Eyes, two grey-green eyes were staring at him. They were not menacing or angry, or even frightening. In fact they seemed to be smiling at him. A deep, contented smile of love and happiness, the rest of the face and indeed everything around it was bathed in sunshine. Although not painful it drowned out everything except the eyes. Then came the voice.

“Seek the stone that took life from the king of the elves; seek the Nauglamir and the child.”

“What child?” Gimli asked.

“The child you left behind. It still lies there, safe. You will not find it running in the streets, nor in the arms of a maiden of men. It neither dwells in a home of stone, nor is it wrapped in cloth.”

“Where is it then?”

“Right where you left it.”

Gimli started to full wakefulness and gasped. Beside him Legolas sat up.

“What is it, Gimli?”

Breathless, but beginning to calm again he shook his head. “It was dream, but a very strange one. If I didn’t know better I’d say I had been awake . . .almost.” His thoughts took him far away for a time, before he came back to himself and glanced at Legolas. “Have you ever heard of the Nauglamir?”

Legolas visibly stiffened. “The dwarvish necklace made of poisonous metal, it was a gift from the dwarves to King Finrod, and was said to be so hot that it burned through flesh and killed the maker, and everyone who ever came into it’s presence.”

Gimli nodded slowly. “Aye, that one.”

Legolas regarded him for a long time. “What about it?

“I have had this dream several times. A being keeps telling me to find it, for what purpose I cannot say. Stupid really. If I was inclined to go after it, which I’m not, I would die just as quickly as Húrin did.” Gimli shuddered. “His hair fell out in great clumps, and then his teeth, and his skin blistered and then he finally bled to death, without ever being injured.”

“And yet it brought healing to Finrod,” Legolas noted.

Gimli dismissed it with a wave. “It was just a dream. I’m sorry I woke you.”

Legolas smiled and lay down beside him. Their eyes met for a moment and Gimli rolled onto his side, gazing at him. “Your eyes,” he said.

Legolas lifted a brow. “You were dreaming about my eyes?”

“No-er-yes-no. As a matter of fact . . .probably.” After such a decisive response he set his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. A few seconds later lips pressed against his. Gimli looked up and smiled tenderly. “Over one hundred years and you still know how to take me by surprise.”

“And not always by surprise,” Legolas replied, his eyes twinkling.

Gimli chuckled low in his chest, and leaned closer, rolling Legolas onto his back and propping himself up on one elbow, regarding him with some amusement. “I see, this is how it is, eh? I woke you up so you are punishing me by keeping me awake for the rest of the night. Is that it?”

Legolas grinned. “Give me three good reasons why I should not.”

“One,” Gimli began. “I am over two hundred and thirty years-old, not a spring chicken . . .”

“That is not old,” Legolas replied, smugly and with delight. “Dwarves can live for more than twice that, besides you are . . .”

“Blessed with the Life of the Eldar,” Gimli put in. “True.”

Legolas smiled. “The time is soon near when we must sail into the west.”

Gimli smiled widely. “You’re missing the point here,” he scolded gently, eliciting a soft giggle from the elf through his nose. “Reason two, even an elf needs his sleep.”

“Lame.”

“Alright, I give up. I don’t have three good reasons. I don’t even have one good reason.” Legolas chuckled. Gimli grinned and leaned in conspiratorially. “I do have several good reasons to keep you awake, I might add.”

“Oh?” Legolas inquired, coyly. “Any that I have not heard already?”

“How about this one?” he invited and captured his lips, moulding them to his own. Parting them he sucked on his upper lip, and brought the tip of his tongue out to trace his mouth. He moaned softly, finding another to cavort with. Tongues twisted together like dancing snakes, tasting their sweet mouths, bodies pressed closer the deeper they kissed. As their tongues duelled, their hips gently ground against each other in promise.

The messenger rushed into the king’s presence and bowed. “My lord, I come from Osgiliath. A messenger from the eastern borders of Ithilien has sent word of a hostile force from Rhún. The Easterlings are massing for an attack.”

Aragorn rose from his seat and stared at him, his almost white hair resting gently against his shoulders. During his more than century-long reign, skirmishes had been common, especially in the early years, but an outright attack? The Easterlings alone had been unwilling to forge peace. Harad had pressed for peaceful ties and the Southrons had long since reopened trade routes to the south, so what was with the peoples of the East?

He did not know. His body was worn from a long life, and ached a little on cold mornings, but he was still fell when it came to showing his enemies the taste of his sword. Despite his confidence in this, he sighed. He did not love killing, no man in his right mind ever did.

“Muster the armies.” The messenger bowed and scurried away. Aragorn’s eyes moved to the two he had been conversing with, one had his axe already drawn, the other flexed his fingers on his bow. “I do not recall calling for you,” he noted with some amusement.

“Where you go, we go,” Gimli replied. “Thought you would have learned that by now.”

Legolas smiled a little. “Have you forgotten the stubbornness of dwarves?”

Aragorn smiled. “We ride in one hour.”

The two bowed as if in synch, and left to prepare their horse, which would not take more than a few minutes. A few softly spoken words with the beast would be enough. Aragorn sighed again.

He stepped down and caught Legolas’ arm. “A moment,” he said softly.

“I will join you shortly,” Legolas told Gimli, who nodded in agreement and left, and set his gaze upon his friend’s grey eyes. “What is it?”

Aragorn narrowed his eyes for a brief moment. “Are you feeling alright?”

Legolas regarded him for a long pause. “That is a strange question, my dearest friend. Why do you ask?”

Aragorn shook his head. “I do not know. You did not seem yourself at all today.”

“Is that because I lost three games of drahtr and refused your wine?”

Aragorn smiled. “Both are unusual for you, it has to be said. Add to that the fact that you seem distracted somehow.” He regarded him gently. “I know your moods, Legolas, almost as well as I know myself. If there is something bothering you, or you do not feel at your best, then stay behind. No one will question your loyalties.”

Legolas frowned slightly and lowered his gaze. “I admit that for the past few days I have been feeling strange, but I have taken herbs this morning and I am feeling better.”

“Are you ill? Do the White Gulls harry you?”

“No, and yes,” Legolas replied to both. “It is just that my thoughts have left me restless, and . . .” He turned his eyes towards the doors for a moment, but did not finish the sentence.

“Gimli keeps you awake at night?” Aragorn said conspiratorially.

Legolas’ eyes shrank to tiny black dots in the centre of enlarged irises. “I am sorry if our . . .activities disturbed your rest.”

Aragorn shrugged. “No more than other people’s activities,” he murmured, casting a glance at his wife who still stood by his chair.

Legolas followed his gaze and suddenly laughed softly. “And you concern yourself with my lack of sleep?” he asked rhetorically. “I am fine, little brother,” he spoke, with much affection. “And I am grateful for your care.”

Aragorn smiled and they clasped shoulders. “I was not thinking merely of lack of sleep. It seemed . . .no matter,” he said and shook it off. “I will join at the stables in a moment.”

Legolas smiled, bowed lightly and left to find Gimli, and he found him sooner than he expected to. Legolas slowed to a halt on seeing him in the hallway just beyond the doors, and gazed at him knowingly. Here it comes, he thought.

“If you are ill, Princeling, you are staying here.”

Legolas’ amusement grew. “I am not ill, meleth nín, just loved . . .often.”

Gimli fought to hide a smirk. “Er, well, that cannot be helped. It is as much your fault as mine. If you had been showing your age a little more, I would have gone easier on you.”

Legolas chuckled softly. “That cannot be helped either. Perhaps it is my closeness to the sea that is bothering me.”

Gimli regarded him. “In that case, our journey east should easy your mind.”

Legolas shuddered softly. “It is a return east that bothers me more,” he said softly.

The battle was fierce. In the century since their defeat at Pelennor Fields, the Easterlings had seethed and tested boundaries, but now they were strong enough to make a stronger advance. Despite their resolve, the vanguard was sent running into the rising sun of the following morning, blinded and defeated.

Aragorn was not ready to relinquish the battle to memory just yet. Thrice they had come upon them in huge numbers, like flies on a carcass, and thrice they had been repelled, even though the men were tiring. Something did not feel right. He had barely moments to consider it before the next attack struck and in greater numbers than before.

“We are defeated,” Gimli called out in the heat of battle.

Aragorn shook his head. “We are only defeated when we concede defeat.” He lifted his head and rallied his men. “Fight on, my brothers.”

Another hour and another and the Easterlings finally gave way before them and retreated, again without gaining any headway over them. Their tactics were more akin to a wolf, move in, bite and move away and wait for the right time to strike. Aragorn had seen it before and it made him wary.

“They are trying to divert our attention from something.” He turned to Legolas. “What do your elf eyes see?”

“The main strength of their armies are assembled just beyond the rim of those hills, but there is another which is marching around to our right flank. They mean to surround us and cut us off,” he realised.

“You and Gimli, take your forces through the belt of trees to the south and meet them in the pass. Eldarion, take your mark to tree line and cut off any escape through there. Prince Boromir, take your men to the centre. I will take mine to the north.” Orders were given also to Adrahil, the younger son of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, and to King Éorl and Prince Théodred, the sons of Éomer of Rohan.

They all, even his own son, bowed and left. He wondered for a moment, as he watched the injured being carried away for healing, how many of them would see the dawn. He sighed. He had asked his people to bare as many sons as they could feed and clothe, and they had done well. Now he was taking their sons away from them and into the arms of death.

And they would not have long to wait.

Gimli dealt the deathblow and looked up to see the last Easterling vanish over the prow of the hill. The war was over, but it was not a victory. So many, too many had lost their lives, and strangely no one knew yet why the Easterlings had attacked to begin with.

Slowly Gimli turned and gazed out across the mass of dead and dying, the almost naked bodies of the garishly painted Easterlings laying in stark contrast with the armour-clad men of Elessar, Ithilien and the Elves of Ithilien.

The whole valley seemed deathly quiet, although it was full of the activities the usually followed war. Gimli gazed around him for a long time before he realised what was missing. With a start he gazed around him again. “Legolas?” After a hesitation, he called again. “Legolas?”

Elessar held the blade to Easterling’s throat and glared into his face. “Tell me, boy, why you come upon my lands once again.”

The boy, not much older than the youngest of his fair daughters, looked up at him in fear for his life. “We had word than the king of Numenor was dead and that his lands were ripe for the plunder, lord,” the young man replied. “Please, my lord, spare me. I have a woman and a child due in the spring.”

Aragorn lowered the blade a little. “Take word to your king that no more should we fight, nor waste more of the lives of our men upon this earth. Here we draw the line of our borders. Cross it no more, for if you do, you lands will be laid waste, your men and sons cast into the Sea of Rhún, and your women and daughters taken into bondage. Take this word, boy, and let me see your face no more, unless it is to bring word of accord.”

The frightened young man nodded and rose, running as best he could with the deep wounds to his leg and both arms. Aragorn sighed. Now he knew why they were here, now he had to find out who had created such a lie. It did not matter all that much. With the slow movement of information between the two peoples, it was most likely Éomer’s death they had heard tell of.

Wiping the sweat and blood from his face he gazed about him. He raised a tired hand in greeting with the other kings and princes. It was time to find his son and brothers. He could see Boromir in the distance as he mounted his steed and smiled to himself as he made for his position on the hill, gazing down into the wide hollow of the battlefield. Aragorn could see why Faramir had so named him, he had a striking resemblance to his oath-brother, who was felled at Amon Hen.

“How goes it, Boromir?” Aragorn asked as he approached.

The man looked up and smiled. “I believe that felt less of the strange hit and run wins and more like a real victory,” the man replied.

“Aye, it did,” Aragorn agreed, drawing his horse alongside the chestnut the Prince sat astride. “I have sent them a clear message, let this be the last time.”

Boromir grinned. “If I were in their shoes, I would heed it.”

Aragorn smiled. “Let us ride together and see how the southern flank faired.”

“Yes, my lord,” Boromir replied, and bowed. Before leaving he set tasks for his men to count the living, tend the wounded and bury the dead. Then the two of them cantered southward into the trees. As was expected, conversation was a sparse affair, and what they had was concerned mainly with strengthening the fortifications of the eastern borders.

“Aye, I agree,” Aragorn said. “But, we should also try the diplomatic road, try to forge peace as much as defence. Let this be the last war. I tire of it,” he added sombrely.

“I too, my lord. I would rather fight my wife into bed, than fight a child no older than my sons on the battlefield.”

Aragorn chuckled softly. “So, you married that feisty woman of Minas Tirith, then?”

“I saw it as my duty to Gondor,” Boromir responded with a wide grin. “She bore me a third son this last spring, so I can do naught but be thankful.” The grin fell of his face as a moment later they drew forth from the trees and cast their eyes upon the valley below them. It was no awe-inspiring sight of victory, but a bloodbath.

His son’s white horse turned towards them and Aragorn met him half way.

“Father, it pleases me to find you safe,” Eldarion voiced. “We suffered heavy losses, but not so great as theirs.”

“How many men did you lose?”

“We counted about a thousand good, brave men,” Eldarion replied. “We killed at least three times that, perhaps four.”

“What of the elf legions?”

Eldarion fell silent. “I believe you should ask Lord Gimli, father.”

He wanted to ask, why Gimli? Why not Legolas? Aragorn’s blood ran cold. “Legolas!” he hissed and spurred his horse down the hill towards a knot of elves he could see in the distance, their silver dress standing out against the dusty browns and greens of North Ithilien. He jumped from Brego’s broad back and elbowed his way through the crowds. In the centre, as he feared, lay Legolas, cupped in Gimli’s lap. Both were soaked with blood, and at first it was difficult to say which of them was bleeding, except that it was Legolas who lay motionless.

Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment. He had hoped it would have been a stray arrow through the heart, or perhaps a spear, but instead there was a gaping maw on the side of the fair elf’s head. He knelt before Gimli and rested a hand on his shoulder. The dwarf’s eyes rose to gaze back at him, weeping silently, wordlessly. He did not plead any healing, he was resigned to losing Legolas. Neither did the elves sing, they stood silent.

Legolas’ pained eyes were glazed, but not in sleep. His laboured breathing spoke of an agony Aragorn could only imagine. There was so much blood, but he had to do something, even if it was to ease his suffering and allow him to leave this world in peace.

“Get me bandages and athelas,” Aragorn called. “And hampr tea, quickly!”

“You cannot save him,” Gimli voiced softly.

“I can give him dignity and hope, friend-Gimli.” Aragorn told him gently. “Let him have that.” He lifted his head and accepted the herbs and clean cloth. “Sing,” he commanded the elves. “He lives still, and until he does not you will sing.”

The elves lifted their voices tentatively at first, unsure if they could make any real difference, then their song grew in strength. Aragorn pressed the chewed herbs into the cleft in Legolas’ head, taking care to remove dirt and keep the usually spotless silver hair out of the way. Binding his head he whispered softly in Sindarin to the elf he loved as a brother. A mug appeared and Aragorn gently raised Legolas’ head and pressed the mug to his lips. He was gratified to see him swallow, but the glazed look did not subside. The hissed breaths had not changed at all.

“He will be blind,” Gimli whispered, stricken. “If he survives at all.”

“Gimli,” Aragorn said softly, feeling just as despairing. “Legolas, be of good hope, my brother. You are going to wake up with the headache of the Ages, but you will be glad to know that the fighting is over. Gimli, as soon as he settles a little set him upon my horse. I will carry him home to my own chambers. Ride with me.”

Aragorn rose and saw his son. Arwen’s eyes looked back at him, blue as the summer sun. What was he going to tell her? He had seen many battles and many men die, and many more maimed beyond hope, but never one so close. His face crumpled as he fought to control his emotions. It would not be seemly to cry, even though his men would expect it and understand. Even as a single tear rolled silently down his cheek, he could not let himself give up hope, not after so long, but it seemed as if it might already be too late.

He had known this would happen, had known something was not right. Any elf could and should have been spry enough to dodge such a blow. Legolas had not. “Why?” he breathed.

“He came because it was his duty,” Boromir replied. “He stays in Middle Earth for moments such as this, to protect his home. We all do.”

That was not what he had meant, but what could he say? Aragorn lifted his eyes out over the battleground and sighed and shook his head. “No, my friend. He stays for me, just as my wife, his queen, did.” he turned to the man who looked so much like his uncle that for a moment he forgot that it wasn’t. “He should have gone into Mordor with the Ring Bearer, but instead he came with me into Rohan and Helm’s Deep. He should have sailed into the West then, before the War of the Ring, but he stayed. He fought the call to his home. It was like a roar upon his mind day in, day out, even then. He did not have to fight the armies of Mordor, but he did. It was not his war. I gave him leave to return to Lorien and his people, but he stayed. I told him not two weeks ago to remain in Minas Tirith, but he followed me into battle again, when something bade me not to allow him. He has stayed by my side, for me . . .and now he lies dying at my feet. But none of that explains why he had not dodged the blow. He should have dodged that blow, Boromir. No elf should have been struck down so. ”

“It is not your fault, my lord,” Boromir comforted. “Prince Legolas knew the risks.”

“Aye, but did he know the cost?” Aragorn wondered. “I hope he live. I could not bare for him to die. For Gimli’s sake, he must survive.”

Aragorn carried him with care back to Minas Tirith, the words of the peace accord still ringing hollowly in his mind. He had signed it, as had Prince Boromir and Eorl of Rohan. Gimli had signed, as had the highest-ranking Elf who was able, Haldir of Lorien. This would be the last war.

Aragorn sighed as he entered the courtyard and watched the former March warden of Lorien gently lift the elf prince down. The king dismounted and insisted on carrying Legolas himself into the palace. Arwen met him at the doors into the palace. He could tell it was all she could do not to cry.

Aragorn laid his charge upon the bed in a guest chamber, and sent for elven healers. They had swept into the room within minutes, attesting to the fact that they had followed him all the way home from the battlefront. Gimli hovered by his elbow, never so much as a breaths distance from the elf that lay moribund upon the crisp white sheet and pillows.

Legolas had closed his eyes at some point along the journey home, and his laboured breathing was now shallow and quiet. The tea was keeping the pain away, but he had not wakened, nor did he respond. As if in death, he lay there for several days as his wounds were tended and began to heal.

“Is he dead?” Gimli had asked more than once.

Aragorn shook his head as he gently washed the fine silky locks one morning with a sponge and warm water. It was time to remove the bandaging and clean him up before wrapping him again in clean cloths. Blood had caked and darkened, but the wound itself had closed. “His heart still beats, but he does not respond.”

Gimli sighed. “I bathed him last night in athelas water. He always used to enjoy bathing. Fastidious elf,” he grumbled, as light-heartedly as he could manage.

Aragorn looked at him. “Gimli, he still lives. He can hear us speak. Do not talk as though he were dead,” he said softly.

“I’m sorry,” Gimli replied. “I am with little hope,” he admitted.

Aragorn sighed thickly. “I have hope as long as he breathes,” he said. “Even though our best healers cannot help him. It is up to the Valar, in their infinite wisdom, to restore or release him.”

Gimli’s breath caught in his throat. “If they release him, where will that leave me?” he wondered. Suddenly a thought came to him, seeping into him as if from somewhere else. Two eyes in bright light watched him, smiling with comfort and happiness. A voice filled his mind and all else fled before it.

Aragorn gasped as Gimli flopped to the bed asleep. He reached out to touch him, but Arwen stayed his hand.

“Do not touch him. I have seen this before, though not in a dwarf. He is in the realm of Visions.”

Gimli knew he was having the dream again, but this time though, he also knew he was awake. He blinked up at the eyes, which were not the grey-green eyes he usually saw. These were grey.

“Do you know who I am, son of Aule?”

“Aye,” Gimli replied, although he could see nothing but the eyes gazing at him from a white world. He did not recognise the voice, and yet he did.

“Then I shall not burden you with that which you already know,” the being said. “You have been summoned, son of Aule, and yet you resisted our call. Now you must go alone.”

“Summoned?”

There was laughter from somewhere beyond the bright, but comfortable light. “The Valar calls and you do not know?”

Gimli squirmed a little. “Well, I . . .never expected one of my race to be honoured by your presence,” he replied truthfully.

“This is true, son of Aule. You are special to us.”

Gimli smiled a little, feeling their love upon him. “I know I am special to one elf, at least, but he is dying. I would ask that you spare him, but if it is I who is called, then I will go wherever you send me.” He did not want to leave Legolas, but you did not say no to a god, even if it was not your own.

“We will allow you both, son of Aule. The Valar, set you on a guest to find the Naugrim necklace, Gimli Elf-friend. It will restore Legolas to life, but only if you find a small child. It is where you left it.”

Gimli had not the time to think on this strange request, nor to ask as visions suddenly filled his mind. Before him dwarves of Ages past were making of the Nauglamir in Nargothrond, a gift to Finrod dwarf-friend, King of Beleriand and the Sindarin elves, Legolas’ great grandfather. Gimli was surprised to see the elf he knew as an adult of an age undefined, a small boy in his vision. The metal made the master craftsman sick and he died, and a company of elves took the Nauglamir, intending to boast that it was their handiwork. Húrin, the dwarf warrior, seized it and carried it out of Doriath, to present it to Finrod in capital. He never made it.

The elves, acting on only the word of one elf who cried theft and murder, executed Húrin, and took the necklace to Finrod. He was furious when the truth was discovered, but by then war had broken out between the once peacefully co-habiting dwarves and elves and Finrod and lay dying on the battlefield. The necklace was lost and disaster was upon the lands of the north. As he took his last breath, Finrod charged Celeborn with the evacuation of the remaining people, never to return.

Gimli mulled over these events for some time. He had wondered why dwarf and elf were always at odds with each other. His kin had not come from Beleriand, but he had heard of the land that had sunk into the sea, and from which only a handful of elves had even escaped. A war, all for a necklace. It seemed a pitiful excuse to him.

For a dwarf, the metal used to create the Nauglamir is lethal. To an elf it had restorative powers, another point Gimli had not known. “This will heal Legolas?” he asked.

“It will, son of Aule, but used for too long it can destroy the link to Valinor resulting in mortality,” the Valar told him. “You must journey into Beleriand and bring back the necklace. Find the child you left behind.”

“Child?” Gimli asked. “What child?”

Jolting from his vision, Gimli sat with a gasp and turned to Aragorn’s worried face. He took a moment to collect himself. They had not answered his question. Or perhaps they had. Legolas was the only child he had seen in his vision, perhaps a part of him still remained in the land of his ancestors, where he had roamed as a small child?

“What did they tell you?” Arwen asked softly.

Gimli gazed at her and knew that she understood.

“I know what I must do,” he said suddenly, and stood up.

Aragorn looked at him in surprise. “You do?”

“I must leave for a time. When I return, I will heal Legolas.”

“You?” Aragorn did not understand.

“He has seen the Valar,” Arwen realised. “What do you need, Gimli?”

“Arod, food enough for three months and water pouches enough to see me between rivers.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened, calculating the distances he was talking about. “Three months!”

“Probably more,” Gimli responded. “The quicker I leave, the quicker I can return, so please do not ask too many questions. I neither have the time nor the answers. It is answers that I seek.”

Aragorn nodded. “I’ll see to it,” he promised and left to speak with the guard.

Gimli kissed Legolas’ forehead where he lay as if in sleep, but his eyes were closed. Healing his visible injuries had not been enough, he knew that now. Something deep inside had been damaged. When Legolas’ eyes had opened on the odd occasion it had not been consciousness, but a vacant stare of a living abyss. His mind was gone, locked away within his being, and Gimli hoped his quest would open it up again. “Arwen,” he said softly. “I would ask one thing of you.”

“Name it,” she replied.

“Give Legolas his favourite food, and keep his limbs moving. Let him sit in the sunlight and the moonlight. He loves the stars. Keep talking to him, I believe he can still hear you. Tell him that I have gone for a while, that I will be home soon. Tell him that I am thinking of him every day, and that I love him.”

Arwen smiled softly. “I will do as you ask, mellon nín. Where is it that you are going?”

“Into Beleriand, to find the Nauglamir.”

The smile left her sweet face. She sucked in a gasp of horror the colour fled from her cheeks. Gimli had expected her to scream. He would have understood it. Instead, Arwen had begun to cry and had not stopped as she watched him pack dried meats, fruits and lembas. Aragorn had tried to comfort her, but she could not tell him that what Gimli sought would kill him before he had even retraced his steps for more than two weeks.

“Gimli,” she beseeched him. “You cannot kill yourself for Legolas, he would forbid it. If he wakes before you return, he will . . .” she could not envision the heartbreak Legolas would feel, much less put it to words. “I beg of you, even if you can find it, even if it still exists somewhere in the far north . . .”

Gimli regarded gently. “It is Legolas’ only hope. The Valar told me this, and I believe them.” Mounting the horse, he cupped her cheek and set a hand upon Aragorn’s shoulder. “I will return.”

Gimli saddled the great grey horse and tossed the reins up over his shoulder. Arod turned his head to gaze out of the stable door towards and up the road. Gimli followed his gaze. “He is not coming, this time, Arod,” Gimli told him softly and finished the task of tying the saddlebags to the saddle.

Leading Arod to the door, Gimli was surprised when Arod planted his feet and refused to leave. Gimli stared up at him in surprise and tugged all the harder. “Arod, I do not have time for your nonsense.” Still the horse stubbornly remained in the doorway. Gimli sighed. “Arod,” he whispered. “I know you feel as if you can’t go on without Legolas. I feel the same. He is my love. My heart is empty without Legolas.” Gimli gazed up at him, eyes filling with tears. “Arod, you saw Brego carry Legolas from the battlefield, nigh on dead. Legolas was struck in the head, and is lost to us, unless I journey into the lands of his birth and find healing.” Gimli sighed softly. “I beg you, Arod, carry me as you carried us both. Help me bring life back to Legolas.”

Arod stepped up to him and nudged him gently, stepping through the doorway he turned to the side and offered his stirrup.

Gimli looked up at him and gave him a watery smile. “Thank you, my friend.”

Gimli set out on his great journey not knowing what he would find at the end of it. Was Beleriand still under water? What would the Naglamir look like after so long? Would he even find it? And what of this child they said he must find? He remembered the words of the vision he had had months before, deep in the night. The child was right where he had left it. Gimli was certain he had never seen any dwarven children, apart from his cousin’s twin sons, but they were both dead, and had never seen any elflings. The only children he had ever seen in his entire life were those of men, but it was not a man-child he was looking for.

In confusion, but holding on to hope, he left Gondor and took his journey into Rohan, the land of the Horse-Lords. Arod, still bearing the firmness of youth, being of the Mearas and as long-lived as the Dúnedain, skipped lightly upon the lands he remembered from his own youth. Gimli smiled.

“Eh? You remember this land, old friend?” he laughed.

Arod tossed his head high and skipped along the West Road, and presently, a company of Riders met him. They passed the time pleasantly, speaking little, no words were needed. The king had spread the word of Gimli’s pain, and it was obvious where he was going. Or to them it was. Gimli was going to Rivendell, not that any elves lived there now.

Celeborn had left Middle Earth. Rivendell had been given over to the men of Arnor as a token of their trust that it would be cared for. But the touch of the Elven powers was gone. Gimli could not speak of Legolas, nor of his quest. The pain was too great, having to leave him knowing that he could die before he returned. But he had a hope, a trust in the Valar that was rare among the people of the Naugrim. He had seen them, in every elven palace he had visited, in every face of the fair elves, their voices, their smiles, especially Legolas’ smile. And more than that he had seen Galadriel. The thought of her brought a warmth to his tired body. If Legolas died, he would never forgive himself, and neither would she, the most beautiful thing ever to have graced the lands below the sky.

He lifted his eyes as he rode and watched Eärendil cross the sky. He smiled to himself, deciding to take that as a good sign. His guard of honour, faired him well as they reached the border and pealed away to either side of him, riding eastward across the mark. Arod carried Gimli onward over the bridge, the bright waters of the River Isen below him singing its own welcome as he passed.

Not far from the crossing the Riders were replaced by a company of the Guards of Arnor. Gimli had been eating when they appeared from the north and watched in amazement as they fell in step with him. Few words were exchanged, being there simply to protect his northward journey from untoward interest and unwanted delay.

They ate with him, shared news in quiet sombre voices, all well spoken men of Arnor. And all of them knew why he was here. They had seen Legolas fall, the aftermath, the long nights of wondering. Although Gimli did not speak much of Legolas, he was glad of their company, knowing that the day soon came when he would be alone. Arod whickered with the horses, sharing news of their manner. The great grey horse was in high spirits.

At Rivendell, Gimli took a few days to rest and get a fresh horse and supplies. Arod was less than pleased with this arrangement, and snorted at him in anger. Gimli regarded him with surprise.

“Oh, I see. Jealous now, are we?” Arod turned his head away, and ignored him, eyeing him from beneath his long dark lashes. Gimli came up to him and hugged his great neck. “I admit, I should have discussed it with you first,” he said. “I am sorry. But, with regard to you coming with me further, I am afraid I cannot. You are tired after our non-stop trek across the grasslands. You need to rest, and I need you fresh for the homeward journey when I get back from Beleriand.”

Arod snorted in disgust. Gimli rubbed him hirsute face against Arod’s, and smiled. “You want to come with me, then? Is that it?” Arod nodded. “Walking for days across miles of glacial ice, impenetrable forests so thick and dark you’d think Mirkwood was a thorn bush in comparison?” Arod hesitated, considering this and then nodded.

Gimli beamed and hugged him. “Well, old boy, if you are sure you want to face the monsters of the north, the strange meat-eating Eskim from the Ice-Lands and the demons of the undead, and not to mention ferocious wolves and creatures from the sea so strange you die on the spot just for locking at them.”

Arod turned his head and stared at him wide-eyed. Gimli gave him a sideward look of innocence. Suddenly Arod curled his lips back and whinnied at his crossly for his teasing. Gimli just laughed.

“Well, some of that we will face, you and I, but we will face it together.” Arod nudged him gently. Gimli rubbed his nose becoming wistful. “I only wish Legolas were with us, but it is for him that we go into Beleriand, Arod. He is depending on us.”

Journeying north, his guard of honour went with him. His escort skirted the wastelands of Angmar and wished him well as they parted company and Gimli travelled on through Forodwaith alone. It was a rugged land of heather and creatures of the tundra, great herds of elk flashed their white rumps at his approach. Gimli watched them in awe, never having seen anything quite like them before their great antlered heads gliding across the wastes like the sails of a ship. The snow began to fall and did not stop for over three hours, despite the time of year.

Turning northwest, by Númenor reckoning, he crossed glaciers and forged through forests so thick he could not see his hand in front of his face. He had to dismount in places to cut a swath through the undergrowth, amd Arod followed. Then, turning west, he turned towards the shores of the sea, where Beleriand was flooded.

The mountains of Ered Luin lay between him and Beleriand, a cold black wall of rock from a distance, and the closer he travelled, the less inviting it seemed. He spent almost three days climbing ever upward through the foothills, before reaching the mountains proper, and all the while wondering what he would find on the far side. Would Beleriand still be under water? Or would it be completely desolate from Sauron’s evil? Or perhaps, pushed up from the bottom of the sea to remain a barren wasteland of salt-poisoned earth, a windswept landscape of ruination?

It was here that Sauron had fought and won. It was here where his people had fought the first battles between dwarves and elves. Here it was, that the first men had fought and died, and all for one stupid piece of poisoned metal. The Nauglamir would never have entered his thoughts at all if it didn’t mean life for his love. It was neither use nor ornament to him.

Just as he thought it, he reached the top and looked down. Below him was a vast green plateau, almost making him believe the stories of the great flood had never taken place. But beneath his feet, he could hear the crunch of seashells, four thousand feet up the side of the mountains. He stared at them for a long time before it sank in that where he stood had once been the tidal rock pools and the mudflats at low tide.

His eyes gazed out across the valley and he gasped at the power of the being who had done this. Without thinking he knelt on one knee and bowed his head in reverence. “Aule, creator of the earth, all that in it lives by your word, and all sunders by your word. Grant me peace in my humility.”

He stood then, and began to descend into the ruins of the First Age. His were the fist prints of foot and hoof for more than six thousand five hundred years. He had heard the tales sung of this land and the dwarves that lived here. The song was called Durin’s Iliad. Durin the Deathless had written many ballads recounting Dwarf history, but the Iliad had always been Gimli’s favourite, until now. The sinking of the great northlands and the company of elves that dragged themselves from the waters onto the mountain tops like half-drowned rats had brought him to laughter on too many bedtimes. No more than twenty dwarves had escaped, so the story went, but then other songs had painted a different story. In one, none of the dwarves had escaped the power of the elves and their anger, even to the slaying of all the survivors of the flood by blood-lusting elves.

Gimli shook his head as he looked about him. The elves were powerful in ages past, but this was the hand of Aule, and he had wreaked vengeance on both peoples, not to mention on the men who had lived in the valleys and forests. None of the Númenor had survived, though nothing of their lives or their part in the tales was ever sung.

Gimli growled softly. “Arod, this was once a prosperous country, filled with elves and dwarves and men, all living happily together. Until a mighty gift was forged for the elven king and stolen by a thoughtless band. That began the wars, and Aule sank this country to the bottom of the sea. But what angers me most, is that in our pride, we rewrote our history and taught our children that it was the elves who were to blame, and they unknowing did the same to their children. And the mighty men who dwelt with them are forgotten. All for a piece of poisoned metal. Can you believe the pride of one being can do so much harm?”

Arod snorted. The Mearas would not, but he knew men that could and would. Sauron was still all too fresh in their minds.

“It is a pity that our tales only tell us what we have wanted to hear, and did not teach us the truth that we should hear, Arod. History favours the victor, and seldom the truth.”

It took several hours to find a place to spend the night away from the raw northerly winds. Tiny snowflakes more akin to dust blew about the frozen, inhospitable mountain pass, looking more like ribbons. In the sheltered overhang, if it could be called that, Arod munched on a few half frozen tuffs of glass while Gimli slept.

As he slept he dreamt of that day, several thousand years ago, and the floods were coming in. The roaring, churning water was chasing him, and he was running. Elves were falling all around him, stumbling, clawing their way through. And suddenly all was still, and soaked elves climbed out of the water, their dead companions floating in the water at their feet. One voice cried out in the encroaching gloom of night, a small silver-haired child stood in dripping clothes, shivering, whimpering and calling for his mother at the water’s edge. There was no reply. Gimli saw the child’s face, bearing a twist of mithril on his brow, much like the one on the elf’s head who stood beside him, but much smaller. It was Legolas, the only child among them.

Gimli gasped to full wakefulness, breathless with horror. The only child . . .

The watery sun rose and Gimli was already up and on his way further down into the valley, for below them snaked a river. The River Gelion was much shallower than he recalled from the map in his mind. Plant life had re-colonised the near bank. Small trees had begun to gain a foothold and grasses at staked a claim. There was little if any vegetation on the far bank or in the land beyond. Beleriand was indeed a dead land.

Gimli dismounted and set about testing the water. Dipping his fingertips into its frigid surface, he tentatively pressed than to his lips and licked. It was fresh. He wasted no time in replenishing his parched water bags. From what he could see, the plants had stuck resolutely to this side of the river, and made him wonder at it.

“The land before us is poisoned, Arod,” Gimli said, getting to his feet. “This is where you must wait for me.” Arod whickered low in his chest and Gimli looked up. “There’s no getting around it this time, my friend,” he added, rubbing his nose. “I would not ask you to starve to death just to keep me company. Besides, your honour and faithfulness will never be questioned, mellon. And when I get back, I’ll have an apple for you.”

Gimli removed the saddle and bridle, which Legolas hated but Arod tolerated for Gimli’s sake. Filling his pack with as much food as he could carry, the dwarf brushed Arod down and hugged the grey stallion. “I don’t know how long it will take me, but I shall return, Arod. Don’t wander too far, or I might not be able to find you again when I get back.”

Arod nodded and nudged him towards the river. Gimli hugged him again and left him to eat his fill. He was not to know that it would be weeks before they would see each other again, but he knew it would be all the longer for having to leave his faithful horse behind and continue on foot. It is a four-day journey across a barren waste on a horse, it would take three times that on foot. He made for the distant peak of Amon Ereb, and beyond it the Ramdal, the Eastern end of the Andram Hills. That was his starting point, and was to be the best view of the westward journey that he would get.

Under his feet lay the bones of countless fallen elves, dwarves and men, fallen in battle and flood, stripped by the sea and bleached by the sun. As he walked, not a patch of ground was not covered with bones, he feet snapping them, unable to avoid them. Gimli was both awed and horrified at what he saw and what he walked on. It touched him deeply that these people were at war when the sea swept in on them, that most were running and in death they are all facing the same way. The sea had shifted them a little, but they remained facing Ered Luin, desperate to reach it, but knowing that it was an impossible dream.

Gimli tried to imagine what they had been thinking and feeling in those final terrifying moments, stepping over the bodies of the dead, clambering over each other to get away as the sea rose behind them. He tried to imagine what it must be like for an immortal being to drown, to die by the will of the Valar. Some had escaped, some still lived who remembered this, but none of them ever spoke of it. The tales all told of victory and valour, by those who had never been here, but this land spoke of neither. This was no victory, it was horror.

Gimli looked about him at the piles of bones, laying one over another like a toppled stack of sliced bread. He could not tell elf from dwarf from man. They were all the same. Every few paces lay the bones of a child, immortalised in the ruins of its mother’s arms and still baring tattered remnants of leather and mithril chains decorated with amber beads. There would be no place in Mandos for any of these souls, no rebirth and no peace.

Interspersed between the bones of the dead lay the remains of sea creatures left stranded when the sea receded again. Strange animals with long bodies and snouts that looked stretched, of great jaws bearing scores of teeth, of fish in their thousands suffocated by the absence of water. But never was there the stench that accompanied death in battle, nor was there the stench of a beach after a storm. Instead there was the smell of dried brine, of ruined earth, and lifelessness.

Gimli wondered if this place would ever heal, if the Valar would ever turn their kindness to its soil and rocks again. He did not know, and perhaps it was best left unasked. There were no words that brought the question to his lips, even if he had wished it.

He did not stop to rest, but walked on, following the Andram Hills and almost fell down into the darkness, and fell again at the shock of finding a pit open up at his feet. With a strangled yell, he stepped back, rocks and dirt sliding from beneath his feet and over the edge. The hole was enormous, and beyond the light of the dying sun the unseen depths were in pitch-blackness.

Breathless with fright, Gimli tossed a stone into the maw and waited . . .and waited. He did not hear anything at all. He had expected to hear the stone land, if not on rock, in water at least. He looked around. To the south of him the Andram hills rose up, and the arm of their range continued westward and out of sight. To the north right to the lip of the hole was a broad, deep channel. He knew where he was.

At his feet lay the Falls of Sirion, where the mighty river once flowed into the huge hole in the ground and flowed out beyond the hills. The River Sirion was long gone, from the maps as it was from memory. He was standing on hallowed ground. Taking the somewhat easier route to the south of the hole, Gimli stepped onto the land once called West Beleriand, the famed realm of Nargothrond, where dwarves once dwelt and performed their artistry to the delight of elves and men, as well as to their own kind. Fine metal workings and carvings and jewels of every kind were created here, now it was most likely flooded, never to be seen by living eyes again.

It was said that here that the dwarves had created the Nauglamir, the necklace that bore the three silmaril, and worn by Lúthien herself, while others believed that the Nauglamir had been forged in the Blue Mountains way to the south. Gimli did not know, and in retrospect it probably did not matter all that much who and where. That it had been made was enough, that it had brought death was enough, that Gimli had to find it was the most important part of the tale. More than that, Gimli still had no idea where to start looking.

To the north, on the horizon stood Amon Rúdh, once it had been hideout for bandits, a point of reference and fear, now it stood barren and blackened by time. Gimli walked to its foot and looked up. It was still a bald hill, he noted. In the silence, it seemed ominous, its empty flanks a testament to mortal ambivalence and immortal pride. Those who believed in the their own strength had fallen by the swords of those who believed themselves greater than the Valar. Truly, how the might had fallen.

Gimli pursed his lips and continued north. The next point of reference would not be reached for another day’s march. Amon Obel had once stood within the beautiful Forest of Brethil, on the western fringes of Doriath. Within sight of it, Gimli sat down for a while to rest and eat, taking a little water to quench his thirst. There were no forests now to please the eye or comfort the heart. Truly he was glad Legolas was not with him to see this. But then, he reasoned, Legolas had already seen this.

He thought back to those first days in Fangorn. What had Legolas said? ‘I have seen the rise and fall of forests’? Gimli swallowed with difficulty as his eyes filled with tears. In his heart he could imagine the remnants of the Silvan nation dragging themselves from the encroaching ocean and look back at what had been their homes. Their trees were gone, their homes and cities gone, and their families dead. Indeed, Legolas had seen the rise and fall of ages of oaks, but not once had Gimli thought he had meant this. He doubted that Aragorn knew either. When most people tried to guess the elf’s age, they counted several five hundreds, one for each oak tree.

Sorrow filled him and he lay down to sleep for a while. Sleep did not come, however, nor could he rest until he reached wherever it was that his soul was being led. He feet continued their inexorable path north. Something drew him there, something he could not name or even describe. And all the while he missed having Arod by his side to talk to. The horse had been a faithful companion, a great listener, a good friend, and even if others questioned him on this, he knew the horse spoke back to him. More than that, he missed Legolas. The pain of separation was the hardest of any he ever had to bare. He had had sickness, injury, loneliness and grief, but compared them all to nought against the pain that tore at his heart and soul here in the wastes of Beleriand.

Amon Obel had once risen up out of the trees, now all that lay at it’s feet were the petrified and rotting remains of forests so vast Mirkwood and Fangorn looked more like scrub thickets in comparison. Gimli’s father had described his journey through Mirkwood on his way to Erebor, sending a tiny hobbit up into the canopy to see if they were near the end of the trail. Here, Gimli doubted that even a giant would have seen the far side of those once impressive forests.

Beneath his feet was the dust of ages of oaks, and every step took him closer to the land of Legolas’ birth. He passed over Brithiach, the once beautifully paved road running east-west was now no more than a slash across the landscape of water-worn limestone blocks, a scar on an already ruined face.

To his right, Gimli could see the Dry River, living up to its once only seasonal name, and beyond it the vast mountains of Gondolin, the place of hidden cities and of secrecy, its desolation complete against the blue unending sky. To his left the empty height of Ered Wethrin approached to join him. Where the two mountain ranges met was his destiny.

He hardly noticed his aching feet, so hardened to days on foot chasing after orcs was he. He rested for a while anyway, taking a little food and water. Hunger did not trouble him in his quest to save Legolas, thirst on the other hand was a constant torment. There had been rancid pools of fetid water along his northward march, and the smell had been enough to dissuade any notion of replenishing his dwindling supplies. He had brought two pouches of water with him, and he hoped to use only one on the outward walk, but since he had not the slightest notion as to where he was going and how far it was, he began to wonder if he had not woefully underestimated his needs.

The rivers all about him were dry for the most part. Those that had running water were unfit to drink from. The land had not been free of sea water for long enough to be in possession of fresh water. The River Sirion was damp in places, indicating water beneath its sand-filled bed, but Gimli was not that desperate yet. On his return journey, however, he promised to himself that he would fill his pouches. He would be glad of it then, he did not doubt it.

Towards the north he could see something white sticking up out of the river channel. It seemed somewhat odd that a tree so huge would have grown in the middle of a churning river, more so that it was still standing after the land sank and then rose again from the sea. As he approached it, he began to discern more detail. If it was a giant tree, the canopy had long been broken off, a scenario which did not overly surprise the dwarf.

The further he walked, the more he began to see the size of this white spire pointing accusatorially at the sky, and the closer he came to it he realised that it was not a tree, nor even a spire of rock, but a tower. Gimli stopped in his tracks and stared at it, open mouthed.

He had found the first ruins of habitation on his journey, and no ruins would have awed him more. This was not just any tower, but the White Tower, named Tol-in-Gaurhoth by Sauron after he had captured it. Here there be dragons, or werewolves as the name depicted. Gimli doubted any story that said they existed, and they certainly didn’t now. The tower had been built by Galadriel’s brother Finrod, king of Beleriand and indeed all elvenden, friend to men, and called Felagund, ‘cave-hewer’, by the dwarves. He had named this tower, and rightly so, Minas Tirith.

Gimli stood in the riverbed for a long time gazing up at its mighty walls in wonder, dwarfed by the gargantuan walls. In truth, he felt like an ant next to it. Something told him that his quest lay there. He could not explain it, but he knew his goal was close at hand.

Gimli climbed into the ruins of the tower, mouldy from being wet and the rocks themselves rotting and crumbling at his touch. Carefully he set about searching every room still accessible and still existing. Floors had collapsed and ceilings had been swept away. Windows looked blankly out at the world like sightless eyes in a gallery of skulls.

There was too much sky where none should have been visible. The salt from the sea had leached the strength from the stone, and now exposed to air it had had begun to mould and crumble. In several places walls had fallen and slime had grown where pools of stagnant water still remained. Gimli made his way over the rubble with infinite care. Some of the wooden floors were obviously rotten, others seemed stable until he stepped on them, sending splinters of softened wood downwards into the darkness below.

Gimli held on to the walls as best as he could, the higher he climbed the further it would be if he were to fall. Rock dust clung to his gloves and clothing, disturbed by his breath to fly about him in a haze. He knew it was here; a strange sensation that followed him, or rather drew him ever onward, closer and closer.

And all the while he felt the eyes of unseen watchers upon him. Feeling like insects crawling across his skin, he could not shake it. The further he went, the worse it became, but he would not give up now.

As he walked unseen faces followed his every move. Ominous dark glares from dreadful, dead eyes moved in silent unison as the lone Naugrim passed them by. Spectres of past Ages kept up their sleepless vigil over the last treasures of Beleriand, set upon the dais at the king’s order. The elves had expected a dwarf attack on the tower, but only Sauron had prepared for it and set a trap for one such act of theft. And here came a dwarf. Time had passed them by, unmeasured, and still they waited.

Gimli walked on, unaware. He had no reason to consider anything harmful waiting to ambush him. The land had been under water for a terrible count of years. Nothing living would be staking these ruined halls, and nothing dead could harm the living, so he had been told. He had a healthy respect for the souls of those who had passed on. He had no wish to anger them or insult their memory. He had heard stories . . .

Gimli shuddered and tried to think of something else. He tried to shake off the feeling of not being alone, but it would not leave him. He paused to look back over his shoulder, nothing stirred, but the sensations continued.

“By the Valar, this place gives me the creeps,” he whispered. “Gimli, if you’re not careful, you’ll start talking to yourself.” He frowned. “You are talking to yourself.” He hummed to himself and grinned. “Better get going then. The longer you take going in, the longer it’ll take getting back out.”

He turned a corner and saw a narrow steps leading upward, it’s arched ceiling and stone floor looking more solid than most of the rock he had passed so far. He began to wonder if he was getting closer to his goal. His optimism said he was, and he began to climb, and just to break the monotony of the silence he began to count the steps.

“One . . .two . . .three . . .”

The climb was steep, but not overly taxing.

“Thirty-eight . . .thirty-nine . . .forty . . .”

A chamber opened up before him, almost before he had stopped himself counting. His mouth fell open as he looked inside. Most of the walls and ceiling had long been destroyed. There were the remains of stone pillars and pedestals lining the hall, and at the far end was a crumbled throne of marble.

Here and there sea creatures had begun to make their homes, tree-like in appearance, now toppled and broken on the floor. Some still stood, like the fans of the ladies of court. Bereft of life, they had withered and turned to dust, leaving their skeletons behind. Gimli had no conscious notion of moving forward until his foot touched the base of the dais. He looked up at the seat where the king had sat, and swallowed.

In reverence and respect he knelt on bended knee. “Finrod, all hail to our mighty king,” he whispered.

A ripple of malevolence moved somewhere beyond his periphery, he could feel it. He searched what few shadows there were about him as he stood. He lifted his voice a little higher and asked the spirit of the king, since he was sure that, however much he hated the idea, Finrod had had no proper burial. His spirit would be around, unable to ascend to Mandos. Gimli suppressed a shudder.

“I suppose it would be too much to ask, where your majesty kept the Nauglamir?” His words were met with comforting silence, anything else and he would have died on the spot. But then, he thought silently, he was close to it already. “I take it not for myself, but for the elf, Legolas. He was born here, you might have known him, I am not entirely sure, but he is very special to me. So, if you wouldn’t mind, a little help wouldn’t go ungratefully received.”

He turned to look about him at the empty hall and climbed the three steps to the top, and inadvertently lent against the throne. Something moved beneath his touch and Gimli flinched. The throne wobbled and Gimli sucked in a breath and reached out to right it. The marble crumbled in his fingers and crashed to the floor. The sound echoed over and over through the halls and rooms below. Breathless with horror, Gimli stared down at the pile of broken rock and dust.

Before he could whisper ‘what have I done?’ he saw something glitter dully at his feet. He bent to brush away the debris and dirt encrusted on its surface and looked upon the first loop of grey metal that had once held the silmaril of Eärendil. He had found it. Brushing more of the broken marble aside he exposed the entire necklace. It was not as sparkly as it had been once, he knew that, but this metal felt warm even through his glove. He knew that, whatever it had been made of, it was not intended to sparkle like gold, silver or mithril. He wondered what it was made of, if it still possessed warmth after so many thousands of years since it saw a forge.

Gimli dismissed the thought, it was poisonous to the touch and that was all that mattered to him. Taking off his pack, he drew a buckskin bag and opened it. Not daring to touch the necklace with even his gloves on, he used the bag as an extra layer and grasped the Nauglamir, giving it a little shake to free the dust from its ornate lines. Quickly he dropped into the bag and tied the thong around the bag’s neck and put it into his pack with deliberate speed.

No sooner had he straightened from his task he felt the eyes close in. He would have to make all speed. Crossing the hall to the stairs seemed to take an eternity, as if his perceptions were being stretched and distorted. Dizzy and breathless he leaned against the wall and began to descend the stairs.

“One . . .two . . .three . . .”

Gimli was unsure if the necklace was making him ill, or if the incessant gut feeling of not being alone was affecting him. He had been assured that he would be safe with the necklace wrapped in the buckskin. He had to trust the Valar. He turned his thoughts to the tower around him. Had Sauron cursed it? He had to assume the Dark Lord would have done something to it to keep any determined elves out. Not to mention any opportunistic dwarves . . .like himself.

But Gimli was no opportunist. His quest was a life and death situation, but he doubted Sauron’s conscience would note any difference between the two. He knew what he had become after his defeat, there was little evidence that he had been any better before it.

“Thirty-eight . . .thirty-nine . . .forty . . .forty-one . . . Forty-two . . .no, wait, hang on a minute,” he mumbled. “That can’t be right. There should have been a hallway here.”

Gimli turned and climbed back up. There was the hall, how he had missed it was beyond him. But things had begun to stir around him that he would gladly have given his right eye to miss. His breath caught as he heard it, looking this way and that trying to figure out if his fear was playing tricks on him or if it had been real. Then it came again.

The voices began in earnest, the howling of the lights of the dead, forever locked in the mud deposited on the land. He could not see them, but he knew what they were. He could imagine them pawing at him for relief, for release from the endless torment, but there was nothing he could do for them. In amongst them were the dark shadows, of hatred and cruelty. He could feel them brush passed him, goading him, enticing him down corridors he had not taken on his upward climb.

In his fear, he imagine terrible things, but the stories spoke of far worse. Behind him, something scraped along the crumbling walls, as if they had been restored to a solidity they had not possessed in eons. The walls and floors rumbled as something large began to careen towards him, invisible to his eyes save for the bowing of the walls as it passed.

Gimli’s eyes widened in horror as it bore down on him. He turned and jumped through a gap that had once been a window. He was falling and falling for a long while, watching the earth rise up to meet him. He let out a scream, and landed. For several seconds, he lay still, wondering how in the name of all that was holy could he have survived what had to have been the most ill-thought out manoeuvre of his life. He blinked, wondering what he had landed on. It felt firm, but yielding. He turned and stood up, stepped back a little . . .there was nothing there.

“By the powers that be,” he whispered in awe. He plucked a few rocks together and piled them neatly. Kneeling he bowed his head. “Truly this is holy ground. To Finrod, my king, and the Valar who guide my steps, my gratitude.”

A roar brought him to his feet with a gasp. The creature still after him, only now it was outside the tower. Rushing over a crumbling bridge, he made a leap for the far bank just as it collapsed beneath him. He looked back in time to see one shadow creature fall, or rather crash, into the deep ravine. There were others, lurking in the darkened doorway, watching him, snarling and gnashing their teeth. He took back his earlier assumption that werewolves did not exist. He had been converted.

The sounds of the dead still howled around him, even though there were no bones this far west, unlike the valley he would have to cross soon. Taking a little water from his pouch he turned south and began to jog. He had not been this intent on running for well over one hundred years, but he was still fey. And in his heart, he wanted to be as far from this place as he could get in as short a time as possible. Just edging towards middle-age, he fell into step quickly and easily, and ran on long into the night.

At dawn he found the damp riverbed and stopped to dig. After only a few minutes water began to appear in the indentation. Tasting it tentatively he found that indeed it was fresh. Eithel Sirion did still flow from the mountains of the north, the beds of the river choked almost to the tops of its banks with silt and sand. Taking a spare shirt from his pack, Gimli used it to filter the grit from the water and pressed his pouch to the liquid. It took an age to fill, and an age more to fill the other pouch.

All around him the land was still, but not as silent as he would wish. Souls cried, and irked him, grating on his nerves, not so much as steel now, but of putty. He shuddered. Another few days of this and he doubted he would be in any fit state to heal his beloved Princeling.

Once water had been procured he ran on, the peaks of Amon Obel and Amon Rúdh passed him by without so much as a thought. Not until he stepped into marshy ground did he realise that he had missed the road he had taken north, had lost the boot prints he had made. How far off his chosen course he was, he did not know. He had not the heart to turn back and look for them, he would lose precious time that could not be spared.

Gazing southward he could see in the distance a long line of hills. Hoping that they were the Andram, he pushed on through the marshy stench and climbed out the other side. Beneath his feet was what was once a riverbed, now it looked more like a gash in the landscape. To his left two rivers had once converged. He thought for a moment, reviewing what he had seen in the maps of old. He knew where he was, at least he hoped he was right. Stepping onto the bank of the Sirion he continued into the night, unaware of the still daylight sun shining behind him.

Gimli had unwittingly strayed into the Aelin-uial, where the sun never shone even at noonday. With each step he took, the world around him grew ever darker, as if twilight was upon him. He rested against the stump of a petrified tree and gradually caught his breath. He ran on, but the weariness increased, dragging him to another stop. He had been warned not to go within the Meres of Twilight. He had been told, if he were to fall asleep there, he would never wake up. With growing alarm he realised his mistake, but the tiredness would not give him the strength he needed to escape. He could see sunlight up ahead, but his feet would not move the way he wanted them to.

Behind Gimli a white shadow followed, watching his every move as all around him the spirits of the trapped dead moaned on. The being matched his every twist and turn, watching the lone Naugrim stumble about as if unsure where he was, but in truth Gimli was fighting slumber. For beneath the shroud of darkness a spell of sleep had been spun, and had never been lifted. Gimli finally gave up and slumped, eyes closed, to the ground.

The white shadow peered down at him and snorted in disgust. It nudged his shoulder, and nudged him again, but got no response. The horse was a well-muscled beast, even for his size, and his large eyes were crazed with the incessant droning of voices of the unreleased dead, and the cries from the Halls of Waiting itself. It was in this place where Mandos was closest to the earth. He knew he should not have come, but he had been called here.

And just when he had begun to think he would never find what he had been searching for, he found another lonely beast, although this one was not like his form at all. What this creature was doing here, he had no idea. It had been a long time since he had had any fun, and now all he had for company was a snoring dwarf.

In this land of Twilight, the Naugrim would never wake up. He decided to take it out of the dark place before it died of hunger. But nudging it had gained no response at all. Finally, it grabbed hold of the dwarf’s belt between his teeth and carried him away.

Trotting on, ears up and prancing, he felt very pleased with himself. The sleeping dwarf in his mouth swung this way and that unawares. Finally after several days he decided he had carried the toy far enough away from the cursed land and plodded quietly up and over the prow of a low hill.

Suddenly he saw a horse standing quietly by the river. The grey beast lifted his head from the juicy grass stems he had been chewing and whickered at him softly to put the Naugrim down. He dropped the hapless dwarf in surprise, staring at Arod. Here was a beast like himself, but fine boned, who knew the strange creature he had caught napping in the woods, and all they could do was stare at each other while the toy began to wake up.

Gimli groaned and sat up, spitting dust from his mouth. He shook his head and blinked. “Aaww!” he cursed. “Stupid dwarf! What did you go and fall asleep for . . .” He looked around. He stood up and wondered for a moment where he was, and then saw Arod standing beside the river he remembered crossing several weeks before. “Right where I left you . . .well . . .” Gimli slowly turned around to follow Arod’s quietly appraising eyes. “How in Durin’s name did I get back here . . .? Ahh!” He yelled as he looked up at what must have been the largest horse he had ever seen, easily half again the size of Arod.

Gimli’s eyes grew huge and suddenly the horse peels back both lips and grins. Gimli suddenly laughed. “Well, I’ll be a short haired tot! Did you carry me here?” he asked.

The big white beast nodded.

“Well,” Gimli said and bowed. “My ever lasting gratitude. Gimli, Lord of Aglarond, at your service. And my trusted friend here is Arod of Rohan.” The white beast lifted his head to one side and almost smiled at Arod, who did not seem much interested in him. The white beast snorted, and nudged the bag and helmet. “Thank you, although I do not know your name, would you care to travel with us as far as your going? I must get back to Minas Tirith.”

The white head shot up and looked back across the plain the way he had come. Gimli chuckled. “Not that Minas Tirith, the new city, far to the south.”

The white horse took a step forward and reached out tentatively to take a sniff at Arod, who suddenly took a nip at his nose. Gimli could see this would take some time for the noble Arod to accept the stranger, and he knew how that was.

“Now-now, you two. If a dwarf and an elf can be friends, even lovers, so can two horses of differing stock.”

The journey home was supposed to take two months, but along the way the large white horse started behaving strangely. Gimli ignored him, putting it down to his being a strange beast anyway. The white creature wandered away several times, trying to tempt them onto different paths, but without success. Gimli knew the route he should and would take. He had travelled this way and in places Arod’s hoof prints were still visible where they hadn’t been washed away by rain, or concealed by tracks of other animals.

Gimli’s light mood began to waver as they reached the fringes of Angmar. Arod turned due south to go around the mountains, and thus avoiding the land. The big white brute continued east, whickering with annoyance.

“No, we’re not going through there,” Gimli told him gently, and dismounted to give Arod a rest from the burden of carrying him. “The land is poisoned even to this day. The Witch king, leader of the Nazgul cursed it and all who entered it,” he explained.

The white horse shook his head and neighed loudly, stomping his great hooves on the ground, pawning and kicking up clods of grass and soil. His feet planted, it was obvious he wanted to take the shortcut, and indeed it would have taken several days off their journey, but Arod and Gimli were adamant.

Gimli patted his horse’s neck and continued walking south, following the trail he had taken all those weeks before. The white horse flew into a furious temper, braying and bucking, kicking out at Gimli. Arod suddenly jumped between him and the dwarf and took a direct strike at his chest. A sickening crunch was heard, as clear as if it had been a bell. Torn flesh turned red quickly as the horse paused for a moment, stunned and in pain.

“Arod!” Gimli cried and watched his horse drop to the ground, gasping for breath.

Arod looked up at him, feeling sorry that he could not continue the journey home. Gimli sank to his knees and cradled his friend’s head in his lap and stroked him. “You have been a good friend to Legolas and I, Arod, you carried us well. It has been a long life, and I release you. It is time to go home to your herd, boy. Be at peace.”

Arod’s breathing became gurgling and increasingly laboured until it finally stopped. Gimli remained knelt in the dirt, head bowed, for a long time, before he heard the sound of something behind him.

Gimli was in a murderous mood; an anger he had never felt before. Lowering his friend’s great head to the earth, he rose to his feet to confront the huge horse. “After my friendship and invitation to join us and this is how you repay me?” The great beast stood, head lowered, hooves blooded. “I should kill you where you stand, but I am better than that. I am Gimli, Lord of Aglarond, king to my people, and I am consort to the elven king of Ithilien, Legolas of Mirkwood, descended from the elves of Mithrim, kin of Celeborn. And that alone makes me better than you! Arod was kin of Shadowfax, lord of all horses, and that made him better than you!” Gimli did not care that his rage drew spittle to his lips, that his face was as red as red could get. And he did not care that his forward steps were making the suddenly afraid horse step back from him. “I will not, I say again, will not go into Angmar! The land there is cursed and I would never come out alive, though I dare say that you planned to take my life. I will return to my mate and restore him to life without you. Go! And never come back, you evil in horse form!”

The horse lifted his head whickering softly, and froze for a moment. Then it began to shrink and distort before Gimli’s astonished eyes. Aule, god of the earth, stood before him.

Gimli tilted his head and regarded him. “Is this your true form, beast?”

“It is,” Aule replied. “And as much as you might doubt it now, son of my own flesh, I am here to help you.”

“Is it help, or hindrance?” Gimli returned. “You killed my horse. My journey, instead of two months, will now take thrice that. Legolas may well die before then.”

“I set a challenge before you, from our seats both in the sky and the earth to see if your true intent is to bring healing to your mate, or to bring death to the men of Minas Tirith. The necklace of poisoned metal could do both. One touch is enough to kill, being in its presence as you are, surely you can feel its heat? I shall test your intent at my leisure, spawn of my loins.”

“If you are truly Aule, then you would know my true intent,” Gimli retorted.

“I am Valar, not Maia, son of the earth,” Aule replied, much amused. “It is not given to dwarves, even the Valar, to read minds.”

Gimli did not take the time to consider that which he had already thought of. “If you are Aule, then you would still know my intent. I have spoken of little else since the day of the dream, the day we set out to war.”

“He was warned not to go,” Aule replied.

“He went because it was his duty.”

“He almost destroyed everything,” Aule retorted boldly. “He’s an elf, it is what they do!”

“That is not true!” Gimli roared. “One misguided elf made a mistake, and since that day we have been paying for it with our lives. A perpetuated lie taught and re-taught to every generation since. I will not continue it. The cycle stopped with my father and I no longer heed the lies of the past. Be gone, spectre and allow me passed!”

“To return home, you must first pass me.”

“Pah! Not a problem,” Gimli growled and drew his axe, hefting it ready to strike.

“To my liking,” Aule replied with a grin, and took out his own axe, forged of solid Mithril. “Wars have been fought over the Nauglamir, after all. This one will be just as swift. Although last time I did cheat, I suppose. I had my wife, Yavanna, flood the land for five thousand years.”

Gimli stared at him, lowering his axe in speechless horror. All those innocent lives lost, just so a god could flex his muscles? He could not get his mind around such a thought. “Here is one dwarf who still draws breath, Aule!”

“Prove to me that you will fight even death and the gates of Halls of the Dead itself, just to heal an elf.” Aule goaded. “He’s just an elf. Let him die. Aren’t all elves evil to the core, thieves, killers of the Naugrim race? What use is he to you?”

Gimli’s face twisted with rage. “How dare you question my heart as well my intent! And how dare you bring up old half-truths and lies and dangle them like trophies before one who knows the truth!” he suddenly blurted out. “And worse, you insult the one love I have ever forged upon this earth. No one, not even a god, insults my elf.” Without warning, he barrelled into the being, knocking him to the ground and the struggle began in earnest.

Gimli’s axe fielded the first blow, almost before he was even aware that he had drawn it. The mithril axe swung across his face, barely missing taking off his beard. Gimli dodged with elf-like grace and spun his axe over the other and struck his opponent’s leg. Aule cried out in fury.

“How dare you better me, impudent whelp!” Aule roared and swung his own axe.

Gimli dodged and their axes rung with sound. Blow against blow, their axes juddered together. The battle was brutal and wearing on Gimli, but for hour after hour he refused to show it. He drew a chip in the mithril blade and took heart, but Aule fought on, untiring and seemingly unstoppable.

Aule rounded on him, barely giving Gimli a moment between strikes to his head. Gimli jumped up and back with a grace not given to dwarves, undercutting the axe in the Valar’s hand and flinging it away. Gimli had a moment to look pleased, into Aule drew another blade from behind his back. Another parry, and their blades locked together for a moment.

“You fight like a elfling, exile!” Aule retorted.

“Good,” Gimli shot back. “At least one of us is fighting fair.”

Aule’s face twisted with rage. He let out a battle cry and swung with more speed than before. Gimli rolled and struck him from behind. Aule cried out and turned round. “That is a man’s trick! Where is your dwarf prowess?”

“Right here,” Gimli snarled and jabbed him in the face with the butt of his axe.

Aule stumbled backward, but remained on his feet. Suddenly there were two axes in his hands, and Gimli’s eyes widened. This was most definitely not playing by the rules. Axes spun and blade struck blade, the sounds filling the air around them with a kind of music oft not heard between dwarves.

The blows became increasingly fierce until finally the axe in Gimli’s hand splintered and he dropped the wooden handle. Gimli fell back against the rocks, breathing hard. Aule, standing over him, had not even broken a sweat, let alone lost his breath.

Finally the being, now bathed in a gentle light as if from within, regarded him with a satisfied smile. “I judge your intent good and your heart true, Gimli, son of Glóin. Return to Legolas and find joy.”

Gimli stared up at him in surprise. “Wait,” he called as the being slowly vanished. “What about finding the child?” The being had gone with no answer. Gimli slowly turned on the spot and gazed about him. The terrain had altered, it was grass-covered, dotted with gnarled rocks, but few trees in every direction as far as the eye could see.

“Eriador?” he breathed. Or is it Rohan?”

He did not know how he got there, but he did not question it. He had to get back to Legolas. Looking around one more time he found himself alone. He sighed. Arod was gone. Even with the weeks saved in getting him this far, it would still take months to get home on foot. The sun was directly above him, giving him no help in judging direction. Gimli had nothing to do but sit down and wait.

He had no idea how long he had slept, nor even when he had fallen asleep. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. It was dark. The stars were out and the moon was already high in the sky. Gimli rose and stretched. He checked his pack to find the precious necklace safe and started south. The Southern Cross sat low on the horizon to guide him.

He smiled a little and hummed a tune as he walked. He remembered tales of when he was but a twinkle of a twinkle in his grandfather’s eye and the Southern Cross had been a lot higher in the sky than it was now. Until now, singing the songs of old, it had not occurred to him that the stars he had held as the great constants of the universe were not constants at all. Everything moved, even the stars became, burned and died.

He knew, even as much as Legolas had been a constant by his side he would have to watch him become more than he was now, as all elves did, to transcend the flesh and become a being of spirit alone. To his limited understanding of such things, it was as magic was, mysterious and frightening. He had welcomed and accepted the life of the Eldar given to him at Celeborn’s passing not sixty years hence, but was unsure what it would mean for his future.

In his mind he had set a timescale of life, dwarves generally lived to a great age, if allowed to, but with a hard life they often died before they reached two hundred years old. War and accidents while mining were expected. Offspring were born, although precious few of them had been seen since the days of Fili and Kili, neither of whom had lived to reach eligible age.

Gimli shook his head at the thought. Even he had no heir, but then he had never chosen to love a dwarf maiden. They were too fiery for his liking. No, lines of succession be damned. He loved Legolas, and he would gladly pass his crown to any dwarf worthy enough to bare it in his name and honour. If none could be found in this final days of his race then he would lay it deep within the caverns of Aglarond, never to be borne by any head again.

His thoughts turned to the words, which had been spoken in the vision. Find a child, the voice had said, it was right where he had left it.

“Hmm, that still makes no sense,” he said aloud to himself. “I have never seen a child, much less left one behind for me to come back to later. For one thing, it would have grown up and grown old by now.” Gimli shook his head. “No, Gimli, think,” he coaxed himself as he walked. “It could not have been left too long ago, otherwise it would not be a child. It would be a man . . .a man . . .” He sighed, confused as ever, but determined to puzzle it out in his mind. “I have only ever seen children, young enough to still be children, in Gondor, but if it were one of those, the voice in my dreams was talking about the future.”

Gimli fell silent for a long while, naming all the maidens he knew in Gondor and Ithilien. Most were too old to have children or were unwed, at least they had been when he left on his quest. Perhaps one of the younger wedded maidens was expecting . . .and why would a child remain ‘right where he had left it’? No child ever remained still enough for an hour, let alone for the several months he had been away. But then, why was that even relevant to his quest? Did the voice not say the child would not be in the arms of a woman?

Gimli did not know what to think, and decided that he still had a long way to go, and plenty of time for fate to place the answer before him. His first course was to get home and restore Legolas. Everything else was superfluous to his task. So, putting the confusing riddle away for another day, he walked on until his legs would carry him no further.

Gimli’s food and water were almost gone, along with the supplies and almost everything he owned that he had taken with him in saddlebags on Arod’s back. He cursed his ill fortune, but never once questioned the will of Aule. Even as a small boy he had learned that Aule knows all, even though his will may be unfathomable it was to be followed with respect and care, to your best ability and for as long as fate allowed you breath.

And thus it was that Gimli set rabbit traps for six days, and caught nothing. He drew twine with worms tied to the end to catch a fish, but to no avail. Snails were easier to catch, and were slimy and filling, but tasted strange on his palate. Gimli held up one such morsel and eyed it.

“When in Gondor, so the saying goes,” he muttered. He plunged a thin stick into the shell and drew it out held it over the meagre fire. A few seconds later he popped into his mouth and chewed. “Tastes better cooked,” he enthused.

He stood and threw dirt over the flames to quench them and filled his water pouches from the stream he had found the night before. He recognised the place he had suddenly come across. It was the Merino Steam that separated Rohan and Gondor. That meant he was almost home. What concerned him was that he had seen no sign of any living soul, not even in the distance.

He had seen hoof tracks here and there, and a few dead orcs burning here and there, but never a horse nor a man. He squared his shoulders and began to hum a tune. Luthien’s song, which Legolas had sung to him many times, curled about his head as he walked ever closer to home. Another week and he would be home.

A nagging thought had plagued his mind during the last few days was, what if he returned and found that Legolas had died while he had been away? His breath caught in his throat, unable to dare think of such a possibility. He knew what he would do if such a think ever happened. He and Legolas had spoken of it one with another on many occasions. The first time had been after the battle of Helm’s deep all those years ago.

Gimli remembered those hours, picking their way through the dead and dying and wondering . . .how close they had come to being separated forever. And then, as if that had not been bad enough, Aragorn had had another of his hair-brained ideas and off they went again into the abyss of death, expecting to die any minute, and call upon the Undead to fight for Gondor.

Gimli chuckled to himself. It had never been a choice, to go or not. There never would be. As long as Aragorn lived, he and Legolas would be by his side, fighting for peace with axes or quill, whichever was the quickest. Gimli only had the one axe now. The rest had either been lost or broken and he had felt less inclined each time to make a new one. He was getting tired of fighting, and Aragorn was getting too old.

Gimli wondered if Aragorn would still be alive when he returned. But then, he reasoned, if Aragorn had died, the beacons would have been lit along the high ridge of Ered Nimrais. But looking up he could see no fire upon the tops of Calenhad, or Min-Rimmon or Eilenach. He dismissed the thought as a sign of hopelessness and loneliness. He missed Legolas almost as much as he loved him. He had to be alive, and so did Aragorn. Gimli refused to think anything less.

He had the necklace the would restore the smile that lit up his life, open the beautiful gem-like eyes, and return that voice that melted the harshest winters. Gimli began to sing.

The guard at the gate heard the singing long before the figure came into view. He peered out and blinked. “Open the gate! Lord Gimli has returned.”

“Open the gate,” someone else called further down and the bolts were thrown back. Slowly the heavy mithril and black oak door swung open.

Gimli did not so much as pause as he passed beneath the wall. He lifted his helmet in thanks and continued up the winding road, singing as he went. All about him the streets quieted to see him pass. It had been many months since he had left, and word had filtered down even to the lowest level why the Lord of Aglarond was leaving alone. And now he had returned.

As Gimli sang, rising up through winding streets and steadily growing crowds of onlookers, word was rapidly passing before him. The messenger reached the palace doors just as Gimli’s voice began echoing up through the opening in the courtyard.

Aragorn lifted his head at the sound and looked at Arwen. She was smiling, she could hear his approach, and he wondered if Legolas, deep in the clutches of neither awake nor dead could hear it too. Gimli had been gone for so long, that they dared not hope to see nor hear of him again. And now his voice was bringing him ever nearer.

Aragorn turned to the guard as he slipped the spoon into the bowl of soup in his hand. “Open every door between here and the courtyard. Legolas must hear this.” He stood from his task of feeding his patient and wiped his mouth with the muslin cloth. He leaned close to whisper into his sleeping friend’s face. “Legolas, Gimli is back.”

He had not expected a response, not after so long tending to him. The wounds had healed and had left nothing more than a silver line beneath his hair. He lifted his eyes as the palace halls were filled with the words of Tinúviel, sung in Sindarin with a rough but tender dwarven accent. It was almost a minute before the diminutive fellow appeared in the doorway and stopped singing.

Aragorn crossed to him at once and hugged him. “My brother, we feared you were dead. Welcome home.”

Gimli smiled warmly up at him, and clasped the queen’s hand as she drew near to greet him. “How is he?”

“Healed, but there has been no change in him. All these long months we have tended to him, fed him and talked to him, but there is never a response,” Arwen replied. “Even when we have massaged his limbs, he makes no sign that he knows we are there.

Gimli approached the lounge Legolas reclined in, laying as he was in a patch of gentle sunlight. “Does he lay there at night beneath the moon and stars?” he asked.

“Every night,” Aragorn smiled.

Gimli removed his helmet, one remaining axe and his backpack and jerkin. Taking only a thick skin pouch he stood beside the elf he loved more than life.

Legolas lay upon the day bed, nestled upon pillows and a sheepskin blanket. He wore a grey shirt with silver swirls embroidered across the chest. A thin blanket covered his legs to stave off the cold. He looked beautiful, but then, Gimli thought, he always had. Legolas appeared to be asleep, except that his eyes were closed.

Touching the soft cheek Gimli took in the scent of herbs and soup. Legolas had just eaten he realised. Leaning close he whispered to him. “Meleth nin, I am home,” and kissed him. “I have brought you a gift, from the hands of Aule himself. You do not know the hardships I have endured, but none was worse than waking each morning to find you’re not there.” Gimli carefully opened the bag and held the dull grey metal up. It was very slightly warm through the covering that surrounded it. He had carried it for months and knew that he was risking his life with every step, but he had no choice. Could he truly face an immortal life without Legolas? Could Valinor hold any sway over his heart if there was no Legolas by his side to share it with him?

Holding the necklace close to Legolas’ forehead his gently touched him with it, resting it against his creamy skin. The elf jolted, and lay as still as before. For a long time Gimli wondered if anything good had come of his months of lonely toil. Had the legends been exaggerated? Had any good been done at all? Gimli’s faith was unshakable. He had been sent to find it and bring it back. Why go through all that and it be for nothing? If there was one thing he had learned during the war of the Ring, that no action, however small, was insignificant, but mighty, relevant and needed.

Legolas twitched every now and then, and Gimli wondered how long that had been happening, but before he could ask, Aragorn sat in the chair that stood by the lounge and took hold of Legolas’ hand.

“Gimli,” he breathed. “Whatever that thing is, it is doing something. I do not know what, but it is something.”

Gimli smiled gently, watching the elf shifting a little. “The Valar told me that this would help and I believe them.”

Aragorn gazed at him, but said nothing.

Gimli finally took the necklace away and wrapped it up. “Do not let anyone touch this,” he warned as he handed it to Aragorn.

Aragorn nodded and took it into his care.

Gimli leaned close again and smiled as elf eyes began to open. Even glazed it was a beautiful sight. “Hello in there,” he said softly. The eyes began to focus and the twitching stopped. Legolas turned his head and his eyes widened a little more. He opened his mouth, but could not form the words that he wanted to speak. “You don’t have to say anything,” Gimli smiled. He took one slender hand between his own and squeezed it gently. “I’m here and you’re awake, and that’s all that matters.”

“Gimli,” Legolas managed to whisper, and smiled a little.

“Don’t tax yourself,” Gimli warned. “You’re far from healed yet.”

Legolas frowned, confusion showing in his eyes.

“Do you remember the battle with the Easterlings?” Gimli asked. Legolas nodded. “One of them struck you in the head. I killed the little . . .but that was many months ago,” he added, changing the subject. “I brought you back, Legolas, from the abyss within. Come out and see the world and feel the life in your limbs again.” He leaned in close and kissed him tenderly. “Everything will be strange at first, but you’ll get stronger. You’ll see. I am never leaving you again. We have a boat to finish and one last journey to make together.”

Aragorn stiffened and rose to his feet, his eyes catching Arwen’s over the lounge. Nothing was said, but they all knew that that day was closer than Gimli was letting on.

Legolas stood on the balcony, the wind whipping his hair up behind him as he gazed up at the moon, full and bright.

Gimli called him, a mere whisper against the wind. Legolas turned and smiled. Walking back into the room, he pulled the shutters closed across the opening and returned to bed.

“It was such a beautiful night that I needed to see the stars,” Legolas told him.

Gimli smiled, lifting the blankets in invitation. Legolas climbed in beside him and settled his silver head on the dwarf’s chest. Gimli held him, content for a long silent moment to simply hold him. He could hear Legolas’ breathing lengthen, but sleep was far from Gimli’s mind. Gently rolling his love onto his back, Legolas gasped softly.

“Sorry to wake you,” Gimli spoke in the dark.

Legolas looked up at him, a gentle smile curving his lips. “Something tells me,” he whispered. “That you are not sorry at all.”

“Something tells me that you are not sorry, either,” Gimli said.

Legolas smiled wider still. “No, melethron nín. It has been too long since you loved me.”

“Aye,” Gimli whispered. “Far too long.” And kissed him and rolled into his welcoming arms.

Aragorn lay cradled in Arwen’s arms when his last breath left his lips forever. She wept softly, aware of others around her, but uncaring. The first of them stepped forward and kissed Aragorn’s brow.

“Rest, my brother,” Legolas spoke softly. “May the peace you forged in life, go with you into the realm beyond.”

Gimli too stepped forward and kissed the brow of the man he had loved as brother. “Rest in peace,” he whispered.

The King was set upon a pedestal to allow the people of Gondor a change to say their farewells. The beacons were lit and messengers sent across the land. Little more than a week later, the king was carried from the palace and into the Courtyard of the Tree. There was weeping from the crowds gathered there, elves, dwarves and men, even the king of Harad bowed with his fellow nobles as Elessar was carried passed them to the House of Rest.

Aragorn was the last of the mortals of the Nine. The Fellowship was at an end. Arwen was silent as the procession entered the Sleeping Halls and watched with dead eyes as her husband was laid in the alcove he had requested. Beside him was laid two smaller beings, forever in sleep together.

Arwen turned from the tomb and hugged her son, now king, and her daughters. She gazed at Legolas, her lifelong friend. Wordlessly he cupped her cheek, but instead she embraced him. Gimli looked up at her, knowing what this was, the final parting. She was leaving. She hugged him and turned away without a word.

The crowds parted to allow her to leave and Arwen was seen no more.

Legolas gasped softly, unable to bring voice to the pain that tore at his heart to watch her go. “I cannot live with this,” he whispered.

A hand clasped his shoulder and he turned to find Eldarion beside him. “Go, Legolas,” he whispered. “Do not suffer the loss when there is comfort to be had in halls of your kin. Be at peace.”

Legolas clasped him to him and parted company, never to look back, and beside him went Gimli.

In less than two days the ship was ready and boarded, save for two souls. Gimli held back a little, something not feeling right. He had found the Nauglamir, but not the child. Although Legolas had been restored, he did not feel worthy of joining him in Valinor. He had failed the quest.

Gimli sat by the dock watching Legolas in his full grey and silver robes. Since his recovery he had worn none of his battle dress preferring the style Elrond wore, save for the wide belt. Gimli had to agree, it looked stunning on him. As he watched, Legolas continued to enthuse about Valinor. The white shores, forests and mountains were all beautifully painted for him in the Sindarin tongue, but he remained quiet. Finally, Legolas turned to him, realising something was wrong. Truth be told, he had known it for some time, but had tried to lift his spirits.

“What is wrong, Gimli?”

Gimli looked up at him. “I cannot go with you,” he spoke slowly.

Legolas stared at him, a jolt of pained terror filling his being. “Why? You have earned this, Celeborn gave to you the Life of the Eldar. You earned it twice over, meleth. I would not, could not, exist without you. Your place is by my side in Valinor.”

“I failed the quest,” Gimli replied. “I restored you to vitality, yes, but I did not find the child. That is why I must stay here.” He sighed. “Maybe I did bring it back with me, a sort of childlike trust in the Valar perhaps. Or the spirit of a child lost in battle that called for release into Mandos. I do not know. I did not see any child during those long months away. I would know if I had found one.” Gimli sniffed a little, hoping the tears that threatened would not fall. “I would have brought any child back with me, if I had but found one, if it meant saving your life.”

Legolas gazed at him for a moment before asking, “The Valar asked you to bring back a child?”

Gimli hesitated. “Not in those words, exactly. They said to find a child.”

“Where did you expect to find a child in a desolate wilderness of ice and death?” Legolas said.

Gimli shook his head. “I don’t know, but the Valar told me to look for one and I looked.”

Legolas thought for a moment. “Did they say where to find this child?”

“Well . . .no . . .apart from cryptic suggestions of where not to look,” Gimli replied.

“Did you think to look in Osgiliath?”

Gimli lifted his eyes and looked around. There were children everywhere, running about, laughing and playing without a care in the world. Some had no shoes on, but did not seem to mind, some wore the clothes of nobility and wealth, sharing games with those less well off. “Which one is it supposed to be? There must be hundreds of the wee things.”

Legolas regarded him at length. “Would the Valar truly have sent you far into the north to find a child that had been here all this time?”

Gimli sighed. “That is what confused me, and still does.”

Legolas says, “You will not find the child you seek running around in the street, nor in the arms of a maiden of men, nor wrapped in cloth nor living in a home made of stone.”

Gimli stared at him astounded, realising that Legolas had just repeated what the Valar told him while Legolas lay sleeping, and then later when he was ‘dead’ to the world. “The Valar also told me that this child would be right where I left it,” Gimli blurted out. “As if that would make perfect sense.”

Legolas tipped his head to one side, that way he did when something so obvious had gone right over Gimli’s head, metaphorically speaking. Gimli loved that look, even when the puzzle that provoked it irked him. As Legolas gazed at him the sun passed behind him, bathing him in a halo of warm light. All Gimli could see for an infinitesimal amount of time were two grey-green eyes and the red glow of his beating heart . . .and another . . .

Gimli blinked, and the vision was gone, but the impression had left its indelible mark. It was the vision that he had been seeing in his mind’s eye over and over.

You have two hearts . . .

Had he spoken the words aloud? He could not be certain. His gazed was fixed upon his love and for the first time he noticed the rounder figure of Legolas standing there, leaning on a short post that marked the edge of the dock. Not much had changed since he had left on the quest, a slight thickening of the waist, which most would have written off as middle age. In truth, he would have missed it altogether, had it not been for the gentle red glow that he had seen as the sun passed behind him. His mouth hung open and words failed him.

Legolas finally smiled gently and spoke, “I am not leaving you here, Gimli. Your son needs you, and I cannot leave him here. He would die.”

Gimli stood up, speechless with awe and spluttered a few half words before something recognisable at last emerged. “At my age!”

Legolas grinned. “Thank you,” he intoned with amusement.

Gimli reached out to touch what he could now see was not the physique of one well used to rich foods, but one enriched with life. Gimli hugged him with gentleness, pressing his hear to the elf to listen. He looked up in astonishment. “There’s a . . .beating . . .I can hear it. How . . .? Forget that, I know how, but . . .how . . .?”

Legolas chuckled softly, clasping his hands in his own and pressing them against him. The child within leaped at the touch, a dance of joy, an echo of the joy in his father’s face. Legolas chuckled again, a tear of pure life and love glistened on his cheek. “Your son wants to go home.”

“Aye,” Gimli replied. “I found the child, and it is right where I left it.” Gimli pressed a kiss to that child and Legolas bent low to kiss him in return. “Now I can go home,” he said.

Entering the ship, they cast off and sailed away into the sunset.

“How fairs our approach?” he spoke as the sun began to fall.

“Another eight hours, your highness,” the elf at the wheel replied, his speech of one of the Teleri, although he seemed content enough with the Sindarin tongue.

Legolas moved silently across the deck, gazing up at the stars as they began to shine through the increasing darkness. Gimli was sleeping below. The thought of his love, asleep, sent a shiver through his being and his insides turned to water. He chuckled softly.

Soon they would be in Valinor, where they would live together, fill the world with their joint laughter and make love to the sound of the sea. At that thought his insides shuddered again. Strange that he was getting such urgings now, here. It was not the place. In the few hours they would be home and they could slip away from the crowds, but here they shared the ship with several thousand elves.

He and Gimli had not parted once, but there had not been time for sleep or even rest since Elessar had died. Legolas took the image in his mind of their last night together. Bodies pressed together almost melding into one . . .

Legolas tipped forward suddenly, his insides jolting with delight as the image died and the smile froze on his lips. He let out a tiny gasp of surprise. He lifted his head and slowly straightened, glancing around to find the deck deserted except for the pilot, who was looking the other way, and Haldir, standing in the prow, watching something of interest to him in the water below.

Had he imagined it? Or had the ship yawed suddenly?

“How soon will we be able to see the land?” Legolas asked.

“Not for another six hours,” the pilot replied.

Legolas wandered aimlessly about the deck. Unlike a Sea Elf he was not at home on the water, but was happy to watch the stars. He was restless, in truth, but glad to be going home at last. He stepped down onto the main deck, passed the stairs that led below and stopped. He winced slightly, rubbing his belly through his robes. This was no stomach turning to water feeling, this was birthing pains. "How much further 'til we reach the harbour?" Legolas asked.

Haldir turned his head, somewhat amused. "You sound like a small lhaes, wheedling 'are we there yet?' It is the third time you have asked."

Legolas gave him a wan smile. "That would be funny, if the question was meant to amuse."

Haldir faced him more fully. "Is something wrong?"

Legolas released a measured breath and nodded, sinking down against the mast. "How long?"

"Another six hours." Haldir went to him and dropped to one knee, pressing a hand to his belly, that seemed to be troubling him no small amount. "You are early."

“It is to be expected,” Legolas replied breathily. He leaned his head back against the mast and sighed. If it were not for the balled fists, Haldir would not have known anything was amiss. “There has never been a peredhor born before,” Legolas said finally, his voice thick with suppress pain. “Not in recorded history, at least. I shall go below.”

“You should stay here. I can hear a skip in the childs’ heartbeat,” Haldir told him.

Legolas sucked in a breath in fear. “If our child is born now, it will die. There are no healers on this ship. If the child has a weak heart . . .”

Haldir smoothed a hand over the now relaxed muscles of his abdomen and squeezed his shoulder. “Where is Gimli?”

“Below, second level.”

“I will call for him and return. Do not be alarmed.”

Legolas watched him go and sighed. This was a fine pickle, to be sure. He smiled softly, thinking of the person who had taught him that phrase. Sam Gamgee was in Valinor, waiting for Gimli and himself. He was probably standing on the dockside with all his kin and friends. If he could hold on for another six hours, he might be alright.

An hour passed and another and all thoughts of holding on had vanished. Breathing heavily through the pain, Legolas hid his face from the eyes he knew were upon him. Gimli’s tunic smelled of the earth, of trees and wood smoke and horses. It was comforting, at least it would have been had he not had an audience.

Haldir could feel his tension and stood. “My kin, while we cherish your concern, Gimli and Legolas would like this time for each other. Please, everyone except the pilot go below.” The elves knew there was not much they could do to help, and went below to wait.

Legolas opened an eye and looked at him briefly.

“Would you like me to leave as well?” Haldir asked. “Although I would understand, I suggest you will need someone to help you through the birth. I am no expert, but I could find another who . . .”
Legolas shook his head.

“You are a trusted friend, Haldir,” Gimli told him. “Legolas would prefer you than a stranger.”

Legolas winced as the pain rose and did not answer.

Gimli had lost track of time. Not that time mattered when you were immortal, but this night seemed to be the longest. He flexed his fingers for a moment, tingling as they were with being squeezed for so long and so often. He curled them around Legolas’ hand before he could miss the contact. His heavy breaths was already beginning to rise again.

Legolas arched back against the mast, in his own world of pain. Bending his knees a little had helped, though it had not been a conscious move. He could hear Gimli’s voice whispering to him, but as much as he loved him, in this moment he could concentrate on nothing but what was happening to him. A cool damp cloth was pressed against his flushed face and he was glad of it.

He did not open his eyes at the sound of hushed voices. Gentle hands lifted him and cloth slid from beneath him to be replaced by the soft wool of a blanket against his skin. It seemed surreal, somehow, that someone was undressing him without asking, but he could not find enough will to care. His legs were bare, and he trembled a little from the sudden cold, but a moment later his long robes were pulled over him again.

Legolas could feel the change inside him, but could not put words to it. The cool cloth dabbed at his face again just as his chin dropped to his chest. His breath caught, suddenly afraid.

Haldir, his hand pressed against his abdomen, could feel the lurch in the muscles. He lifted his eyes to the horizon. Even in the dark, his elf eyes could make out the thinnest line of coast just coming into view. “Do not push, Legolas. Blow,” he coaxed gently.

Legolas blew out a breath, and finding that it helped repeated it until the feeling subsided.

“How long must he hold on?” Gimli asked.

“We are making good speed,” Haldir replied. “As long as the winds are in our favour, not more than an hour or so.”

Legolas suddenly sighed loudly, bunching his robes in his free hand. As the end came, Haldir slipped an arm behind his shoulders and gently laid him on the deck. Legolas grabbed his hand, panicking eyes wide. Haldir did not pull away from his friend, honoured to be trusted to be with him, but deeply concerned. He did not know what to do. He was no healer, but more so he was not a parent.

Gimli whispered words of encouragement kept Legolas as calm as possible, and during the few seconds respite, he kissed him tenderly. “We’re doing well, meleth. I can see the White Shores in the distance. Hold on.”

Legolas shook his head as his eyes widened again.

Haldir was surprised, and took a look for himself. Yes, the land was much closer, but as for seeing it with Naugrim eyes he could not be certain. It brought a measure of comfort to Legolas, and that was all that mattered.

Legolas panted, hands gripped around theirs, desperate to give in to the sensations that filled him. He could hear them encourage them, but he could not speak of the urge that harried him from within. Moaning thickly, he tried to blow, but it was getting harder each time. They again urged him to hold on.

“The child’s heartbeat is worrying me,” Haldir spoke softly to Gimli, even though Legolas could still hear.

Panting heavily almost non stop, he did not even see the lights pass them as the ship swept into the harbour. The crowd who had gathered to cheer them home was silent. Haldir searched their ranks, but could not find the one he sought. As the ship nudged the dock, Legolas let out a cry of desperation. The strength of the elves descended on him, blanketing him, an almost tangible feeling. Legolas calmed, but the torment went on.

Haldir pressed an ear to Legolas’ abdomen. Something was not right. He lifted his head and turned to his brother, who rose up from the steps that led below. “Rumil, fetch Lord Elrond. Run!” His quiet voice betrayed his deep fears. Rimil nodded and glided off the side of the ship and disappeared into the crowd.

“Legolas? I have called for Lord Elrond. Something is wrong, but try to remain calm.”

Legolas nodded, lifting his eyes beseechingly to Haldir. The face that gazed down at him smiled a little.

“We are home. Feel the grace of the elves surround you. Push.”

Legolas lay panting thickly, relieved finally that he could give in. Holding his breath, he pushed. Suddenly something happened. Legolas gasped feeling something slide forward. Lifting his knees higher he sucked in another breath and bore down. Despite the pain he did it again. He trembled, tears slipped passed his clenched eyelids. He hissed between his teeth, wanting to scream, but pride forbade it. Another breath and his knees rose with the effort.

“Lift him a little,” a familiar voice suddenly said.

Eyes rose to see Elrond approach them. The healer did not waste time with words of greeting, but knelt between Legolas’ feet and parted the elf’s robes. Legolas neither greeted him nor made any sign that he knew he was there.

Legolas was beyond caring as gentle hands lifted him by the shoulders and set pillows beneath him. Sinking his chin to his chest he pushed and the large object moved forward a little more easily. He gasped and pushed again. Pain shot through him as if he were being torn in two. Breathing heavily he drew his legs closed in an effort to stop the pain, only to find his feet captured by strong but gentle hands and held apart.

“Legolas, for your baby to live we must get him out. Do you understand?” He saw Legolas nod, but his mind was already on the next task. “Set his feet against your sides,” Elrond instructed the dwarf and elf on either side of Legolas. With both hands free, Elrond set them floating against the sides of Legolas’ belly, then drawing them up and round to meet at the top, he smoothed them down the centre and paused as the base. He waited for a second, feeling the muscles beneath his hands begin to tighten. “Push,” he commanded.

Legolas bore down hard.

“Again.”

Legolas winced with the pain, but did so.

“I know this is difficult, mellon nín, but you must do this. Do not be afraid. Put your trust in me.”

Legolas sucked in a breath and pushed, his body trembling.

“Harder.”

Legolas pushed, his breath hissing between his teeth feeling his body clench around the hard mass as it slid forward.

“Let yourself go,” Elrond soothed. “Cry, share your joy with Eärendil as he crosses the sky.”

Legolas pushed, whimpering softly. At that moment, he could not picture any joy. There was only pain.

“You can do it,” Gimli encouraged him softly.

Legolas drew in an lungful of air and pushed, releasing the spent breath in a silent rush. He saw Elrond reach over him, taking a small jar from the elf above his head. Only then did he realise that the pillows beneath his head were in fact Rimli’s knees. Another breath and he gasped in astonishment, feeling heat spread through his centre.

“These are herbal oils, Legolas. Do not be afraid,” Elrond said softly. Again, he swept his hands in a caress up the sides of the swollen abdomen and down the middle to rest upon the base of it. The gathering storm strengthened beneath his touch. “Push.”

Legolas strained and hissed softly.

“Do you want this child, Legolas?” Elrond asked quietly.

Legolas opened his eyes to see grey ones lift to his. Panic began to rise within him. “Is it dead?”

“No, but it will die if you do not announce to the Valar that an elven prince is about to be born. The grace of the elves is not enough. Tell them to touch your child with their light. Do not put to naught all the hard work Gimli has done.”

Legolas sobbed and shook as the tears began to fall.

“Push!”

Legolas bore down as the pain tore through him. He released the breath in a loud gasp. Exhausted, he sank back, distressed that he was making no headway at all.

Gimli could see it in Elrond’s eyes that it was not enough. He looked up, all around him and knew what it was. There were too many eyes. Legolas was embarrassed, and in his place he would be too, exposed as he was. Silently he cursed the elven pride. His eyes searched the crowd of concerned onlookers. Their only care was for the safe delivery of a new soul, as quickly as possible for Legolas’ sake. Gimli’s eyes rested on a familiar face. “Celeborn?”

Celeborn’s gaze shifted from his kin to the dwarf beside him.

“Legolas knows of your love and accepts it, but . . .move them away,” the dwarf said gently.

Celeborn nodded once and spoke in Quenya to the elves all around the wharf. As one they drifted back into the surrounding buildings leaving Celeborn alone.

Legolas pushed against the child and cried out. “Gimli!”

“I’m here, melethron,” Gimli responded instantly and kissed him softly.

Legolas took hope and curled up and pushed. The pain increased, tearing a scream from his lungs. Breathless he gave it all he had, and gasped loudly into the air. His body was burning and stretching. Gasping in surprise he stared up at Gimli. He saw the smile of encouragement and gave another heave, rending the air with his cry.

“Wait,” Elrond spoke calmly.

Legolas panted noisily, groaning in wide-eyed astonishment.

“What is it?” Gimli asked.

“See for yourself,” Elrond invited.

Gimli looked and, expecting to find the baby already born, was horrified to find a large ball emerging from Legolas’ body. As it popped free, Legolas gave a loud cry and relaxed. Gimli was speechless in wonder.

Legolas pushed, unable to wait for Elrond to give the word. Giving a loud cry he strained, breathing hard, gripping both hands in his. The child slid forward again.

“Keep going,” Elrond told him softly as he cupped the newborn in his waiting hands.

Legolas shook his head. “No. No more,” he groaned.

“You’re almost there,” Gimli encouraged.

Legolas more moaned than pushed, opening his eyes to blink up at Gimli who had begun to sing softly. The words were in Sindarin, the song was of Tinúviel. Legolas strained one last time. “Elbereth!” he screamed. Something slid from his body and he sank back, breathless. In the moments that followed not a word was spoken. Legolas sobbed, body shaking. He closed his eyes, not daring to watch as Elrond laid the lifeless form in his lap and curled a blanket around it. Turning it over to lay it along one arm he began to rub its back.

There was a silence about them that threatened to suffocate the huddled people on the deck. Gimli swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut, the tears rolled down his cheeks and disappeared into the hair of his beard. Legolas buried his face in his hands and felt Gimli leave his side. Hot tears fell and he did not care.

Gimli stood and glared up at the brightest star; Eärendil was sailing unendingly across the sky. “You promised me!” he roared. “And you lied! I did everything you asked of me and now you take my child? What is Valinor if it’s not the Undying Lands?” He lowered his head and wept. His eyes fell on the limp infant in Elrond’s hand where he still tried to rub life into it. “Poor wee elfling,” he cried softly.

Someone sneezed, a little sound that made even Elrond jump. Carefully he turned the infant over and watched its wide eyes gaze unfocused up at the stars above him.

Slowly Elrond smiled as the tiny face puckered up and let out a short yelp. Legolas looked up, startled, and felt a squirming infant against his chest. A whimper of joy escaped him as he watched a pale silver thread fall from the sky to dust the babe with light.

The child quieted for a moment and began to cry. To Legolas it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard, the voice of Lúthien herself. He looked into the crumpled face and smiled, and pressed his lips to the soft downy head.

Elrond smiled, a tear rolled down his cheek, watching the child being held for the first time. “This is the first child born of the Mithrim Elves for more than eight thousand years. What better place for this to happen than on the White Shores?”

Gimli knelt beside Legolas and kissed him and his child, a miracle which he did not question.

“He must be the biggest of all the tribes,” Legolas insisted.

Celeborn smiled brightly. “I believe no one will dispute your claim, Legolas,” he said. “There are many who wish to greet you, but allow me to be the first. Welcome home, Legolas, Prince of Mithrim, and welcome home, Gimli, our brother.”

Gimli simply smiled, for a moment speechless. “Please tell her majesty, the Lady Galadriel, that I shall meet with her at the earliest opportunity? I am . . .sort of busy with my . . .newborn son.”

“Daughter,” Elrond supplied.

Gimli drew in a breath of delight. “A little girl?” he whispered and then beamed at Legolas. “You said it was a boy.”

Legolas chuckled softly. “Even I make mistakes,” he admitted.

El fin