped up to his father, a fire in his eyes he had not seen since the Counsel of Elrond. At that time, if he had not been so intent on waiting for an opening to kill the Princeling, that look would have frightened him. It did now. Eye to eye, father and son glared at each other.

“I will say again,” Legolas began through gritted teeth. “This is Gimli, Lord and King of Erebor, bearer of the Lock of Galadriel, named Elf-friend by Lord Celeborn. He did not come from the wastes of Beleriand. Besides, it was an untrustworthy elf that caused that war, not the dwarves, you stupid old fool! Sometimes, your pompousness exceeds its usefulness! While you were fighting Moria and Dol Goldur, Gimli was by my side fighting Isengard, and Minas Morgul, ‘and’ Mordor. Where I went, his axe and faithfulness followed. Where he went, my bow and heart followed. You can accept him as a son of this House, or you can leave it.”

“You came here to kill your own father?” Thranduil asked evenly, his voice deceptively smooth, like the silk of a deadly spider.

“No, I am here to ask for my inheritance, that is the throne. There are lands to the south that need the healing of the elves. Celeborn rides west to take Imladris now that Elrond is gone. I take all those who wish it south with me.”

“Divide and conquer,” Thranduil realised, resignedly.

Gimli narrowed his eyes. He could see something in the king’s eyes that worried him, but Legolas seemed not to notice.

Legolas lifted his head, putting aside his anger. “Ada, you leave me no choice. You should have gone into the west with nanneth, and . . .”

“Legolas . . .?”

“I would have ordered you west, and you would have obeyed me. Who, then, would have followed this Gimli into battle?” Thranduil asked, sounding the name out as if it tasted foul. “I accepted long ago that I could lose my son one day, but I never expected to lose him to a dwarf.” He stepped away, long robes flapping around his ankles like a toothless dog. He hesitated as he turned away. “And cover your legs, child. You look so undressed!”

Legolas looked down at himself and rolled his eyes. “Ada, again, you leave the subject before it is completed. You have yet to greet your son-in-law, and you have yet to hand me the crown.”

“Legolas . . .?”

“You may have one, but not the other,” Thranduil replied, not indicating which it would be, but it was obvious.

“I will have both,” Legolas determined strongly.

Gimli, still ignored, tried again. “Legolas . . .?”

Thranduil turned back, the fire in his eyes still missed by his son. “You think my people will follow a dwarf?” he scoffed. “They are not so easily beguiled as you.”

“They will follow me,” Legolas corrected. “At this very moment, the people or Erebor are on the move. I have granted the dwarves safe passage south and they shall have it. If you break my word, if so much as one slight against them is caused by your order, I will have your head as wergild to my honour.”

Thranduil regarded him carefully, like a snake readying to strike, but still Legolas did not seem to notice. “You are staging a coup, committing treason.”

“The treason between elf and dwarf is well into the past, ada, and I right it here and now. I will not be separated from my husband and nor will I see the last of our two peoples wither away, never having seen peace. Put away your old hatred and pride, ada, and join me in restoring Middle Earth, or join Lord Celeborn in Eriador. It is your choice.”

The offer was made in pleasant tones, but Gimli could see something in the king’s manner that, for some reason, Legolas had either not seen, or was ignoring. “Legolas?” he said softly, his hand on the elf’s arm, but again his warning was missed.

Thranduil nodded gently, an edge entering his voice again. “Give up the cave wart, Legolas, and you shall have the crown. No, I have a better idea,” he reconsidered. “I will not give you the crown, and I will not accept a dwarf as a son. Nor will I give up my right to be king and follow your rule. I will go to Rivendell when I wish, and not by your order. I will sail to Valinor as and when it is my will to do so.”

“Then we will not see each other again, ada,” Legolas replied.

Thranduil gazed at him, further words wilting on his lips. Legolas had played his trump card. Gimli hoped it would be enough.

“I have work to do in Ithilien and Gondor. I do not expect to ever sail.”

Gimli, having begun to smile, suddenly gasped. “Legolas, no. I forbid it. You cannot give up Valinor for me.”

“I pledged my life to you, Gimli,” he replied. “And I gladly give up my place in Valinor if it means never having to leave your side.”

“Legolas, I am mortal,” Gimli reminded him. “The day will come when I will die.”

“When that day comes, meleth, so will I,” Legolas told him. He turned back to his father, but he did not get the chance to speak.

“No, Legolas, it is your birthright,” Gimli argued.

“At last, some wisdom from the filthy creature,” Thranduil noted with delight. “Your love of this naug has corrupted you, Legolas, once son of Thranduil.”

Legolas’ eyes widened as finally he noted the light that shone in his father’s large eyes.

“No son of mine would dishonour me by taking truck with a tunnel-rat. No son of mine would take what was not his by right!” Thranduil noted strongly. “I disown you, for you are no son of my loins.”

Legolas gasped, his jaw falling open, forgotten.

“I set a curse on you for the eternity that flows in your veins, gift of the Valar. I cannot take from you the life of the Eldar, but I can curse it, and I do so now.”

“Ada . . .?!”

“Your union will be fraught with pain and anguish, where others will hate you, despise your troth and throw you to the wolves you profess to be allies. And when that day comes, your true colours will show your deceit. You have sold the elves’ souls to the Naugrim, and they will know it on the dawn of their destruction. You will never conceive, but if you should find Yavanna’s kiss upon you, the child will be so deformed that it will be beyond recognition.”

“No!” Legolas gasped in horror.

“No elf touched by the diggers of dirt can ever be clean again. You are filth, Legolas, down into the depths of your soul, you are filth. No different than a dwarf are you that the very canker that they are has infested you. Take this creature and go, outcast! For no elf of my realm are you! No elf are you that lies in bodily lust with a dwarf! Your marriage is null and void, scourge in Silvan cloak, for no elf of fit mind would ever dare to insult Eru with this disgrace, and count himself of the Eldar.”

The scathing words sucked the very breath from his lungs, and Legolas struggled to keep his feet. He turned slowly to see the gathered elves who filled the hall behind his father. He was shocked, too broken to speak for several seconds. Then, breath finally came to him, erratic, short and painful. “I implore you, choose for yourselves which path you will follow. King Elessar and Queen Evenstar, Undomiel of our people, have called us to help heal the land.”

“They follow their kin, dwarf-slut in elven form!” Thranduil spat.

Legolas flinched. “You have that choice,” Legolas repeated as if the king had not spoken. “Whichever path you choose, I leave at nightfall tonight.”

“You will leave before the dawn,” Thranduil thundered. “If the sun finds you still within these walls, I will kill you both myself.”

Gimli peered outside at the stars. They had three hours before the sun began its relentless climb into the sky. “Come, Legolas. You must get some rest before we leave for home.”

He dared not cry, the tears evaded him even if he had not made the promise not to. Curled on the bed, he lay awake, unable to allow sleep in to comfort him. The comfort he needed was not in restful dreams, but in love. “He called me a slut . . .”

Gimli sighed where he sat against the elf’s back. Lowering his head he rested it on Legolas’ shoulder, and smiled at the touch of a gentle hand against his cheek. “Regrets?”

Legolas turned his head to gaze up at him. “None, meleth. Never ask it of me to regret for my love for you.”

Gimli nodded. “Good, that’s settled. Now sleep. Don’t let the words of a hard-hearted old windbag trouble your sleep.”

Legolas suddenly chuckled despite himself. “Windbag . . .yes, I believe he has always been. I did not notice it before. I am unsure how I missed the warnings. You tried to warn me, but I would not listen. I thought I could get through to him. I have never been his favourite son.”

Gimli frowned. “You are his only son.”

“Nevertheless, I was never his favourite,” Legolas reiterated. He tried to speak, but it refused his will.

“Legolas,” Gimli whispered against his ear. “I do not put any trust or faith in his attempts to frighten us, nor his attempts at curses.”

Legolas shuddered. “He is not a ring-bearer, so his words are meaningless.”

“Exactly,” Gimli agreed.

“Even so, it makes me wonder if there is not something in it.”

Gimli kissed his cheek and ear tenderly. “We made love before he cursed us . . .”

“And we did not conceive,” Legolas put in.

“My seed did not touch you Legolas,” Gimli said softly. “And besides, whoever heard of a curse working backwards?”

Legolas blinked. “I had not thought of that.”

“Exactly,” Gimli repeated. “And besides, without a ring of power, his puffed-up protestations are just that, hot air. Remember, my sweet elf, who married us?”

“Celeborn.”

“Well, then,” Gimli replied. “What strength has your father got against the will of an Unborn?”

“None,” Legolas accepted softly, but the sadness did not seem to want to lift itself from his heart. He closed his eyes and for a long while nothing was said. He slowly smiled, feeling playful lips nibbling his ear. “Do you think we should?”

Gimli lifted his head a little. “Why should we not? What more could two souls joined in law want than to share themselves with the one they love?”

Legolas looked up at him again. “I am frightened. We went too far last time, and I lost control.”

Gimli kissed him gently. “But you regained control afterwards. It’s not like we could not attend to other matters since then. We did not tear off each other’s clothes at every turn.”

“No, but I wanted to,” Legolas admitted, and turned away. When no reply came, he peered up at the surprised dwarf from the corner of his eye. “What?”

“If an elf is that insatiable, hmm, perhaps I had better forego wearing a single stitch for the rest of my life,” he decided. He saw Legolas’ eyes shrink into his head at the thought and grinned to himself wickedly. “Either that,” he added with a shrug. “Or I hire a tailor.”

Legolas turned his head to gaze up at him. “You are an infuriating tease.”

Gimli grinned all the wider. “I know. It’s why you married me.”

Legolas sighed with exasperation. “And you are so full of yourself.”

“My best talent,” the dwarf gloated.

“No, it is not,” the elf argued.

“It isn’t?”

“No,” the elf crowed, having bettered him.

“What is my best talent?” Gimli asked.

“Most dwarves can dig. Most dwarves can hunt. Most dwarves can mine and get rich to their heart’s content, but not you. Most dwarves can kill orcs all night and day for a month, and whilst you are good at that it is not your best talent. Love is your best talent, Gimli son of Glóin, and this elf fell for it, totally, completely, and utterly, right up to the roots of his silver hair. So, gloat all you like, King of Erebor, for I repent not.”

A kiss suddenly planted itself upon his lips, stemming the tide of words, not that the dwarf would have minded hearing more of that sultry, gentle voice, but he had other things on his mind. Carefully peeling himself from the breathless elf, he smiled.

Legolas turned against him pulled him down into another kiss, his senses alive at his touch. His fathers words forgotten for the moment, he allowed warm hands to remove his clothing, and relax him and delight him further.

Gimli gazed at him with slow tender eyes as his fingers let loose the soft gossamer of fine hair from its clasp. He let it fall and watched it nestle on the pillow and wherever it chose to land. Legolas was the most beautiful creature he had ever met, besides the Lady of the Woods, but this one was his to love. Legolas lay perfectly still, his hair, unbraided, fell over his creamy shoulders pale as winter gold. He loved these moments, loved Gimli, but as yet they had not fully consummated their troth. This time, they would.

The heat rose as it had before, consuming them with the fire from within. This time there was no holding back. Legolas opened himself and was filled, tearing a gasp of surprise from his body. Love was made sweetly and tenderly and dawn had come and gone, sighs both gentle and strident filled the air.

“Yavanna,” Legolas breathed, as his body trembled. “Touch me,” he prayed just as the name of his love was ripped from his lips in a cry of ecstasy.

Breathless and content, they huddled together in the coolness of the early morning and drifted into slumber.

Gimli watched him suppress a sob and wipe the tears from his cheeks for some time before shifting a little to admit that he was awake. Legolas had left their bed some time before, judging by how cold his side of the bed was, and now sat beneath the beech tree, dressed against the chill of morning. The dwarf rose, clothed himself, and silently moving to join him. Legolas did not turn to greet Gimli as he knelt beside him, but he felt the dwarf’s hand on his shoulder. There was confusion there.

“What has happened?” Gimli asked, wondering if the king had come upon them while they slept. Gimli retracted the thought as soon as it formed. If the king had visited them while they slept they would be dead by now, and he would not have woken to find Legolas in tears.

“Nothing has happened,” Legolas replied.

“Something must have happened to upset you this much.”

“It is because nothing happened that I am upset,” Legolas admitted.

Gimli considered this for a moment. “You did not conceive,” he realised.

Legolas merely shook his head. “Perhaps my father was right. I am cursed by the Valar.”

Gimli was shocked. “How could you think such a thing?”

Legolas forced his body not to shake, not to admit his pain, but Gimli knew him too well. Gimli kissed his cheek and left him for a moment, unhitching the small shelter that had been strung between the trees and rolling it up in his pack with their bedding. There was a small spot of blood o the mattress, he noticed, and smiled a little. He had finally taken Legolas the previous night, that mark would remain there to remind him that they were bonded.

“Legolas? We must be on our way,” he whispered softly. “What becomes of our love and our lives we will meet at each step of our journey, but it does not end here in Mirkwood.”

For some time, the elf did not move. Carefully he shifted the fallen leaves to cover the object he had hidden at the foot of the tree. No one would find it, no one knew it was there. Legolas sobbed quietly and wiped his cheeks. Turning to the dwarf beside him, he rose to his feet and kissed him. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Legolas,” Gimli replied. “And that’s all that matters.”

Gimli donned his pack and took Legolas’ hand in his. As he began the walk south, Arod following closely behind, he began to sing Bilbo’s travelling song. His eyes would never see this green forest again, never smell the aroma of its flowers, nor hear the song of its wildlife. And yet, his heart rejoiced.

Without a word Legolas, allowed himself to be led away from the palace that towered above the garden where they had spent the night, not daring to tarry within its stone walls. Legolas could feel Gimli’s resolve and realisation. He knew that this forest would be for him a memory, for ill or no, never to be witnessed again.

After several minutes, Legolas could not resist one last look back to the home he had dwelt in for almost three thousand years, but it was not the cliffs disappearing into the distance that met his eyes. Instead, came the sight of multitudes of elves following them, and among them were the dwarves from Erebor.

And unknowing, or perhaps choosing not to notice, Gimli sang on.

The river was upon them almost before they knew of its approach. There it lay like a golden snake basking beneath the sun. A bridge had been built over it, attesting to the changing climate between the nations of Lorien and Mirkwood. Finally, there was real peace. Even so, Legolas spurred Arod on with deliberate care.

On the far bank, he could feel them watchful and silent, but there were no archers to bar their entry into Lorien this time, or even to stop them on the road. Instead, as they turned a corner, they were met with the sight of Lord Celeborn and several of the Galadhrim waiting for them. Expectation rippled through the elves of Mirkwood, and understandably fear accompanied it. There was no love lost between them, and that had been the case for thousands of years.

Among their number, the host of Erebor grew increasingly afraid, their children silent in unspoken terrors of what might come upon them. Not a word was spoken as they peered out between the horses of the elves, all not standing still behind Arod and his riders.

Without a word, Gimli then Legolas dismounted and took a few steps forward, and bowed before Lord Celeborn. The lord of Lorien stepped forward, drawing as he did so a long elven blade. A gasp of recognition rose from the crowd, but Legolas and Gimli did not flinch as Galadriel’s sword Ristnosse, kin-slayer, sung above their heads.

An elf maiden, breath held for a moment too long, sank from her horse in a faint, and did not see the sword carve its flight through the air once more before falling to the ground, unused. Celeborn held the gazes of all those he could see and beyond, their hearts quivering, not knowing what it was the Lord of the elves would say or ask.

“Welcome to Lorien, my brothers, my kin. Let no fear or past troubles between us rekindle. Let us be at peace one with another. The last blood has been spilt, let us spill no more.”

Legolas lifted his head, a smile dusting his lips as he rose to find Celeborn gazing at him, the true warmth of his soul smiling back at him. “My lord . . .”

“Legolas, she has gone, ion nîn. You need not stand on ceremony any more,” he told him and with that they clasped each other.

One tear slid from between Legolas’ closed lids, but he dared not let it show. The weight of pain set about his heart was burning within his chest, placed there by a father who no longer wanted him, no longer accepted or loved him, but he smiled. “Yes, nanneth,” he whispered, but said no more.

Legolas lifted his head to see Haldir close by, smiling. Pulling away from Celeborn’s embrace, he clasped shoulders with the march warden.

“I see you kept the bow,” Haldir noted.

“I could do little else with a gift from a friend,” Legolas replied.

Haldir smiled widely. “It is good to see you again, mellon nîn.”

“How did you know we were taking this road?” Legolas asked.

Haldir smiled. “I must admit, I could not contain my excitement. I followed you from the Forest River for a full day before bringing the news of your approach to Lord Celeborn.”

“You are like a child, mellon nîn,” Legolas laughed. “You will be as tired as we are, if not more.”

“Come, let us sup and rest together,” Celeborn ushered them. “Bring shelter, food and wine.”

During the meal, Celeborn could feel the ache that pervaded his son, although Legolas’ sadness was well hidden to any who did not know him well. Beneath the canopy of mallorn leaves, they walked together, a few others with them to share in the joys of reunion.

“This sadness that cloaks you is fearsome to bare,” Celeborn noted.

“Yes, nanneth,” Legolas replied, as if still afraid of what might happen if he were to voice it aloud.

Celeborn held his gaze. “What is it?”

Legolas opened his mouth to speak, but nothing passed the lump in his throat. How could he tell anyone what had happened? How could he put words to that which had almost sundered his will to live. How could he explain that the only thing that kept him alive was the dwarf, whose hand never left his own? “It is something I must bare alone, nanneth.”

Haldir touched his shoulder. “Not alone, for you have Gimli.”

Not long after, Celeborn steered his son from the crowds and smiled, tenderly cupping his cheek. “I have missed doing this.”

“As much as I have missed it,” Legolas replied.

“Your bond with the dwarf surprised me, and your asking of my approval during your days here with the Quest did not go unnoticed by Galadriel.”

Legolas lowered his gaze. “Did you tell her? About me and you?”

“No, but she asked.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I lied,” Celeborn admitted. “I told her that it mattered not whether you asked or not, nor did it matter whether I cared or not. I told her that it was perfunctory to my position as an Unborn of our race and that I gave you blessing or withheld it, according to the will of those who created me, was not her concern. I told her that those of you who are born do not understand or know their will.”

Legolas smirked. “What did she say to that?”

“She was in a mood with me for several days, but eventually conceded my point.”

Legolas’ smile increased in size. “You always knew how to sweeten Galadriel, nanneth, and for that all elvenden is grateful.”

Celeborn’s smile wavered. “Even at the expense of my beautiful child?” he wondered. “I left behind a frightened infant and a bitter spouse.”

“Much has changed,” Legolas noted.

“And much has not,” Celeborn rejoined. “Thranduil is still bitter and has vented his anger and pain on you. You do not need to tell me what has happened. I can guess.”

Legolas seemed to shrink into the ground, wondering if he had guessed all of it, or just that he was exiled. “Nanneth? Do you still love adar?”

Celeborn seemed surprised by the question and thought about it for some time before answering. “Your father was the king of Mithrim, and I ruled Doriath. To cement our two cities, he was the only one I could make troth with. Finrod, himself, approved of it, but he was not of a mind to share his bed with any. Ours was a marriage simply to produce an heir for Finrod's throne, and thus unite the people.”

Celeborn winced. It sounded so detached when laid out like that, but that was the bare bones of if. “Yes, I loved him once,” he added. “But duty comes first. Please understand that. Your task was set before you even from the day of your conception.”

“I have united elf and dwarf, but I have failed to hold together my father’s realm,” Legolas said disappointedly. “Do not let it trouble you, my child,” Celeborn coaxed. “I approved your journey with the Quest, and your joining with Gimli, and I do not repent of either.”

“Do you love Galadriel?” Legolas suddenly asked.

Celeborn took a measured breath. This was his fault, he thought silently, having raised him to have an inquiring mind. “That is more complicated,” he replied. “I do not love her as I do your father. I gave myself to Galadriel as a gift, to stop the war. I was her prize. She and I both know that. At the same time, she is more than functional in fulfilling . . .other needs.”

Legolas shuddered, feeling suddenly sick. “I do not want to think of you with her, not like that.”

“I know,” Celeborn said softly. “Be of tender thoughts towards her, ion nîn. She has always been benevolent toward me, and kept her word.”

Legolas smiled. “Then I will think kindly toward her,” he promised. “Tomorrow, at noon, we ride for Gondor. Come with us?”

Celeborn slowly shook his head. “My place is here and yet I tire of it. I ride for Imladris. That is where I will find peace, for a time. You know I cannot change that.”

Legolas nodded. “I had to try.” Sharing a smile, it was a long time before he spoke again. “I love you.”

“Should I be jealous?” a voice broke in before Celeborn had chance to reply.

Legolas chuckled softly. “There you are, my jealous half.”

“Your better half, elf. Don’t you forget it,” Gimli teased gruffly.

Celeborn grinned.

“Am I to understand that you are here because you wish me to sleep?” Legolas inquired.

“If I could wish you to sleep, lad, I’d have done it already,” Gimli said innocently.

Celeborn laughed aloud, much to Legolas’ chagrin.

“Sleep well, melthe ion nîn,” he said and embraced his son tenderly. Celeborn kissed his cheek and watched him depart for their tent, hand in hand. Celeborn smiled. The relationship between his son and Gimli brought to mind water over stones, fluid and fixed, like a vein of mithril in the moonlight against the dark Moria stone. He smiled again. In his mind he pictured how much more perfect and beautiful it would be to see his child with a child of his own.

Alone in their open-sided tent, they huddled together, delighting in touching and being touched.

Legolas snapped awake at the sound of an arrow’s release. He sat up, startled from his sleep and his bed. He turned and where he had slept an arrow struck the mattress. There was no doubt that the arrow had been meant for him, if he had remained in repose, he would have died instantly.

He lifted his head and peered out into the still dark forest. Nothing moved. Gimli continued to snore softly on the far side of the bed as Legolas withdrew the shaft and turned it carefully between his fingers and thumb.

It was an arrow of the Noldor, as the first one had been. Someone wanted him dead and they had followed him to Lorien. He watched as a small piece of paper fluttered to the pillow. Without touching it, Legolas could tell its origins. It was made from the crushed bark of beech trees . . .there were no beech trees in Lorien.

In his days before the finding of the Ring by Gollum, he had made paper, had traded it with Imladris, Lorien and with the men of Long Lake. It was courser than that used for elvish books, used instead for more hardier words by dwarves and men, and for the teaching of children. His eyes lifted into the distance. The were only two teachers of children in Lorien.

There were four words written on the sliver of paper, written in dwarvish script, intended for Gimli to read after the arrow had killed his mate, no doubt. Legolas could not read the words, but there were a few in Lorien who could.

Legolas rose, taking the arrow and paper with him. In silence he moved through the trees and climbed up a nearby mallorn tree and entered the talan. Inside, the single occupant was sleeping, his eyes open, but glazed beyond sight.

Without preamble, Legolas grabbed the elf’s collar and yanked him from his bed. The elf was shocked to full wakefulness and the first thing he saw was two very large, very angry eyes.

“Tell me, Haldir, Do you wake with one less arrow in your quiver?”

Haldir gasped. “What are you talking about?”

Legolas threw him to the floor. “Someone tried to kill me tonight, someone who speaks the tongues of dwarves. You are one of only a few.”

Haldir’s mouth gaped open. “I swear, until you woke me, I was across the sea, sitting beneath the Two Trees, playing my harp.” On his knees, he scooted across the talan floor and retrieved his bow and quiver.

Legolas snatched both and examined them carefully. The bow and string were cold, and the quiver full. In exasperation, Legolas thrust them against Haldir’s chest and turned away, gazing out at the dark forest.

Haldir stood and drew level with him. “What brought you to me, my brother? What is this slight that set the blame at my feet?”

Legolas turned his openly frightened eyes to the elf of the Noldor and wordlessly held out the piece of paper and the arrow.

Haldir gazed at them for some seconds. He swallowed noisily and spoke. “This is an arrow of the Noldor, but this writing is of the dwarves. Where did you get them?”

“The arrow is one of two, fired into my bed. Had I not sat up at the last moment, I would be dead now, and Gimli would be reading the note, and not you.”

“I am only one of few who know but a handful of Mannish words . . .”

“Which is why I came here to throttle you,” Legolas warned.

Haldir blinked. “I see,” he said carefully. “This is not my arrow, and this is not my writing.”

“But the letters formed there are written by elvish hands. It is too neat and small for the thick fingers of a dwarf.”

“And a bow of the elves is too long for a dwarf to fire,” Haldir added.

“So, who do I throttle next, or do I get a straight answer from you?” Legolas demanded.

Haldir looked more closely at the writing, holding it beneath the lamp. “This ink is black. Therefore, it was written by an elf. Dwarf ink is brown . . .I can see why you came to me. It makes my innocence seem false to you, but I swear, Legolas. I did not write this, nor did I try to kill you.”

“Who did?”

“I do not know. I only know that you should not wait until noon to leave Lorien, do so before the dawn. The elf responsible will be left behind.”

“Until the host follows,” Legolas spoke. “This is the second such attack, the first was during our last night in my father's gardens, a place you admitted being in. If it was not you, this person could be any one of the host we travel with. I could die at any time, anywhere, and no one will know who it was, or why.”

Haldir regarded his gently. “Set your fear with me, my brother. I will find the traitor, and I will not desert you. If it is within you to trust me, I will come with you to Gondor.”

Legolas gazed at him, warily. “I can trust no one. Either way, this must not be spoken of to Gimli,” he said. “He will worry so, and wrap me in wool and set guards on me night and day,” he said, a laugh bubbled up but it swiftly turned to a sob of terror. Haldir pressed a hand to his shoulder.

Legolas remained silent for a long time. Finally he asked, “What do these words say?”

“There are few outside dwarf circles who know the Mannish speech.”

“Tell me!” Legolas hissed.

“It says, ‘Bnû’noolhöre khazâd, Erfnrûnh khazâd’, as best as I can determine. The spelling is poor.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means that whoever wrote it, has not spent much time in the company of dwarves, or deems it of little import to spell mannish correctly.” Legolas rounded on Haldir but hesitated just short of killing him. The glare was enough. “I . . .it is far from polite . . .”

“What does it say?”

Haldir sighed. “It says . . .dwarf-dung whore. The last two words are either ‘forbidden of the dwarves’ or ‘accursed of the dwarves’.”

Legolas cringed and did not meet his gaze, could not show the pain in his eyes.

“What is going on, Legolas?”

Legolas took a slow measured breath, designed solely to hide a sob of despair. “It matters not.”

“This has something to do with your troth with Gimli, does it not? What is cursed?”

“We ride at dawn,” Legolas said by way of reply.

“Legolas,” Haldir called, stopping him from leaving. “I will not ask, and I do not expect you to tell me, but I will not allow you to leave Lorien without protection.”

“I forbid it!”

“You are already forbidden!” Haldir retorted. “You have no standing among elves, have you not noticed? Or is this arrow not proof enough? Listen to reason, mellon nîn. The elves go to Ithilien because they are called by King Elessar and Arwen Úndomiel, not through any loyalty to you. The only loyalty you will find is in the bed you made with a dwarf, and many see that a bought loyalty. Do you not see it from their point of view? Like mother, like daughter, so the saying goes. Celeborn sold his body to save the elves. You sold yours to save Middle Earth. And while I do not agree with that assumption, the evidence must be compelling from where they stand.”

“The elves believe I sleep with Gimli to buy the dwarves’ loyalty,” Legolas whispered.

Haldir did not need to nod or speak, the silence was enough of an answer. “As for the second sentence of the note, if it means cursed I do not understand why you are accursed.”

“I do,” Legolas replied quietly, and left without another word.

Before the dawn, whispers of troubled agreements and tears were shared. Nothing more was said. Dwarves were ushered from their beds and Celeborn alone stood upon the road to see them off. Beside him stood Haldir, armed and baring a pack upon his own horse.

“Fair winds, Lord Celeborn.”

“You are going to Ithilien, Haldir?” Celeborn was surprised by this turn of events. Haldir and Legolas were far from friends. “Fair winds, Haldir. May Elbereth shine upon your road and her smile lighten your heart.”

Haldir smiled and bowed.

“Nanneth,” Legolas spoke softly and embraced his mother for the last time.

“We shall see each other again in the west,” Celeborn told him with quiet confidence.

“Perhaps,” Legolas said emptily. “But only if Gimli is with me. I will not leave Arda without him, and he will not leave without me.”

Celeborn’s smile faded. He knew what that meant. “I will hear the laughter of grandchildren first, my child,” he said.

Legolas swallowed. “I will send word or our deeds to you in Imladris.”

A frown ghosted across Celeborn’s face. For a long moment, Legolas feared he would ask, but nothing more was said on the matter. “May the grace of elves go with you.”

“And with you, nanneth.”

Legolas turned and walked away. As he had done so often before, me mounted Arod with Gimli at him back, and rode away. This time there was no backward glance. Beside him rode Haldir, and behind them dwarves and elves, many more joining them from Lorien.

“Tell me what happened between you and your father,” Haldir inquired.

Legolas said nothing. Gimli eyed him warily. “Why do you ask?”

“Because elves have been talking, friend-Gimli, and although I do not like what I hear, nor do I hold credence to rumours, I want to know if they are true.”

“Is what true?” Legolas asked neutrally.

“That you have been exiled and left barren by a curse of the king?” After a moment, Haldir chuckled softly to himself, eliciting two hardened glares. Before either could speak, he added, “Celeborn is going to kill him.”

“Celeborn does not know,” Legolas said.

“It will not take long for the truth to come out, or even the rumours to reach his hears. Lord Celeborn is more persuasive than he is lenient.”

“I have not told you half of what my father said about Gimli and me,” Legolas said tightly. “Suffice it to say, what you have heard is only a portion. I have not the heart to tell more. It . . .grieves me still.”

Three days later, the host of elves and dwarves came upon the walls of Pelennor. Legolas pulled Arod to a stop. “Open the gates!” he called out.

A head popped up from behind the palisade above the wall. “Who demands passage?” the soldier said. His eyes popped wide on seeing such a huge host upon the road. Not since the war had there been so many requesting entry.

“The Lord of Aglarond and Legolas of the Woodland Realm demand entrance,” Legolas replied, dispensing with his titles, since they were meaningless now.

“Woodland Realm?” someone spoke from beyond the palisade. “They are elves, Queen Evenstar’s people.”

“I know that,” the man they could see threw back. “But there are dwarves with them. It could be an invasion or something.”

“Don’t be a stupid troll!” a third voice broke in. “They are the king’s brothers. Open the gates! Send word to the king!”

The gates swung sedately inward in time for Legolas to see a messenger high-tail it down the road towards Minas Tirith. He wondered silently what their welcome would have been had they known of his dishonour, that he was exiled and stripped of all birthright and title.

Legolas held his head high for he felt no shame. “Thank you, Sir Stupid Troll,” he said regally, the amusement evident in his voice. “There are others that follow us shortly, one is the King of Erebor some six days behind us, riding from Aglarond. See that he gains a better welcome.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the embarrassed gatekeeper replied.

Before the walls of the White City, Ârâgorn and Arwen were waiting for them. Legolas hopped off Arod’s back and enveloped his brother in a tight hug, and Gimli did the same.

“It is good to see you again,” Ârâgorn said.

“Is your palace not fit for guests that you must greet them out here?” Legolas teased, as he bowed to the queen. Arwen giggles softly and hugged him regardless of protocol. The joy in his voice did not reach is eyes, for they were dead.

“He jests,” Gimli chuckled and bowed to the queen. “You caught us trying to sneak passed on our way to Osgiliath.”

Ârâgorn laughed. “I received your letter, although you caught us out. You were not expected until tomorrow,” he told them. “Prince Faramir has set aside land for your use.”

“We’re grateful,” Gimli said. “My father is due to arrive in six days from Aglarond.”

“Then I shall forgo the welcome feast until them,” Arwen decided.

Legolas eyed the horses. “Do you ride with us to Ithilien?” he asked.

“I would not miss it,” Arwen replied. She walked with Gimli and it did not take long before the dwarf was chuckling at something.

“You are in sombre mood, mellon nîn,” Aragorn noted.

Legolas knew he could not hide much from his brother. “My father made things difficult,” he explained.

Haldir remained not to far from them, keeping his distance as was the agreement. Nonetheless, Aragorn greeted him. Haldir sent a measured gaze in Legolas’ direction, who chose not to respond. Haldir melted into the background as the journey continued.

Ârâgorn fell into step with Legolas, and the second thing he noticed was that his hair was unbraided. It was still tied back, but was now unadorned as if now taking upon him the life of a common elf. Gone was the rich brocade shirt and the silk tunic. Now he looked as if he were the wood elf hunter, dressed in greens, he had known before the war. “How difficult?” he asked, wondering what had brought on such a dramatic shift.

“I am certain that once we are settled in, the rumours will spread all over Gondor in a matter of days. They wasted no time in doing so in Lorien. In less than six hours, I heard things about myself that I never knew before.”

Aragorn grinned, although beneath the humour a true horror lurked. He was certain it was not as amusing as Legolas painted it, or so benign. “Anything I can help with?”

“I do not believe so, unless you have a herbal remedy for rumour mongers and difficult fathers,” Legolas replied.

Aragorn chortled softly. “Alas, I fail on both accounts, but I do have an excellent remedy for down-hearted brothers.”

Legolas met his gaze. “I only wish it were that simple, dearest brother.”

Aragorn frowned. “What is it? Tell me what it is that casts such a cloud to dull your eyes.”

“It is nothing that hard work will not cure,” Legolas evaded.

Aragorn could not fault his friend for the rest of the day. The smiles were good, the joy in his voice was good, and the mask he wore cloaked his pain, keeping it hidden from view.

Six days passed without incident, and yet Legolas was nervous. His eyes wandered to the road more times than he cared to count. He lifted his head a little higher with keen interest as dwarves began to bow, thought the reason and recipient was out of sight within the crowd. Gradually the milling throngs thinned enough to afford Legolas a view of the king and his son walking together, deep in conversation as they approached. As agreed, Gimli was telling Glóin all that had happened in Mirkwood, minus a detail or two.

Legolas wondered what the king was like. Was he as gruff and grumpy as Gimli had been in the beginning? Was he worse? What would he say on hearing that his son had married an elf? Would he believe the cruel words of his father? Would he order him out of the dwarf encampment, order him to leave his son?

Suddenly the dwarf king was standing before him. Legolas rose gracefully to his feet and bowed. “Mae govannen, Lord Glóin,” he said, unwittingly switching to elvish.

Glóin smiled with amusement and tipped his head. “Welcome to the family, Legolas, son of . . .”

“No one,” Gimli put in, seamlessly.

After a moment, Glóin growled in his chest. “What does it take to get news to travel these days!?” he demanded loudly. It was obvious where Gimli learned his mannerisms from. “He’s my son-in-law, you big oaf!”

Despite the insult, Gimli grinned and chuckled. “I have not forgotten it.”

“And see that it remains that way,” Glóin reprimanded him. He stepped closer to the being they had been discussing and looked him up and down, and took hold of his hands for a closer inspection. “You do realise that these beautiful hands are not going to last long, working in a quarry? They’ll be ruined in no time.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” Legolas replied.

Gimli winced. Glóin’s white head shot upward, eyeing his with a hard look. “And you’ll last a lot less if you call me that again, lad,” he scolded. “Didn’t your father ever tell you . . .”

“Dad?” Gimli stage-whispered.

“What?”

“He doesn’t have one.”

“Huff? Huff! Well - er - you do now,” Glóin suddenly announced gruffly. “Don’t call me anything except my name, son.”

“Yes . . .Glóin,” Legolas replied, still unsure if he was going to live or be skewered.

Glóin nodded stiffly, looking sour, but there was a mirth in his eyes. Legolas smiled. He was going to like this forgetful old dwarf. Indeed, he liked him already.

The work progressed apace on the rebuilding of Osgiliath. Legolas helped where he could, learning the skills of a skills of a stone mason from Gimli, and enjoying the stories that Glóin had to share as they sat around the roaring campfire at night. Legolas felt safe, and sleeping in the flet built for him by Haldir offered him a place to lay his work-weary body at the end of each day.

By day, he could be found wherever Gimli was, and happy, but it was not set to last. Almost three years to the day, he looked up from his work to see a familiar figure standing nearby. Still smiling at some humorous comment, he straightened.

“Lady Arwen,” he greeted with a bow. “What as unexpected pleasure.”

Arwen smiled. “Haldir said I would find you here. I have happy news to share.”

“What is it?” Legolas asked with eager expectation.

“Ârâgorn and I are expecting our first child in the winter.”

The smile froze on Legolas’ face, as if an evil spectre had walked before him and killed him instantly of a fright. “I am happy for you,” he abruptly burst out. “this is good news, but you should not have come all the way down here to the quarry, my Lady.”

“You are right,” Arwen replied in high spirits. “But who better to share this with than my uncle? And where else would he be than here?”

“That is true,” Legolas conceded. He hugged her them and called Gimli to join them.

“We shall be uncles,” Gimli grinned. “A wee tot to spoil, and give back when it cries.”

Arwen giggled with delight. She turned at the sound of her name. Haldir approached, calling her away from the quarry basin. She took her leave of them and headed back towards the road.

Legolas sank onto a large flat rock, his face beginning to crumple, though he valiantly tried to hold it in. Gimli curled an arm around him in an instant.

“Hush, now, meleth,” the dwarf whispered. Arms encircled him, holding on to him as the anguish rolled through him.

“It is unfair,” Legolas spoke softly. “Why must we suffer this?”

“I do not know,” Gimli replied gently. He planted a kiss on the top of his head and wiped the tears from his cheeks. “Be brave, meleth. We still have each other. No matter what hardships come our way, that will never change.”

Legolas sobbed quietly, but nodded. “Beyond the daylight is but a dream and a thought. The stuff that only myth and magic can change. I could not bare to watch my beloved niece bloom sweetly with the gift of motherhood upon her. I cannot, Gimli. I would not wish my breaking heart to fill her with sad thoughts.”

Gimli smiled tenderly and kissed him. Sitting beside him, they embraced, content just to sit in quiet togetherness. “It may be impossible to avoid the Queen for the entire year, but I can think of many excuses of why we would be busy for most of it. I am a dwarf after all. Avoiding other races is our speciality.”

“And when she gives birth . . .what then?” Legolas wondered.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Arwen glanced back and saw them together at the spot where she had been standing, but something told her that it was not an embrace of celebration that they were sharing. That day was the last time she saw them smile.

He stumbled backwards drunkenly, but it was not drink that tempered the look on his face. Hands grabbed him, voices called his name, but he could do little more than wince in pain.

“Make way for the king!” a dwarf cried as the collapsed dwarf was born aloft through the quarry to the simple dwellings that had been erected there.

“Call for the healer! Call for Lord Gimli!”

Shouts and cries rose for many minutes before the clamour drifted to Legolas’ ears almost half a mile away. He straightened from his work and turned to Gimli before the messenger was even visible to the dwarf’s eyes. “Gimli, your father has been taken ill.”

Gimli looked up. “How . . .?

“The messenger comes and is already near.” Legolas watched his down tools without a second thought, and make for the hill road towards the quarry. Legolas followed.

They met the messenger on the road, who could tell them little more than what they already knew. Gimli put on a burst of speed, as grief fired him on. Minutes ticked endlessly by before Gimli finally burst into the small thatched dwelling.

“Where is he?” he hollered and saw his father lying in the low bed, seemingly asleep. Pushing his way forward through several dwarves who stood there to the bedside, he leaned over him. “Father?”

Glóin opened his eyes and gave him a watery smile. “My son,” he whispered. “My time has come.”

“No,” Gimli moaned. “You’re not that old, father. You still have a good many years in you yet.”

Glóin shook his head tiredly and winced, a hand clutching at his chest. Gimli sat on the edge of the bed, tears filling his eyes. Beside him he saw Legolas lean in and press his ear to the old dwarf’s body.

“His heart, Gimli,” he whispered.

“Father,” Gimli spoke softly. “You cannot die. I still need you.”

Glóin opened his eyes and smiled, gently taking Gimli’s hand in his own. “I have taught you everything I know. You have my crown and Aglarond is your seat of authority. Rule well, my little star, it is time for me to rest with my forefathers.”

“Who will I turn to when my courage fails me? Who do I turn to when my wisdom finds no resolution?” Gimli asked, his breath wavering.

Glóin pressed his son’s hand against Legolas’. “You have a mate, now, Gimli. He has more wisdom than all of our line since the days of Durin the Deathless put together. He is a part of you.”

Legolas tried to smile. “The healer is near. Hold on . . .”

“I may not make it, my sons. Draw closer to me, for I have but one wish.”

“Name it,” Gimli said.

“I wish to be buried in this land, in a place called Henneth Annûn. Lay me to rest in the caves under the falls, overlooking the sacred pool.”

“But, father,” Gimli insisted gently. “It is a beggar’s cave, not one fit for a king.”

“If it was good enough for the Ring-Bearer to sleep in for but a few days, then it is fit for a king to rest in for eternity.”

Legolas smiled. “Frodo will be honoured.”

“The honour is mine,” Glóin stammered as the pain tightened his chest again.

Legolas looked on, feeling useless as he watched the dwarf close his eyes, drifting further away. “Glóin?” he called softly. “Glóin? If not for Gimli, for me,” he whispered, leaning closer. “You are the only father I have. Do not leave me bereft of that which I hold dear.”

Glóin smiled sleepily and lifted his eyelids. “No father ever had a better son. Your father was insane to turn his back on you, but I have been blessed that he did. I only wish I could have lived to see grandchildren.”

Legolas gazed down at him, struck mute for a moment. “As do I,” he replied. But there will never be any, his heart screamed.

Glóin slipped away to the desperate cries of Gimli. It was the scene that met Ârâgorn’s eyes as he entered, following on the heals of the healer, but there was nothing either of them could do. Glóin, the last of the dwarves who had accompanied Bilbo into Erebor, was dead.

Ârâgorn bowed his head, hand to his heart in respect. He watched as first Gimli and then Legolas kissed the dead king’s forehead and held each other. Without a word he turned and left the meagre one-roomed dwelling and chafed in silence.

The dwarves were living in clean but lowly conditions, having spent their entire time in the lands of Gondor doing nothing, but repairing the cities, and sparing little time, effort or stone on their own shelters. Most of them were living in tents. even the king's own house had nothing but a cowhide flap for a door.

Ârâgorn gazed out over the encampment and sighed, wishing he could have done something to help, but the city had been in ruins, not a roof had been spared. There was a lack of dignity here, a lack of common respect for the royal house, but then he looked again. He was wrong. The dwarves had lovingly spared splinters of stone for their king’s home, laid them one upon another with respect and love, and had spared nothing in giving to Gondor a payment of the love Ârâgorn had given them, in his care and love for his brother Gimli.

Ârâgorn lifted his eyes out over the gathering crowd, and lifted his chin. There was no hatred harboured in their gazes, only respect. They had come here, expecting nothing, giving their expertise and taking joy in it. They wanted for nothing, but in Ârâgorn’s mind he set it his task to give them better than what they had. Tents were not enough for the kin of his brother.

Further down the hill, strung up in the boughs of the oaks and beeches that grew there, were small flets, each with a canvas roof. The elves had brought all they could carry, exiled from their homes never to return. There were more elves than there were boughs in the trees, and yet he had heard not one complain.

He turned as a figure drew level with him. Legolas took a moment to draw himself up to take in the expectant crowd. “The king is dead,” he called out, his usually steady voice more akin to the shattering of glass, though he valiantly tried to hide it. “Bring a wagon and horses.”

The crowd whimpered softly, beleaguered people milling about, not knowing exactly what they were doing or what they could do. Ârâgorn felt their loss as keenly as the bite of the winter air. There was already snow upon the ground, there would be more by nightfall.

Legolas sniffed and wiped his cheeks, gathering a little control to cloak himself with. “It is pleasing to see you here,” the elf began. “I was not expecting you to leave Arwen’s side. She is in need of you.”

“My brother’s father just died,” Ârâgorn replied. “Here is where I am needed. Besides, Arwen is fine and not in too much need to me right now.”

Legolas tilted his head slightly to one side, “Oh?”

“She was delivered of a son, last night,” Ârâgorn told him. “I was bringing the news to you myself when I met the messenger on the road. I would like you both to come to the palace for his blessing . . .more than that, I wanted to ask you to be chosen fathers to my son, should anything happen to me . . .but it can wait.”

Legolas nodded stiffly, his manner had altered subtly, his control scattered ruthlessly to the wind. Ârâgorn understood his lack of calm, at least he thought it possible to. He was more than willing to give him the time he needed to embolden himself. He had learned that lesson upon the eastern gates of Moria. “You are taking this unusually hard, mellon nîn,” Ârâgorn noted gently.

“Death is not something I understand all that well,” Legolas explained. “Glóin had not yet reached an age to be counted among the old. It also brings into sharp clarity . . .” His voice broke and he took a moment to reign in the awful terror that suddenly assaulted him.

Ârâgorn clasped his shoulder, holding the teetering elf on his feet.

“Forgive me,” Legolas said.

“You need it not, Legolas. Something ails you. Gimli is mortal, like his father . More loss upon loss will kill you.”

Legolas lifted his eyes to his friend. “I have already lost that much and more,” he revealed. “When the day comes that I lay Gimli beside his father, I will lay myself to eternal sleep beside him. For if he cannot be with me in Valinor, then I do not want it.”

Ârâgorn stared at him, staggered by his admission, but he could not think of anything to say in response, and Legolas did not stop to hear it.

“I do not want a life alone. I chose Gimli, he chose me. Valinor does not open its gates for the Naugrim.”

Ârâgorn could not keep silent. “If Gimli has but a dwarf’s age, he could live for only another two hundred years, and you are just going to lay yourself down and die? Since when have you ever just given up? Have you not beseeched the seat of Eru? Legolas, Gimli deserves at least one day in Valinor, if not eternity. And what of your children and their children after them?”

Legolas suddenly glared at him, silent for a protracted moment. Without a word he re-entered the hovel, leaving Ârâgorn alone. The king of Gondor frowned in confusion, unable to work out what had gone wrong. A moment later, Legolas reappeared, carrying the now reverently wrapped body of the last king of Erebor. Only his face was exposed for his people to see. Legolas laid the body in the wagon that had rolled up and now stood waiting in the street.

The numbers of dwarves had swelled considerably in the minutes since the announcement. Ârâgorn surveyed them in silence. He turned to find Legolas staring at him, a flame of anger and anguish in his eyes, though what had caused it was a mystery.

“I pledged troth with Gimli, and I will not repent of it though it cost me dearly to keep. A love forbidden, a life’s gift forbidden me and a journey that is forbidden Gimli in return. Understand, my brother, that living apart only turns the soul to aching for the part that is missing. I know, I am living that ache. Together we are complete, hoping that what is denied will one day not be missed as much as it is now. We work at it, it must be worked at or we would go mad with the wanting. And yet, it embitters me when others wave such easily won trophies beneath my nose, gloating, even in ignorance.” Legolas watched the wagon begin its slow procession along the street.

“Forgive me, Legolas. I meant no harm. I am concerned for you.”

Legolas’ gaze returned to him. He tried a smile, but it did not appear. “I know,” he said gently. “And I am also sorry. Some things, as you say, can be altered. Others are simply meant to be accepted.”

Ârâgorn took hold of his arm in a gentle grasp. “Legolas, assure me of one thing.” Legolas lifted his gaze again, his eyes dead beneath the years of pain that had collected there. “Please tell me that you have the life of the Eldar still with you.”

Legolas finally smiled a little, a mere shadow of what it had been. “I have. It is not given to elves, except those of Earendil’s line, to choose or reject it. I am not of his line.”

Ârâgorn nodded and sighed with relief, but the look in Legolas’ eyes troubled him. Legolas had never run from him before. What had he said that had pained him so, that had torn anger from the deep well of control?

“I must go,” Legolas told him. “Glóin was chosen father to me, as much if not more than he was father-in-law. He has requested burial in Henneth Annún and I must seek audience with Prince Faramir to gain permission. According to Naugrim law, a body must be in its final resting place within a day of death, so time is fast waning.”

“Of course,” Ârâgorn accorded. “Arwen and I hope to see you and Gimli soon. My condolences to you both for your loss.”

Legolas made to bow, but changed his mind. “If all is well, we shall not return for another week, perhaps two.” He clasped shoulders with the king, even though his eyes cried ‘hold me’. Ârâgorn silently prayed for strength for his dearest friend. He knew he would need it.

The snow had melted, but the bite of the wind had not lessened. The first spring flowers had bloomed regardless, to spite the last tendrils of winter with their defiance. Legolas sought solace in the gardens of Minas Tirith he had seen briefly some years before during the war. It looked better now.

It was safe here. The figure he had seen on the road from Northern Ithilien had filled him with fear. How he held himself silhouetted against the setting sun, the way he had moved spoke ‘Thranduil’. The was he had been standing there, spoke of waiting, a calm patience. Haldir stepped out from his hiding place in the shadows, and took up position in front of Legolas, a silent cue.

Instead of returning to Osgiliath, Legolas had come to the White City, fleeing for his life, to hide like a coward. He had heard the sing of a Noldorim flight, knew the sound of steel on skin. Haldir would be dead. Legolas chafed in silence.

There were trees within the walled garden, ancient trees planted by the kings of old. In the stillness, he came to listen to their whisperings. It served to ease his troubled mind and sooth the ache of his heart. Haldir was dead, and his task left incomplete. Soon the archer would realise that the body was not his.

He sobbed quietly, thinking how terrible it was, and yet how much worse it could have been. Beside him was Gimli, hands entwined, never parting for long, if at all. In the days since Glóin’s death, Legolas had not left Gimli for a moment, fearing to lose that which was most precious to him.

Gimli sat down on one of the many benches and smiled up at the stars just beginning their nightly display, sandwiching the elf’s hand between his own. “Meleth?”

“Yes?” Legolas responded at once.

“You may let go of my hand now. I am not going anywhere.”

Legolas regarded him carefully, obviously it was not something that he wished. He was nervous, uncharacteristically doubtful. Glóin’s death had been a hard blow to the elf, and Gimli understood what was going on.

“I am not going to die, yet, sweet elf,” he told him gently, a tender smile accompanied his promise. “Unless it be by too much smothering,” he added. The hand relaxed a little, as if afraid to leave. “It is as much for yourself as for me, I know, meleth. Truly, I know.”

“I cannot hold back the relentless march of time,” Legolas spoke softly. “I do not know if I can withstand the loss of . . .”

“Hush,” Gimli put in gently. “As I have told you many times before, I am not going anywhere.”

“One day, you will . . .”

“That’s enough,” Gimli warned gently. “There are no might be, what if, or one day. There is only now. And right now, I am not going anywhere.”

Legolas finally allowed himself to let go, instead curling an arm around the dwarf and holding him. “Now, that’s more like it,” Gimli smiled.

Not far away a figure approached respectfully. “Am I disturbing you? If so, I will depart.”

Legolas looked up and smiled. He uncurled himself and rose to offer a bow. “Queen Evenstar, you look radiant.”

Arwen smiled. “There is more warmth within my chambers. Come inside out of the cold.”

“You are most kind, my lady,” Gimli said. “But are you not dressed for bed?”

Arwen smiled. “I was not ready for sleep just yet. Come and keep me company while I wait for my husband to return.”

Legolas and Gimli exchanged a glance. “We would be honoured,” the dwarf replied.

Together the three of them entered the chamber where a fire roared in the grate, and the flames cast flickering shadows around the room. It was indeed warmer than the garden and Arwen pulled the glass door closed to keep out the cold wind.

“Estel is waylaid in a meeting with the architects, I do not know what he is planning. He would not tell me,” Arwen explained. “Perhaps you know?”

Gimli and Legolas shook their heads. “We have just returned from Northern Ithilien,” Legolas replied.

“How goes the rebuilding of Osgiliath?” she asked pleasantly, as she ushered them to the seating by the fire.

Gimli warmed himself gratefully, holding his hands before the orange dance. “The work goes well,” he said. “But the quarry is not as vast as we would have liked. As we suspected, we will have to move our operations to Aglarond, where the granite beds are deeper.”

“And the soil?” Arwen asked.

Legolas seemed to quail at the thought of having to be parted from Gimli, but pushed it aside for the moment. “We expect the first flowers in the Morgul Vale to bloom this coming spring,” he replied. “The harvest in the summer will be small. Most of the seeds and fruits will be sown for the next years crops. It will remain thus for several years to come. I would have liked to have seen more elves of Mirkwood and Lorien join us, but sadly Ithilien and Gondor are not the only realms in need of our healing.”

“I have seen Arnor,” Arwen spoke. “The land there has been plagued more with neglect than of poison, and will not take much to restore. Perhaps, I can speak with my grandfather during my next visit?” “Thank you,” Legolas said. “I have made requests of my mother several times, but I fear they have been blocked.”

Arwen did not need to ask. If Legolas was right, it was clear who would do such a thing. “Uncle, you should not allow Thranduil to rule over every aspect of your life. You must stand up to him.”

“We tried that,” Gimli noted. “We barely escaped with our lives. I am not willing to walk into another confrontation.”

“Nor I,” Legolas added.

Suddenly a mewling sound came from the wooden crib nearby. Arwen listened and after a moment the mewling changed to a cry. She rose and went to the crib to lift out the infant that lay there. She returned to the seating and noted the gazes of the elf and dwarf opposite her. The first pair of eyes turned away all too quickly, while the dwarf's lingered a few seconds more before sending a furtive glance to his companion.

“This is Eldarion,” Arwen introduced. “Estel and I would like you both to be chosen-fathers to our son.”

“I know,” Legolas voice quietly, almost far away. “He made the request of me the day Glóin died. You must forgive me for not replying in correct manner. It has not been a pleasant week, and priorities had to be made.”

Arwen smiled gently. “I heard. I am grieved to hear of your loss. My heart and thoughts to you both.” Gimli nodded. “Thank you. We are both honoured that you thought of us when considering guardianship.” There was a tightness to his words, but it did not seem to register with the queen.

Arwen rose and approached Legolas. “Would you like to hold him?”

Legolas was on his feet in a heartbeat, stumbling back against the overturned chair, hands raised almost as if to fend off a worrisome enemy. “I must tend to my duties,” he suddenly announced. “Please excuse me, Queen Evenstar, I bid you pleasant dreams.”

Arwen watched him bolt across the room and disappear into the night, pausing only to close the door with consideration as he slipped into the night. His actions made no sense to her. Disconsolate and confused she sank into a chair and for a moment did not notice the dwarf standing before her.

“May I?” Gimli said.

Arwen smiled a little and passed her son to the dwarf without hesitation. Gimli curled his arms around the tiny child and gazed down at him. he looked like Ârâgorn, only smaller and with less hair, but there was an elvish look to him. The ears gently tapered to a less pronounced point, less defined than Legolas’, but identical. Gimli snatched at a stolen breath. The child, even with dark hair, had the look about him that was distinctly Legolas. The family resemblance was strikingly obvious. Or perhaps Gimli was simply wishing, but he doubted it.

Gimli felt the longing keenly and could not take any more. With deep sadness, he passed the infant back to his mother. “He’s beautiful,” he said quietly. “But Legolas is right. We have work to do. I too, must bid you a good night, my lady. Until our next meeting.”

“May it be soon,” she said distractedly and watched as he too left, closing the door behind him and following the same path Legolas had taken.

Arwen sat for some time considering the look in Gimli’s eyes when he had tenderly placed the child in her arms. There was a deep sadness there, a longing so keen it almost pained as much to see it as it must to feel it. She did not understand.

A kiss pressed against her cheek and she looked up with a gasp. “Estel, you startled me.”

“I am sorry,” he accorded with a playful smile. On seeing at the disarranged furniture, he lifted a brow. “You had guests at this hour?”

“Legolas and Gimli were in the garden,” she replied. “I called them in to warm themselves by the fire. I have injured them both, but I do not know what it is that I have said.”

Ârâgorn set the toppled chair on its feet and sat down on it. “What happened?”

“I invited then to join me by the fire and Eldarion woke. Perhaps it was the sound of unfamiliar vices that roused him. I set before them our desire for them to be chosen fathers to our son and offered him to Legolas to hold. He refused, although Gimli acquiesced for a moment, and then passed him back. They both left in a hurry.”

Ârâgorn eyed the chair beneath him. “That explains the chair,” he decided.

“I said something out of place, I am certain, but I do not know what it was.” She eyed the doorway they had fled through not long before. “Is it possible for an elf not to like children? Is Eldarion offensive in some way, because he is only half elven? Do the elves hate me, Estel? I gave up the life of the Eldar, maybe some consider me an abomination.”

“No, my love,” Ârâgorn broke in tenderly. “Do not think such thoughts. I do not believe it to be any supposed slight you or our son have caused. I myself have been on the receiving end of strange words myself. I put it down to the death of Gimli’s father. It hit Legolas hard, but now I am not so sure it is that. I suspect some thing much deeper is wrong.”

“They are very much in love,” Arwen noted. “They held hands as if their very lives depended on it.” “And yet, they sleep apart,” Ârâgorn added wistfully. He lifted his eyes to his wife’s bewildered face. “Legolas told me, they live apart.”

Arwen gazed at him, not knowing what to say.

“Gimli and Legolas have not shared a dwelling, or even a bed in the three years since their arrival in Ithilien,” Ârâgorn said.

Arwen pushed up from the chair and crossed to the bed, preparing to feed her son. She turned to look at him, but said nothing.

“Do you know something that I do not?” Ârâgorn asked.

“I do not. I wonder if Gimli knows of elven passions. Surely he cannot be pledged to an elf and not know of the driving forces of love.”

Ârâgorn smiled grimly as he rose. “I do not think that is the problem. I am more of a mind to believe that it is Legolas who keeps them apart.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“Something ails him, Arwen,” Ârâgorn replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Something of the heart.”

“His father’s ruling against them has effected many, Estel, but not like this. And though many have tried, even my grandfather could not dissuade Thranduil from his course.”

Ârâgorn sighed. “Gimli and Legolas are not aware that I know of that. And I am still trying to get my head around this; your grandfather is Legolas’ mother.”

Arwen tried to smile. “It is a long story, of sadness and the spilling of much elven blood. My nanneth old me of it when I was very young, after a chance meeting with Legolas on the road from Lorien. it was difficult for them both, even as a young child I could tell. But that is not the issue here. What is important is that something troubles my uncle and I do not understand it. After all those years of separating, why would the king not welcome change? Peace is between all the elves who once hated each other. Noldor and Sindar live together, why not elf and dwarf?”

“I do not know,” Ârâgorn replied. “All I can focus on is one question; why my dearest brother upset my wife. It is the only question I believe I can find an answer to,” he promised and kissed her. He rose and pulled the covers over her where she lay in the bed, nursing their son. “Why did Thranduil exile them, anyway?”

“His sense of honour and pride,” Arwen replied, watching her husband undress for bed. “The son and heir of the king married the son of an enemy, one whom once dwelt in his dungeons.”

Ârâgorn shrugged gently. “It makes no sense to me. What possible benefit can this have except to rekindle old hatred, to drive a wedge between the two races?”

“That may explain their reluctance to share love,” Arwen suggested as her husband slid beneath the covers and enveloped her within his strong, but tender embrace.

“I think it is something far deeper that troubles Legolas, my love. It does not explain why Legolas would not hold our son. Eldarion is a nephew to him, and chosen-son should anything happen to me.”

“He has been distant since the day I announced to them both that we were having a child,” she murmured, eyes closed on the edge of sleep.

Ârâgorn opened his eyes, gazing up at nothing in particular as a thought occurred to him. The words Legolas had spoken the day Glóin had died struck him as odd. Together we are complete, hoping that what is denied will one day not be missed as much as it is now. But then, Legolas had said other strange things that day, most of which could not be explained away by grief. It embitters me when others wave such easily won trophies beneath my nose.

It suddenly dawned on him and he allowed the thought to take form in his mind. It made sense, how could he have been so blind, or insensitive . . .but was he right? It would be many hours before sleep claimed him.

Legolas stepped through the door as it was opened for him. He nodded to the doorman and entered the room. Ârâgorn was standing over a large table, looking at something that lay across it with keen interest.

Ârâgorn lifted his head and smiled. “Come in, come in,” he beckoned. “I have had an idea. I saw how you have been living for the past three years and I was appalled that you had not told me before. I have been speaking with my architects about a solution.”

Legolas looked at the plans that were spread out before him and back at Ârâgorn. “Whilst I agree that the conditions are not what we are used to, the land is part of Ithilien. Would it not serve you better to be in consultation with Prince Faramir?”

“It would,” Ârâgorn agreed. “But Faramir does not arrive for another hour, and besides, that is not the subject I wish to discuss with you.”

The grave tone Ârâgorn adopted at the end roused Legolas’ concern. “What is wrong? Are you ill? Arwen? Eldarion?”

“We are all fine,” Ârâgorn assured him. “The problem is with you.”

“I do not understand.”

“Last night, I came home to find my furniture in disarray and my wife upset.”

Legolas blanched. “Upset?”

Ârâgorn nodded. “Care to tell me why?” he asked gently.

“I . . .overturned the chair and refused to hold your son?”

“No,” Ârâgorn replied softly. “My wife was upset because she spent the hour between you leaving and my return imagining that the problem is that the elves hate her for choosing a mortal life, and that our son is an abomination.”

Legolas gasped, his hand lifting to his mouth, but only reached somewhere in midair and remained there forgotten. “That was not my intent, Ârâgorn. I was . . .forgive me.”

“I am willing to forgive you, my brother, except for one small thing.”

“What?”

“My brother did not tell me the truth. I can forgive him for keeping his pain and anger a secret, I can forgive his upsetting my wife, and his neglect of my son, his nephew, but I cannot forgive a lie.”

“A lie?” Legolas replied in a small voice.

“Yes, a lie,” Ârâgorn repeated as he stepped around the table. “Something terrible happened to my brother, and he did not tell me of it. And for three years I struggled with a guilt that was not mine, with a doubt that should not have been given place in my heart and an anguish that you should not have had to bear alone.”

Legolas gazed at him open mouthed and allowed himself to be led to a chair and gently pushed into it. He felt rather than saw the king’s hands on the armrests, the grey eyes had him captured like a moth in lamplight.

“My brother has been dying slowly before my eyes for more than three years, and I have watched it until I can take no more. I know there is something and you are not leaving until I hear what it is that is killing my brother.”

To anyone else who happened to be watching, nothing happed. Legolas’ sat motionless, except that his eyes moved from one to the other of those that stared back at him. His eyes grew larger, darker and gradually filled with tears, which fell in unison long before he learned to speak again. “My father did not just exile us, he disowned me.”

Another silence stretched between them.

“Not enough,” Ârâgorn told him.

The breath caught in Legolas’ throat, a strangled sob. “Please . . .do not . . .”

Ârâgorn slammed a hand into the armrest, and watched the elf flinch.

“My father humiliated me in front of the entire court, but not just the court but the entire city.”

“More,” Ârâgorn spoke softly.

“He said that I was a dwarf whore, that he would curse me. He said, that if he could not take the life of the Eldar from me, then he would take the one gift the Valar gave all elves, that which made us male and female . . .the gift of life. I can neither sire nor mother a child.”

Ârâgorn frowned slightly, uncomprehending.

“I am barren,” the elf whispered.

For a moment, nothing stirred.

“Elbereth,” Ârâgorn breathed.

Legolas lowered his head, succumbing to the tears. Ârâgorn tenderly cupped his head in his palm and drew him to his shoulder. He held him there for a long time, until the last sob had died down.

“How many times have you tried to conceive?” Ârâgorn asked.

“Twice,” Legolas replied.

Ârâgorn regarded him gently. “You are elf-kind, Gimli is dwarf. These things may take a little longer than if you had both been elves. Do not give up.”

Legolas lifted his eyes to him. “My father said that if we were to ever conceive the child would be deformed.”

“My brother, I do not believe in curses,” he said softly. “Return to your love. Do not allow your father his victory.”

“Gimli and I promised each other that we would try again, one day. I still hope that one day my mother will change Thranduil’s mind.”

“I hope so, Legolas, for your sake. You cannot live apart. It is not meet with Eru, and does no honour to either of you, nor to your vows.”

Legolas remembered the arrow in his bed and blanched. But it keeps us both alive, he thought silently, but he could not tell him.

“Are your chambers here in the palace not comfortable enough?” Ârâgorn wondered.

“Yes, they are comfortable,” Legolas replied. “Thank you.”

Ârâgorn smiled gently. “Then go and rest. You look tired.”

Legolas nodded and rose and paused for a moment. “I also have other news I should share. Haldir died yesterday . . .” He wanted to say why, but the words would not come.

Ârâgorn sank inside and could not answer, watching the elf leave that devastating words hang in the air. He had duties to see to, somehow had to make it through the day. He had to remain focussed. He could take a moment for thoughts on his friend later.

Ârâgorn fiddled with the shirt sleeve, convinced that the tailor had made an error in the measuring. One sleeve was shorter than the other. He gave it another gentle tug and the material came free, having been caught up on the seam of his sleeveless jerkin all along. He huffed in exasperation, such a minor annoyance would, ordinarily, have gone unnoticed.

“Of all things, Ârâgorn,” he muttered to himself quietly. “One hundred and five years old and you can’t even dress yourself . . .and if you‘re not careful, you’ll start talking to yourself.”

He turned a corner and saw a dwarf coming towards him. “Gimli, just the person I wanted to see.”

Gimli looked up. “I am? What have I been volunteered for?”

Aragorn smiled. “I have been working on a proposal and I would like your opinion on it.”

The dwarf was suddenly intrigued. “Proposal? What proposal?”

Ârâgorn led Gimli into the audience chamber and indicated to the plans laid out on the table.

“What’s this?” Gimli asked in astonishment.

“Plans for the new dwarf town. While I was in Osgiliath, I saw how you and your people have been living. I was appalled, and more so because no one thought to tell me about it.”

Gimli dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “No need to raise your hackles, lad. We are moving to Aglarond soon and very few of us will be staying. Gondor’s own stone masons will be able to continue our work.”

“When are you moving and how many will be staying?” Ârâgorn asked.

“Within the month, and only five thousand,” Gimli replied as succinctly as possible.

Ârâgorn nodded. “So, housing will still be required for five thousand, plus yourself.”

“Me?”

“You will need a residence for us during your visits to oversee the work.”

“True,” Gimli conceded, stuffing a freshly lit pipe into his mouth. “It looks good on paper.”

“The design of course is up to you. I have a rough layout here. Grand hall, two kitchens, private audience chambers, six bedrooms . . .”

“Six!” Gimli spluttered, smoke caught in his throat. “Guests can sleep in the grand hall,” he decided. “No point foregoing tradition, just because I am now Lord, and not just heir.”

“I was not thinking of quartering guests in those rooms,” Ârâgorn admitted quietly. “Unless you plan to bed your children in the stables.”

Gimli turned reticent. “I think this conversation is at an end, Ârâgorn, lest I lose my deep respect for you.”

“Before you leave,” Ârâgorn said, not to be dissuaded. “I want to know why my brother is not sleeping with his spouse.”

Half way to the door, Gimli froze and turned. The anger had gone from his eyes, as swiftly as it had appeared. “One word . . .Thranduil.”

Ârâgorn frowned. “What does Legolas’ father have to do with you and Legolas living apart?”

“He tried to have Legolas killed . . .twice . . .”

Ârâgorn stared at him in astonishment. “Legolas did not tell me this.”

“He would not tell my father either,” Gimli said, his voice was barely more than a growl. “I know it was Thranduil, my instincts tell me that it was him, but the fact that he was not in Lorien at the time of the second attack led Legolas to believe that it was Haldir.”

Ârâgorn’s face softened again. “Go on.”

“During the last two nights Legolas and I slept together, arrows were shot into our bed. The first struck Legolas in the leg. The second time, he sat up just as the arrow embedded itself in the mattress. He has been too afraid to share another night with me since then, for fear of another attack, and it killing him. Or me. That second arrow had a message tied to it, calling him a whore, an accursed of the dwarves. It was written in Mannish runes, and was meant to be read by my eyes only.”

“And you both chose to give in to this madman’s demands?” Ârâgorn decided. “Just like that? Keeping you apart is what he wants, and you gave it to him on a silver platter. Gimli, you are lawfully joined, and no matter what you might think, this separation is doing more harm than good. Go to Legolas, lie with him, he is your mate. He needs you and you need him.”

“And what if this madman, whoever he is, attacks again?” Gimli asked. “Next time he might not miss.”

“I intend to find out who it is before that happens, Gimli. My brothers’ lives are at stake, and that makes me very angry.”

Gimli regarded him for a moment before leaning in closer still. “I will do my duty to my family when it suits me, Ârâgorn. Do not presume that because we are brothers that my private affairs are subject to an order given to me by one whom I call brother. Legolas and I swore not only to love and cherish, but to protect and honour, as well. What honour do I grant him if I break my word?” Gimli slowly shook his head. “Legolas’ life comes first. Among my people, we are welcomed. Among his, we are shunned and preferred dead.”

Ârâgorn clasped his shoulder and spoke gently. “Within my city, you are safe. No one would dare try to kill you. And I could not care less for Thranduil’s deceit.”

Gimli looked up at him, and took a gentle breath. “Legolas told you about that?”

Ârâgorn nodded. “You have given me the last piece of the puzzle, I believe.”

“Then you know that whatever we do will not bring us joy.”

Ârâgorn pursed his lips. “Gimli, take joy in each other. Take love and laughter and joy in what you have, before it becomes too late. For Legolas, the parting is too great to bear. I fear for him. I can deal with death threats, but I cannot heal an elf’s heart. Only you can do that. Go to him.”

Gimli stepped inside the chamber and could smell bath oil. Beech trees and herbs, he smiled. He could hear the gentle breathing of a sleeping elf. He looked around and found him asleep in a chair by the fire, a towel wrapped about him. His skin still glistened in places, attesting to the fact that he had fallen asleep almost the moment he had climbed out of the bath.

Gimli stood for a long time, watching him sleeping, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, eyes open but glazed. He smiled gently, and brushed the damp hair from his face and hooked it behind a delicately shaped ear.

With tenderness he leaned in and pressed his lips to the warm point of that ear, then the earlobe, then the throat. Legolas stirred in sleep, and slowly woke. Turning his head, he smiled at Gimli, who smiled back.

“Have I mentioned lately that I love watching you sleep?”

Legolas thought about it. “Not since we were in Fangorn Forest, on our way to Erebor,” he replied.

“Too long then,” Gimli decided. “Have I mentioned lately that I love you?”

Legolas smiled softly. “Every day.”

“Only every day? Then that is to things I need to correct.”

“Anything else,” Legolas wondered, in a teasing mood.

Gimli took a long moment to allow his eyes to wander over the elf's slim frame, covered as it was with the skimpy towel. “There are several things, actually. One being that I have neglected to love you as you deserve. That I have definitely not done lately.”

Legolas’ eyes popped wide. “Gimli . . .we promised.”

Gimli captured his unsuspecting lips with his own and kissed him. Legolas responded with delight, but drew away. Abruptly on his feet, he stepped away, eyeing the shadowy recesses of the chamber in fear. Even in the afternoon, the drapes had been drawn across the windows and the doors to the garden were closed. Nothing moved, except for the shadows cast by the fire and the lamp.

“We should not, Gimli,” Legolas begged him softly, hands clasped together in an effort not to touch the dwarf, whom he loved more than life. “I want to,” he admitted. “But it is not safe.”

“I have heard it said that elves make love often, with the slightest provocation, and even more often with no provocation at all,” Gimli said.

“You have heard correctly,” Legolas replied without hesitation. “Elves do, indeed, enjoy their fill of love. They make love at the drop of a hat . . .any hat,” he added, even more concerned that before. They had not slept together for so long that his repressed desires were sure to get the better of him. Not to mention Gimli.

“So, it is true also, that making love is not reserved purely for conceiving,” the dwarf added.

“No, it is enjoyed as often as possible,” Legolas said. “What is it that you propose?” he wondered, trying to be detached and therefore in control. He backed away, and sat nonchalantly on the edge of he bed. He tried not to cringe when he imagined how he must look sitting there, portraying a more ‘shameless hussy’ look rather than that of an aloof elf. As an after thought he pulled the two ends of the skimpy towel together, but gave up when they did not meet.

Gimli regarded him gently, eyes raking their way over slim form, knowing what lie beneath the slip of cloth. “I propose nothing, dear elf. If memory serves me well, you proposed, I accepted. Therefore, espoused elf, I demand that you lie with me and give me my rights.”

Legolas blanched, suddenly frightened. “But, Gimli, I . . .”

“No buts, Legolas, except yours, in that bed. Now,” Gimli ordered. “And do not fret, sweet elf. Security is taken care of. So from this moment on, there is but one thing you should be thinking of.”

Legolas moved over to allow Gimli to climb in beside him, and accepted his kisses his body alight in a heart beat. He pulled back a little. “Gimli, you know this is pointless. Why make love when I cannot give to you your deepest desire?”

Gimli regarded him gently. “Firstly, elf, I married my deepest desire. Beyond that, I am content. All else follows in its place as it should. And besides, every moment we share conceives of a deeper love than that felt before that moment. Each night spent with you is a conception of joy and wonder, each day is a birth of sunshine and happiness. How can having a child be better than loving and sharing our lives together? How can there be more than what we have?”

Legolas gazed at him for a long moment. “I do not know, but it is my deepest desire, beside you agreeing to share my life. I will try to be all I can for you, with you, and be content with just the two of us.”

Gimli smiled. “That is all I ask,” he said softly. Moving closer, he proceeded to remind the elf that he loved him, how deep and how much.

All afternoon they loved, exploring and reaffirming the love they felt. The sun had long set and many stars had already disappeared behind the horizon before they climbed towards their zenith.

Legolas could feel it, and pulled him closer, panting hard, half formed words not quite making it passed his lips. “Gimli,” he breathed.

The only response was an impassioned growl, which vibrated through his torso. Legolas gasped, arching upward. “Eru!” he cried. Within him, something exploded hotly, catching him somewhere between pain and release, wrenching a scream from his body that filled the room and spilled beyond the closed door.

Down the hall, Aragorn shot up from his desk. “What in the name of Mandos . . .!?”

Arwen looked at him, both of them wide eyed. Eldarion whimpered, the heir of the king of Gondor wakened by a blood curdling scream, balanced precariously between utter pain and unbound pleasure . . .nothing short of a hanging offence.

As they stared at each other one reached for their son, the other wondered for a second if Legolas was alright, since it seemed to be his voice . . .though he could easily be wrong.

“Eru’s kiss,” Arwen noted quietly.

Suddenly they both smiled. The smile turned to quiet chuckles.

Ârâgorn rubbed a hand over his beard, gazing at the wall the separated their chambers from the next. “I do not recall you screaming like that.”

Gimli sank onto the elf, bathing the soft skin with his breath. Still buzzing, he lay still, content just to lay there, encircled as he was with the elf’s limbs.

Legolas lay still, chest heaving. He blinked. The heavy dwarf breaths tingled across his skin. He shuddered gently, an echo of what had just happened.

“Did I hurt you?” Gimli wondered against his shoulder.

Legolas did not move, could not lift even a finger. “No,” he puffed. “Although, I have three years to catch up on,” he supposed between heavy breaths. “It was bound to be a little . . .um . . .”

“Loud?” Gimli suggested against his collar bone.

Legolas, trying to regain his breath, could do little more than smile.

Gimli lifted his head and gazed down at him. “Did I ever tell you that you’re beautiful?”

“Many times,” Legolas replied, still breathless.

“And at no time more beautiful than when you cry the name of god beneath me,” Gimli smiled.

Legolas blushed. “It is your fault,” he told him, matter-of-factly.

“No, it’s your fault for being so enticing.”

“Your fault for noticing,” Legolas countered.

“Your fault for opening my eyes.”

“Your fault for making me realise that there was a being worth enticing,” he said smugly.

Gimli paused, fighting a grin. “Well, yes. I suppose I shall have to concede that one. I flirted a bit.”

Legolas smiled. “You flirted a lot.”

“I did?”

Legolas nodded. Within him, slow moves awoke his need again.

“Of course, you do realise that you started all of this?” Gimli spoke softly.

“Me?”

“You pulled my beard.”

“In Moria, to save your life . . .”

Gimli smiled gently. “Men have pick-up lines, dwarves pull each other’s beards. You were in trouble right from the start.”

Legolas moaned softly, “Good,” and shuddered.

Gimli kissed him, feeling his shudder. Tongues duelled, twisting together in the light of the fire that still burned in the grate. Gentle loving brought with it the drowsy onset of sleep. They welcomed it, relaxing into its embrace.

“I love you,” Gimli sighed.

“I love you,” Legolas whispered.

Arwen lay her sleeping son in the crib and rubbed an aching shoulder. It was all she needed, to be stiff after sleeping wrongly. Fingers suddenly covered her lips and she jumped. An elf emerged from the dark drapes and stared at her.

“Do not make a sound,” he whispered.

“Haldir?”

“Forgive my intrusion, but this was the only door from the garden that was not locked.”

“What is it?” she asked as she saw him wince as she touched him. “You are hurt.”

“I was shot. I took Legolas’ place on the road from Ithilien. Arwen, please tell me that he arrived here safely, that he is still safe.”

Arwen nodded. “I spoke with both him and Gimli yesterday, as did Estel. They are in next chamber.”

Haldir sighed with relief.

“Someone tried to kill Legolas?” Arwen whispered.

“Yes, and I lost sight of him somewhere in Minas Tirith.”

“Here?” Arwen glanced at her sleeping son and turned back to her old friend. “What do you want me to do?”

“Wake the king. He needs to get Legolas out of the city. I will continue the hunt.”

“But you are wounded, Haldir. You must rest . . .”

“There is no time. Tell him, meet me at the East gate.” Then he was gone.

Arwen swallowed and went to the bed. Leaning over her husband, she gently shook his shoulder. “Estel, wake up. Haldir was here. Thranduil is in the city.”

Ârâgorn opened his eyes and sat up. “Haldir? Legolas said he was dead.”

“Haldir is alive, but very badly wounded. We must hurry. He said you must get take Legolas to the East Gate.”

Ârâgorn hurriedly fastened his buttons as he rushed towards the next doorway. without waiting to knock, he turned the ring handle and pushed the oak door open and stepped inside.

The room was not silent, gentle sighs drifted up from the bed attesting to the wakefulness of the occupants. “I am sorry to interrupt you,” Ârâgorn said, thankful that it was too dark to see. “But, Thranduil is here.”

In the darkness, startled gasps rose.

“Keep silent,” Aragorn warned. “Get dressed and come with me.”

Bodies moved, and cloth whispered.

“How do you know Thranduil is here?” Gimli asked, voice barely a whisper.

“Haldir told me.”

“Haldir?” Legolas hissed. “But Haldir is dead.”

“Dead? What do you mean, dead?” Gimli put in.

Aragorn dared not risk lighting a lamp, alerting anyone outside to their location. In the dark, they scrambled to find and don clothes, and Aragorn kept watch on both doors.

“Haldir took my place on the road from Hanneth Annún - here is your shirt - I heard the arrow.”

“Thank you.”

“How can he have survived?” Legolas wondered.

“He is badly wounded. Hurry,” Aragorn urged them.

“My boots . . .”

“Leave them.”

In stocking-clad feet, and almost dragged from the room, Ârâgorn rushed them back to his own chambers. Out of breath, he paused long enough to allow Gimli to tuck in his shirt and to tie his own bootlaces.

“So, you have boots,” Legolas noted, petulantly.

“Hush!” Ârâgorn hissed. “We do not know where your father is. He could be anywhere. I have to get you to the East Gate.”

Legolas’ wide eyes widened further. “He will kill us,” he whispered in horror.

“You will not be alone,” Ârâgorn assured him. “I am coming with you.”

“What protection are you against a bow of the Noldor?” Legolas demanded.

Ârâgorn grabbed his shoulder. “Legolas, I will walk with you, my body between he and you. If he wants you, he will have to kill me first.”

“And me,” the dwarf reminded them. “Though, I’ll not protect more than your lower half.”

“Gimli?” Legolas voiced in growing alarm. He was close to panicking.

Gimli took his hand in his and kissed his palm and hugged him. “I’ll be alright, my love.”

“He will kill us,” Legolas repeated softly.

Aragorn turned to him, to comfort his terrified friend, but before he could speak there was a soft voice from the far end of he room.

“The dawn is breaking,” Arwen called. “You must hurry.”

Legolas eyed the nooks, doorways and crevasses as they went. Ârâgorn was jumpy enough, but his stomach seemed to want to lurch about. At every turn, he was convinced he saw his father, but on turning he found no one there. Each gasp of fright brought a tentative relief that was short-lived. “He is going to kill us,” he whispered over and over.

Ârâgorn frowned. This was the very worst time for Legolas to lose it, say nothing of thinking in plurals.

“Legolas,” Gimli hissed.

“What?”

“If you don’t calm down, you’ll get sick.”

“I am frightened.”

Gimli slipped a hand into his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “It’s alright to be scared, meleth. Just don’t let it get out of hand.”

“I cannot help it, Gimli. I am not feeling very well.”

“That is what fear does to you,” Ârâgorn put in quietly as he peered around a corner. “The East Gate is just beyond those houses. Stay close.”

Rounding the corner, they slipped across the street and down a deserted alleyway between two houses, still quiet in the early morning. At the far end, Ârâgorn paused to search the area again. Cautiously he exited, sliding along a low wall. Seeing the area clear, he beckoned and as a tight knot, they crossed the small courtyard towards the gatehouse in the far side.

Legolas lifted his head as the sun’s light poured over the high walls around them and he gasped. Silhouetted against the sun stood Haldir, his bow notched and aiming right at him. for a split second he wondered . . and the arrow was let loose.

Legolas gasped loudly, just as he felt the wind rush passed his left ear, disturbing the hair that hung there. It barely missed Ârâgorn, who jumped and spun in one shocked move. He grabbed Legolas and pulled him towards him as a white blade arched wildly through the air.

Legolas turned in time to see an elf fall at his feet. Without thinking, Legolas dropped beside him. “Ada!” Thranduil’s eyes were barely open as he stared up at him for a moment before sinking back against the stone street. A blade slid from his lifeless fingers and clattered against the cobbles. A cry erupted from Legolas’ throat as he saw the mithril lying there.

Stunned, Legolas pushed up onto his feet and stepped back, and his body locked in shock. He could not move. He was aware of someone talking to him, but the words did not make sense. He stood for a moment, considering the gently swaying masonry, and wondered if he should mention it to Ârâgorn. Suddenly he doubled over and emptied his stomach. A moment later, cold granite swam up to meet him and he blacked out.

Ârâgorn looked up at Haldir, but had to shield his eyes as the sun shone horizontally across the courtyard. he smiled, finally realising why the elf had chosen this spot. Haldir stumbled and half collapsed against him. The king sat him down.

“You had me worried, mellon nîn. Now, you will follow my orders and get to the Houses of healing.”

Gimli sat beside his fallen mate, holding his hands, but his eyes were on the dead elf nearby. “It was Thranduil all along.”

“I know Legolas suspected it,” Haldir replied. “This will be a blow to him,” he nodded to Legolas. “He is in need of aide more than I. Do not let Legolas cross into Mandos,” he urged them.

Legolas slowly opened his eyes to find brown orbs gazing down at him gently. He frowned. "What happened?"

“You passed out,” the dwarf replied.

Legolas turned a delicate shade of pink. “That is not like me. I am sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” the dwarf asked. “For fainting in a public square or making me the happiest, not to say the most surprised, dwarf that ever lived?”

Legolas frowned deeper still. “I do not understand.” A chuckle from nearby made him turn his head to find Ârâgorn sitting by the fire. “What is funny? What have I surprised you with, Gimli?”

Gimli began to chuckle and stopped to clear his throat. “Well, dear elf, I do blame your parents in this matter. Your mother running out on you, and all . . .”

“Do not speak of my mother like that!” Legolas stormed.

Gimli held up a hand to stem the inevitable tide. “Now, hold on, my love. I am not finished,” he said with much seriousness, all of which was fake though Legolas failed to notice.

Gimli rose and stuffed his thumbs behind his lapels importantly. “It has come to my notice,” he said sounding more like an old school master. “That certain details were not taught to such a young princeling by the time his mother left. Would you not agree, Ârâgorn?”

“Oh, yes,” Ârâgorn readily replied. “Very important details.”

Legolas looked from one to the other in confusion. “What are you two talking about? My mother taught me very well . . .”

Gimli gazed at him out of the corner of his eye. “Except which deity to pray to,” he noted quietly.

Legolas stared at him, mouth open a little, and the frown not budging an inch. “You are not making sense, dear Gimli. Elbereth grants me all that I pray for. Light, warmth, protection . . .”

“But She does not grant what She cannot give,” Gimli put in.

Legolas’ confused gaze never wavered.

“You were praying to the wrong god . . .all this time, you were crying to the giver of light, and not to the giver of souls.”

Legolas’ gaze fell and he sank back onto the pillows. “That changes nothing,” he said. Ârâgorn coughed a laugh. “And I fail to see how that could be amusing.”

Ârâgorn grinned to himself, while he stirred a brew warming over the fire. “You had better explain it to him, Gimli,” he said.

Legolas lifted his head. “Explain what?”

Gimli smiled widely, although it was hidden beneath his beard. “You have made me the happiest dwarf that ever lived, Legolas, and all because of one slip of the tongue yesterday afternoon.” Legolas considered this carefully, but it did not seem to be sinking in. “Did you mother never tell you that it was Eru and not Elbereth who grants the gift of life?”

Legolas pushed up onto his elbows and stared at him for a long time, and slowly it began to dawn on him. Gimli watched the confusion slowly fade from his eyes to be replaced by something else, something far sweeter, it was akin to watching the first bud of spring open with the returning sun . . .

A smile tugged at the corner of the elf’s mouth, as if wanting to but not daring to jinx it. He looked down at himself, and back at Gimli. “Are you sure? How do you know? How can you be sure?”

“Arwen told me," Gimli said. “And Ârâgorn told me again not five minutes later.”

Legolas let out a short breath of pain and fear. “But I cannot. Gimli . . .my father said . . .”

“Gimli told me about that,” Aragorn said, not turning to meet the elf’s gaze. There was anger in his voice, but it was not aimed at Legolas. “No elf in their right mind would invoke the cruse of Melkor upon an innocent child.”

“He said it will be deformed . . .”

“It will not be!” Aragorn spat, but reigned it in. “This child will be beautiful, created of love and born into a family blessed with the Eru’s approval. The elves of Ithilien have been singing about this all morning.”

Legolas’ eyes widened. “They have? You mean . . .”

“The elves have accepted you.” Ârâgorn rose from the fire with a warmed bowl of soup and brought it to the elf. “Here, sit up a little, this will help with the . . .how should I put it? . . .little hiccups.”

Legolas sat up, and Gimli arranged the pillows behind him. “Hiccups?”

“The sickness, the dizzy spells . . .and the speaking in plurals,” Ârâgorn clarified.

“You noticed that too?” Gimli asked him.

“Yes, I noticed it,” Ârâgorn said. “I thought he was beginning to lose his mind . . .though it would have been forgiven him if he had.”

“I had wondered about it . . .”

“Would you mind not talking about me as if I am not here?”

They fell silent, chastised.

“Ârâgorn, this soup tastes revolting. What is in it?”

“It is a herbal mixture your mother taught me. She recommended it when she realised that I had plighted troth with Arwen . . .although I never expected to be giving it to you. Take a bowl of it every morning before you rise. It will help.”

Legolas accepted that, although he grimaced at the taste of the soup. “Gimli?” he said softly.

“Yes, meleth?”

“I am with child,” he said, with quiet astonishment.

“I know.”

Legolas nodded. “It occurred to me that I should have been the one to tell you first, but I have a niece and a brother who got there first.”

Gimli sat down beside him and lifted the empty bowl from his hands, setting it aside. Taking a warm hand in his, he gazed lovingly at the elf. “It seems, if had it been forbidden by Eru himself, you would not be sitting here, but out there, kicking the Melkor out of a dead elf.”

Legolas gazed back at him. “My father is dead . . .and yet I feel nothing.”

Gimli thought about it. “We were enemies, your race and mine, for two ages of men. Our two peoples will have difficulties for a while, it should be expected. Let him be forgiven. Let him sit in the Halls of Mandos and reclaim his life again. He will meet us again in Valinor a changed man . . .or elf.”

“He tried to kill me . . .and your child.”

“But he didn’t,” Gimli reminded him.

“He was my father,” Legolas said quietly, as tears quickly filled his eyes and spilled over, rolling down his cheeks.

Gimli leaned in to thumb the first glistening drop away and held him. “Let him go,” he whispered. “You must think of the future now, our future.”

The door behind Ârâgorn opened and an elf appeared. Haldir smiled a little, his arm and shoulder bound and his shirt loose to ease the pain. “I have brought a visitor,” he said softly.

Ârâgorn was suddenly alert. Arwen would not have gone to such trouble. Who could it be? He looked up to see silver robes and a familiar face. Ârâgorn bowed without reserve. The elf tipped his head in deference and crossed silently to the bed.

Gimli felt a kiss pressed to his head and lifted his eyes. Suddenly he smiled. “Meleth?” he called softly. “There is someone here to see you.”

Legolas turned his head and looked up, and looked again. “Nanneth?” he breathed, uncurling himself from the dwarf.

Celeborn smiled gently and cupped his cheek. “My child, did you really believe I would not come?”

“How is it that you came so soon?” Legolas asked.

“I received a letter from Haldir two weeks ago, telling me that Thranduil had been seen in Osgiliath. So, I came here as quickly as I could to reason with him . . .sadly, I was too late.”

Nearby, Haldir bowed his head feeling guilty, but he need not have done so.

Celeborn lowered himself to the side of the bed opposite Gimli and sighed at the look on Legolas’ face. “Haldir told me what had happened in Lorien. I guessed the rest from rumours I had been hearing. You should have told me yourself, ion nîn. I lost my child long ago, I almost lost him again,” Celeborn told him, his voice unsteady. “But my child still lives and it lifts my spirits to see you.”

Celeborn continued, his tone a little stronger. “When I arrived, Haldir showed me the blade that almost killed you.” He tried to conceal a shudder in his voice. “It was my blade, given to me by Finrod. Haldir told me that you did not take your father’s death too well and had to be carried to your bed.”

Legolas blushed. “I did not know that. Apparently, I fainted . . .”

Celeborn smiled. “I did not know elves were so frail as to faint on the field of battle.”

Gimli sucked in a thrilled breath, but held his peace and sat glowing.

Celeborn held out his arms to his son and Legolas went willingly into his embrace. The once Lord of Lorien, now Imladris, rested his chin against his head. He could smell the aroma of herbs on Legolas’ breath. A distant memory rose, as did his eyes to the empty bowl, and then to Aragorn.

No words, just joy.