Ai veren! Ae lá dagnir farëa te bedithael amaren á adaren baded Mordor, bedithael nîn ná e naug. Nosse Gwador bin tûlth nîn á caro ta as-alassë or ná han bedithäel ná ammien amrog ith lá e dagor, ta ithë e amolor.

Manan, ai, manan, caron han lendë sa edro han tor anto? Manan binn han lá vanya min corien caránë camien o e perian? Harya lá merin nîn sa mabhin te cor, bakhlá kwent o maban ta. Úmin merë ta. Tai fúr i nostad farëa ho tooo, deleg ta caránë ae ta ná camen.

Á deleg i te thaur naug. Han tiro enni ná sigyl han hennain. Han pedi enni ná sigyl han lamh. Deleg, han nostach ná sigyl. I ennad tittelá o han te carin lá tëa-sigyl? Á nogothrist, si te innod o ta. Han i úrieb solto-te hathel núin nemen be ae sa berio enni ninad. Manan? Carin han innod merin nîn sa naegrant han? Carin-úl han harya tittëbakh sa delio?

Han hara fúil haew, te Gimli o Glóinion. Han avo losto gonorn ná allen o ammen sa habithon úri. Han losto eriol, be ae han i melianaig allen o ammen sa mabhin. Han carin harya losto-rhül sui Boromir . . . annontë ith nîn han. Han uucaro sa galcaru ná ammen, madh-úl ná ammen. Gimli úrieb carin tein fúil titta eriol. Harya nîn ind uutancave o norno mellon-lva. Innod nîn . . . i han, tulgúl, e wen?

Gimli carin titta te caro uuhannos, lá man bauren nîn o noeg . . . naug adan te i. Sanaepë-síra tiron dad nîn alwenien sa tirad han tironmë e dúlinn dortha, han tiiri înh rooo . . .á mar han galcaru han fen, innod han nîn cam înh uutith lint lá man min man hara tulthain e nogothrist aal han kúith carân harya. Ta i uutulg be ae han cyruch înh a theliad lá am mudad.

Á han uutith-lúmë tiro ta perian e fúil rado. Lhadh nîn manen han lamh rhinadh mar han pedi sa ren, á lhathrado nîn han quetan ren lhaes minu. Innadh nîn estel ta tulga e naug carân merë lhaes, or bauren nîn tith înh annost. Naugrimë haew . . .e adan á e wen înh bakhman tulg . . .aal titta or bu te e adan minei anno han eredh á eneth sa e lhi . . .e wen ortho ta mur ta i iphant farëa sa fin anno . . .ai kwenh nîn sa ennien . . .Gimli hara ruuusyl perian bui e horn sa e adar . . .

Sa edhelen ruuusydh, Gimli o Glóinion deliosen e mavros tittebakh han estel han ith avo harya or manan carân e ohtar naug tirë bu lhaes, uutith tulga si tei deleg lúmë? Á sa edhelen ruuusydh, ennad thir sa tittebakh, e tithen nosta, tittebakh tulg uuadan o han. Nai ta i minu nîn? Lá min thir sa harya tirion, o sa uuquenta nîn. Man carân peded nîn? Goheno nîn, Boromir, caro tiron manen chen Gimli sui e wen? Laith nîn roooi sa ennien á e naug dol rhink sa tiro enni. Tiro ado nîn.

Ná, innadh nîn Gimli mudadain anno sa delio han/den essë minu lá sa berio dolt sa nuuum, or bu doltäen o Nosse Gwador, mas, inn te, nîn estel cyruchë á gûren o Gimli tittë te. Tiri dad nîn Gimli ad á tadui lúmë han tiron nîn ado si, uutulg carân-nemhin. Te i tulgan là e adan radon. Laith nîn. Ná lúmë, glaaam nîn o ohtarien naug haran rooodh. Ná, ith nîn uutheith man bauren nîn, tulg sa Gimli. Ta i Gimli merin te ta sa deliosë á lith berio nîn ta rado te, or si manan carin gûren lint sa bauren han. . . i e den?

Tirad nîn Gimli dol oronte ad, hen túlthan sa henen. I te e laidh tirad nîn? Á lain annain min? Aragorn carân avo anno losto aurain ae han. Deleg, ta i e caran-nemhin ruuus nîn nem si. Rhachon sedhim naugrim estel nîn bu harian faen. Delios nîn e inndon te Gimli i uutith-lúmë caran-nemhin, or chebin nîn kwent. Manan i ta te hoeno nîn ruuus tulg rooi norno mellon-lva? Harya nîn avo ruuusyl rado perian. Ae nîn i sa lamh ta, carân han caran-nemhin? Carân han badedadh sell lalaithen . . .ná, te uucarânë Gimli. Han carântë naegrant, gûren kwent enni. Nae, Gimli carâniess balh. Ta i tulga tittebakh han/den carin lá bûdh baurenin.

Ta uu-lheidh nîn ta. Ta uucaran nîn, carânë mav sa fuuurenain estel tulg mar min haran lá tirien. Avonanain, berio nîn chebin glaaam te minu hennen calain. Benain saemen ta lhev, gûren nîn ta uugaro o enni.

Lhadh nîn Aragorn quet enni á baure nîn te harya nîn tirain titteladh, rhau ind e anann lûmë. Tiro dad nîn, minei sa tir Gimli lhev, uutulg be ae han/den hara avonnad, caro lá nîn lhadh Gimli baded. Aduo-si nîn bin lheidh nîn uuberen, Aragorn thia nûin nîn. Ta ilúmë si baded. Tancave, ruuum rooon ná nîn.

Why, oh why, did he have to open his big mouth? Why could he not accept that the Ring would be safe in the hands of a hobbit? I have no wish to touch that ring, say nothing of holding it. I don’t want it. Its deceit is foul enough from over here, worse it would be if it were in my hand.

And worse still is that infuriating dwarf. He glares at me with daggers in his eyes. He speaks to me with daggers in his voice. He even stinks with daggers. Is there nothing about him that does not involve daggers? And axes, now that I think of it. He is forever waving that blade beneath my nose as if to keep me at bay. Why? Does he think I wish to hurt him? Or does he have something to hide?

He has strange habits, this Gimli, son of Glóin. He never sleeps curled up with the rest of us to keep warm. He sleeps alone, as if he were too good for the rest of us to touch. He does not snore like Boromir… I will give him that. He refuses to bathe with us, or even pee with us. Gimli always does those natural things alone. I wonder about our dwarf. I wonder . . .is he, in truth, a woman?

Gimli does things that make no sense, not what I know of dwarves… Dwarf men anyway Yesterday I looked down from my tree to see him watching a bird in a nest, his eyes were soft… and when he combs his beard, I note his hands are more nimble than what one who has wielded an axe all his life would have. It is almost as if his skills were more hobby than lifestyle.

And he often looks at the hobbits in a strange way. I hear how his voice trembles when he speaks to them, and I caught him calling them children once. I suppose it is true that any dwarf would want offspring, but I know few are ever given birth. In Dwarven culture... men and women are somewhat equal... in all things save that a male merely lends his seed and name to a child... the woman raises it until it is old enough to train... I nod to myself... Gimli has feelings for the hobbits out of a need to be a parent...

To my elven senses, Gimli son of Glóin harbours a desire for something he believes he will never have, but why would a warrior dwarf be interested in children, especially in these perilous times? And to my elven senses, there seems to be something, a mere scant scent, something not quite male about him. Perhaps it is just me? No one else seems to have noticed, not that I have asked. What would I say? Excuse me Boromir, have you noticed that Gimli acts like a woman? I laugh softly to myself and a dwarf head jerks up to peer at me. I look away.

No, I suppose Gimli works hard to hide his/her gender not merely to protect the secret, but for the safety of the mission, which, in that respect, I do not doubt the skill nor heart of Gimli in this matter. I look down at Gimli again and this time he looks away, almost shyly. That is definitely not a male mannerism. I smile. Over time, my hatred of the stunted warrior has softened. No, I will not reveal what I know, not even to Gimli. It is Gimli’s wish for it to be so and I will keep it thus, but then why does my heart lighten to know he . . .is a she?

I see Gimli’s head rise again, eyes lifting to mine. Is that a smile I see? And am I returning one? Aragorn would tease me for days if he knew. Worse, it is a blush I feel rising up my cheeks now. Silently I curse Dwarvish luck for having beards. I harbour a notion that Gimli blushes often, but I cannot tell. Why is it that I suddenly feel very protective of our diminutive fellow? I do not ever recall

feeling this way about the hobbits. If I were to voice this, would he blush? Would he descend into girlie giggles. . . No, that would not be Gimli. He would be embarrassed, my heart tells me. Nay, Gimli would become upset. This is clearly something he-she does not want known.

I shall not reveal it. I could not, it would be akin to betraying a trust even when one has not been sought. Nonetheless, I cannot keep the hatred that once shone in my eyes. Within my mind it has gone, in my heart it has no more hold of me.

I hear Aragorn call me and I realise that I have been staring into nothingness, deep in thought for some time. I blink and look down, only to find Gimli gone, almost as if he/she had never been there at all, nor did I hear Gimli leave. Before I can show my disappointment, Aragorn appears below me. It is time to move on. And yes, the secret is safe with me.

Oh joy! An elf! Life couldn’t get any better if it tried! Why did I have to open my big mouth? It was obvious to me that the elves had no wish to carry this ring, especially this one, and besides, the hobbit offered. And yet, I was too wrapped up in this too-pretty-for-his-own-good elf. Who does he think he is anyway? A prince?

I have always hated elves, not just because we have a history with them that goes back too far to go into, but because they are over-pious, stuck up and too puffed up in themselves. Legolas is no different, at least I thought so a few days ago when we started this journey. I quickly realised that there was something different about Legolas. Here was an elf that was not like an elf at all, if that makes sense.

He was not much of a tracker, so I, for one, am glad Aragorn is with us. He is not knowledgeable of the lie of the land. Never travelled, I guess. And as for eating . . pah! You would have a hard job trying to entice this elf to do much more than nibble a grass stem.

What fun is a being that does not appreciate a platter piled high with salted pork? There’s nothing better than a platter of salted pork accompanied by fried potatoes, cheeses and rich milk in an icy pitcher, and tomatoes still on the vine, grapes, fresh granary bread and good company. I snap out of my thoughts.

Aye, this elf is strange. And he smells funny. I appreciate the smell of a good sweat, it’s a smell that shows an honest day’s work. But this elf, he doesn’t even sweat. He doesn’t get out of breath, he doesn't even snore. Unlike Boromir, now there’s an impressive snore. Actually, too impressive.

I turned him over on the first two nights, but on the third I threw my plate at him. It worked, and I got a chuckle out of Legolas as well. Now there was a sound I had not expected; elf laughter. I always thought that elves were too sour for such joviality.

I have spent most of my time on this journey so far telling stories to the hobbits. Like children, they soak up stories almost faster than I can tell them. Sweet things, I can see why my father is so endeared to them. They need all the cheering they can get, poor things. Most of the time, they are too frightened out of their minds to speak, either that or Gandalf is forever telling them, particularly the smallest one, to shut up. There’s only one thing more annoying than an elf, and that’s a grumpy wizard.

And if my luck wasn’t bad enough having to travel with an elf, it is having a grumpy wizard with us as well. For the first three days, Gandalf kept coming between me and the elf, so we did not have chance to get know each other, which I did not and still don’t approve of. We’re a fellowship after all, we should get along. So why is Gandalf so intent on keeping us apart? Who knows?

Anyway, here we are, in a wide valley, taking a day or two to rest. One of the hobbits hurt his foot yesterday morning, so we can’t go until Aragorn has tended it enough to allow the wee thing to walk on it again. So while Gandalf was preoccupied, I slipped away to take a smoke, and inadvertently on purpose ended up beneath the tree where Legolas is keeping watch.

I look up at him standing in his tree, while pretending not to look. He is a strange being, all elves are. With their great sense of smell and sight, both frighten me, now that I think of it, what secrets of the world are they able to determine? What secrets about me can he tell, over the smell of a good sweat that is?

Pah! He wanted me to bathe yesterday morning. Me? Bathe? He has got to be kidding. Not with them all looking. I went behind a rock and bathed where they couldn’t see me, as if I needed to bathe. And worse, they all pee in a huddle. What for, I wonder. Are they measuring? I chuckle to myself at the thought. Legolas even wanted me to join in. As if that is going to happen! I have my pride after all. I also don’t go in for that kind of togetherness, there’s too many questions asked at such gatherings.

I have my reasons. I wonder how long I can keep it a secret, I wonder actually if Legolas can tell. He's an elf, he probably knew from the first. Damned elves and their sense of smell. That’s the only way to tell a dwarf man from a dwarf woman, by smell, and men don’t have a nose for that task. I suppose they think I am a man simply of habit... far be it for me to call them liars, I smile to myself at the image of Aragorn’s face... or Boromir’s if they were to find out... I glance up... though I suspect only Legolas, the prissy elf, would allow me stay the course if it be known.

Pondering, I settled with my back against the tree, his tree, and I light my pipe. Men know so little of my kind that they wouldn’t know what is male or female behaviour. In khazad, the word ‘son’, means ‘child of’, so as long as I simply deny them physical evidence they are none the wiser and are content in it. Elves, on the other hand, know little of our language and ways, but they can tell many things without the use of words.

Anyway, I won’t say anything. Why should I? I’m here to keep that elf from the ring, only it seems to be a waste of time my doing that. He doesn’t want it. My task now is to protect the hobbits, and eye the elf as often as I can.

I look up to see him looking down at me from where he is perched high in the tree. He did not see me approach, I patted myself on the back for my stealth, until I realised that even when he seems to be looking on one direction his ears are pointing in another. Now, those ears are something else.

Curse those pointed ears! I say curse them, but in secret I find them fascinating. I can feel the heat in my cheeks as I think this, as I realise a pair of grey-green eyes are staring at me. Is he smiling at me???

Legolas looks away this time. There's a slight smile on his lips, I am certain of it, but without climbing the tree for a closer look - not a chance. For one, I hate trees, and for another it would be too obvious. So I watch him from down here, he’s trying to look nonchalant, watching out for danger. Who does he think he’s fooling?

I know better. He’s been watching me for days, whenever he thinks I’m not looking. I pretend to tap my pipe on the tree, an excuse in truth to take another long look at him.

Damned elves! Why do they have to be so pleasing to the eye as well as to the ear? And to the heart for that matter. Centuries of hatred and mistrust, and here I am fawning over the one thing my father warned me never to associate with. Curse, no, bless my luck. The gods smile down on me, as does this elf. That is definitely a smile. Oh boy, and I thought he was gorgeous without the smile. I think I’m feeling faint.

I hear a voice. Aragorn is coming. Curses! I guess Gandalf is getting itchy about me being too close to the elf. I leave before the man can see me, but not before I see the look of disappointment on the elf's face. I sigh.

There is precious little time to make friends on this journey, and even fewer opportunities with a wizard breathing down your neck. But then, I think to myself, I am being paranoid. Gandalf isn’t the one keeping us apart at all, it was me. My pride and centuries of ingrained anger. What was it all for anyway? I shrug. I don’t know, but it doesn’t keep a place in my heart.

All I can feel is now, and a future unknown, and a smile I am desperate to see again.

I watch over them this night, with amusement all over my face. I know it’s there, because it bubbles up every now and then, especially when I think of it. Why am I amused? Simple.

The snoring was horrendous, I have to agree. An orc would have heard it a mile away. Gimli, the least patient of us, has been most benevolent towards the man of Gondor. I observed him roll the sleeping noise over night after night. On the third such night, Gimli picked up a platter and threw it at Boromir’s head. There was a thick metallic sound, followed by a grunt of surprise and Boromir shot upright in his bedroll.

Nothing stirred, except my laughter and Boromir’s hand rubbing his sore head. He eyed me quizzically, although it was obvious to him that I had not thrown the platter that he found on his pillow, and no one else appeared to be awake to blame.

“What happened? Forget that, I know what happened. Why did it happen?” he asked me in the quiet of the night.

I replied, “A quest made in secret is given away by its slumber,” and left it at that.

By morning, I was willing to forget the entire occurance, except that Gimli was not of a mind to do so. Boromir was still irked by the sizeable bump on the side of his head, which seemed to trouble him somewhat, though I believe his show of suffering was more to do with wanting to prick someone's conscience than evidence of real pain.

No one made any such admittance, until Gimli spoke.

“It rained heavily last night,” he suddenly said.

Aragorn frowned, his hand going to the grass we were all sitting on. The ground was dry. Boromir’s eyes swivelled to Gimli’s face, like a hawk on a rabbit, and the glare matched.

I laughed again, but said nothing. The innocence on Gimli’s face was the most amusing thing I had witnessed in many a long year. In fact, the last time I laughed so hard was the day Aragorn got his foot caught down a rabbit hole and he fell face first into a pile of warg dung. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you.

Laughing softly to myself, I cast my gaze over the sleeping travellers, thinking them all asleep. A pair of eyes peer out at me in the darkness. I am about to look away, but the gaze holds mine. “What troubles you, my friend?” I ask softly.

“Nothing,” he says.

I frown slightly, wondering if his reply signifies that he really has no troubles on his mind or that he cannot put words to them. Dwarves are strange creatures. Sometimes I am confused by them, and at other times frightened. And yet, I can find no one thing about this Gimli son of Glóin that I can relate to as the cause of this fear. He is an awesomely powerful being for his size, worth his weight twice over, I am certain. I have yet to see him in battle, but I can imagine him bettering many orcs at once. No, let them fear him, I do not.

“There is one thing . . .”

His voice comes as a surprise, since I have accepted his first answer. “Yes?” I gently coax.

“Why are you laughing, when you are standing there all alone, keeping watch?”

“I am not alone, there are eight others here,” I remind him. Then I smile. “I was thinking about your solution to Boromir’s . . .problem.”

Gimli grins. “You’re still laughing about that?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Well, shouldn't I be? It happened three nights ago.”

“I am an elf. I do not see the passage of time as you do.”

“Oh,” he says quietly. “So you could laugh at my antics for eternity, long after I am gone and this body has withered to dust in its tomb?” he says after a pause.

“Yes,” I whisper. Somehow that thought holds no humour for me. “If it were in me, I would hold up the heavens and bring to naught the relentless march of Ages, if it meant never having to bury a friend.”

I gasp in the starlight. That was not one of my wisest remarks, but it is the truth and the softening of his expression is a wonder to me.

“Thanks,” he whispers, his voice tender and full. He closes his eyes then, the smile never wavering.

I smile and think again about that day in the tree. “Gimli?”

His eyes open again, not begrudging a gaze in my direction, I wager. “Yes?”

“Why do dwarves always use the term, ‘son of’?”

There is a long steely silence.

I am waiting for a rebuke, an angry retort, something akin to it at least. Or worse, a full fight with fists, or perhaps knives. A dual to the death in the name of honour. I wait.

We had begun the tentative steps towards friendship, after centuries of war and misunderstandings. I have almost entertained the idea that Gimli is feeling the same. Within me, something far deeper than friendship has begun to stir. I know that, somewhere in the future, I will not be able to hide its existence from him. From the furtive smiles, the looks, I am hoping he too has felt it. Have I blown it all on one momentary lapse of intelligence? Still, I wait.

“You mean . . .am I really male?” he suddenly says.

In my patience to hear a reply, any reply, I am still startled to get one. He sounds so calm and accepting. Does he know that I know? Certainly, it is possible. Gimli is no fool. “I am certain that you are not,” I say.

Gimli looks at me for a while before he speaks again. “And I am certain that you are an elf,” he replies.

I smile at that. “Which means?”

“Which means that either way, it would not matter all that much to you, in the long run. But you are right.”

My heart suddenly swells with joy. What is it that humans say? My heart leaps into my throat? Mine does. I smile; it must have been a strange smile, because the look he is giving me turns strange.

“That is what bothers me,” he finally admits.

“What does?”

“What would happen if we two gave in to how we feel?”

That shocks me, and it clarifies what I have not dared to ask. His rhetorical question sends a shudder through me. “That would not be wise. Besides, we still have . . .concerns, you and I.”

“Aye,” he agrees softly, without reservation. The history between our two peoples would not be easily put aside. “So if you don’t mind, I’ll get some sleep now . . .and continue ogling you in the morning.”

I fight the grin, but lose. “And I shall continue to find you an endless source of amusement . . .”

“I would expect nothing less,” he interrupts.

I finish, “Until such times as we can declare openly . . .”

“Hold that thought, Princeling!” he suddenly bursts out.

My face is suddenly aflame with anger. “Do not call me Princeling, you over-stuffed hairball!”

That does it. Four gasps and everyone is awake. Before I can cringe, Gimli is on his feet. “You self-pious, pointy-eared troll! If I call you a name it sticks, lad, so be grateful it’s not even more offensive, because believe you me it can and it will if you keep me awake for another night! If it’s not bad enough with Mr. 'I'm-the-steward's-son-so-give-me-the-ring' Boromir, here, snoring loud enough to wake the dead, it’s worse with your royal boasting of immortality and ceaseless girlie giggling!”

I blanch. I do not need a mirror to see it. I can feel it. I swallow as my eyes shrink into my head. Alright, I think to myself. I went too far, but then so did he. “If you call me Princeling one more time I shall personally dismember you, starting with your toes!”

Gimli bristles. “I’ll go one better, lad! I’ll personally tie you, by the ears, to the top of a tree until they stretch so far they’ll be meeting at the back of your thick skull!”

“Ha! Not even a dwarf could do that!” I shout back, buying myself some time to think of something smart to throw back at him. “I doubt you are even good at digging holes. Why else are you here and not mining for some diamond only fit for a braggart to wear and paid for in kind?”

“Why you . . .!” Gimli suddenly has his axe in his hand and I watch with real fear as it swings toward my throat . . .and stops just short.

“Gimli!”" a cry rises, though whose voice it is, I cannot tell.

Aragorn grabs the axe and throws it aside. “That is enough!” His glare turns to me. “Both of you!”

“I am finished,” I declare.

Gimli growls. “You will be,” he mutters and turns away to get back into his bed. Only his eyes are visible again, smouldering at me in the darkness.

I turn away huffily and resume my stance, keeping watch. Everything is back to normal, except that my once light heart has constricted and sunk into the pit that was my stomach. In the silence, the stars overhead as witnesses to my over-confidence, my pride . . .my hurt, I sigh. “Back to normal,” I whisper. “Elbereth, when will it ever change?”

I can sense only Aragorn’s wakefulness nearby. Whether he overheard or not, I care not. This is my fault and I accept it. There will be no more stolen moments, no tender smiles exchanged in secret. Perhaps this is how it was meant to be? Suddenly the image of Boromir launching out of his bedroll comes to mind, and unbidden a chuckle rises. I stop, thinking there is an echo behind me. I chuckle again and another rises softly from the bedroll by the long-dead fire. I am not mistaken.

I am muttering. Ârâgorn keeps eyeing me with an eyebrow raised. I ignore him and keep up, or at least try to. We have not stopped for nigh on twenty-three hours and my feet are killing me. On and on through the winding halls of Moria; tunnels, endless tunnels, some going up, some going down. The dark, the damp, the cold; it never stops. But that’s not why I'm muttering.

My mind wanders back to the gates. Gandalf, grumpy as always, made some smart remark about dwarves being too stupid to remember where their own doors were and how we forgot even the passwords to said doors.

“Why does that not surprise me!” Legolas retorted under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear. I growled under my breath. Though the slight was not aimed at me specifically, it was aimed at dwarves. It is not my forgetfulness, it is not my door. I have never been to Moria, let alone known and forgotten their passwords . . .touchy, aren’t I?

We rested about three hours in from the now ruined West Gate, and Legolas surreptitiously wandered over to sit by me.

“Forgive me if I insulted you,” he said.

I choked on my pipe smoke. “You’re apologising? To me?”

He looked surprised. “Of course. Is it so surprising that I care about your feelings?”

“Well, actually, yes. We have a history, you and I . . . .not to mention our fathers,” I added.

“True,” he conceded. “Pompous, half of them.”

I looked up at his warily. “Which half?”

“My half,” he clarified.

“I thought you were going to say the dwarf half.”

“I did not want to get into another argument. Besides, the whole affair was my father’s fault, and he can be more pompous than a . . .”

“Legolas?” Gandalf’s voice called out. “Where is that confounded elf?”

We looked at each other. “See what I mean?” the elf whispered.

“I do,” I replied with a grin. “But you have to agree, my father and cousins are not without blame.”

“Although, neither of us were involved,” Legolas noted.

“True,” I said, and stuffed my pipe back into my mouth.

“So, that is why I came to apologise . . .for my insult about the door. It was an elf door. Knowing my people, they neglected to tell your kin the password, on purpose.”

“They aren’t my kin,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.

“They are not?”

“No,” I said. “I am from Erebor, although I never saw it until after Smaug was killed. My family were in exile when I was born.”

“And you have never seen Moria, either?” he asked in mild surprise. But then, everything about Legolas is mild. He could have been shocked for all that.

“Not until today,” I admitted.

“But what of you cousin, Balin?”

“He came much later to the halls of Moria.”

“Then, where have you lived all your life, Gimli?” he asked, a worried note to his voice. I found that rather sweet.

I smiled. “In Eriador, not far from a place called Hobbiton, though few knew we were there.”

“My family are in exile, as well,” he told me.

“You are?”

“Legolas!” Gandalf called out, as loudly as he dared I shouldn’t wonder. Legolas’ eyes rose to where the wizard was pacing about asking the others if they had seen him. Legolas did not seem in a hurry to reply, and we continued our conversation.

Legolas turned back to me, a great sadness in his eyes. “For thousands of years we have not seen our home. It was a beautiful place, green and fertile, and dwarves, elves and men lived together in peace.”

“Why do you not go back there?” I asked.

Legolas looked at me. “I would,” he said. “But I cannot swim.”

“Swim?” I frowned.

“It sank into the sea,” he said and smiled with mild amusement. “I would need to drink a lot to reach it.”

“Oh,” I said and chuckled softly. “Glug, glug.”

Legolas smiled widely. “I will sail into the west one day, to a land far better, and more beautiful.”

“I wish I could go with you,” I blurted out without thinking. He looked at me, quite shocked. Actually, I was shocked that I’d said it. “Pah!” I spat, trying to be all dwarf. “Will be terribly boring, I’m sure. A bunch of old elf wenches gathering at tea time, and old wrinkly men contemplating their navels.”

To my surprise, Legolas laughed at my outburst. I expected a black eye. All we got was seven heads turned in our direction. We had been found.

“Why are we whispering, anyway?”

“I did not want the others to think I, an elf, have gone soft on a dwarf . . .”

“Legolas!” Gandalf called out crossly. “Leave the dwarf to his grumbling. It’s no use trying to soften him up!”

“Too right, Gandalf,” the Steward’s son rejoined. “You don’t want the rest of us to think you’ve gone soft on Gimli, do you?”

There was a long silence.

“I see your point,” I said quietly.

Legolas left me alone then, and we had no further opportunity to talk for a further day and a half. But that is not why I am muttering.

We shared cold sausages for breakfast, with shrivelled tomatoes. Again. Gandalf insisted that we not light a fire. It might alert things in the deep he would rather avoid. I don’t want to know what they are, but I would prefer my breakfast warm. Boromir had taken to snoring again last night, and although I was really, really tempted, Legolas had swiped my plate. I grumbled about that for a while until his disarming smile did precisely that - disarmed me, and he knew it.

All I could do was smile back at him, and he knew that also. But the fact that our nearest and dearest elf knew everything is not foremost in my mind right now. My feet are hot and aching, it is true, and we haven’t eaten a thing since last night, but neither of these things are why I am muttering.

The pace has been steady. Gandalf had remembered well the halls and tunnels. I doubt I could do it, if it were needful to retrace our steps. I have a lousy sense of direction. As lousy as Legolas’ eyesight is down here, I should imagine. Even elf eyes have limits.

Talking of limits, I have reached mine. Nay, exceeded it! And still there is no sign of stopping. On and on we trudge, and yet no one, not even the hobbits, are complaining. Except me. I cannot take another minute of this torture. I could take on the might of Mordor, slay a dozen wolves, wield two axes at the same time, go without food and rest for a week, but this? No, I cannot do this.

“Gandalf!” I moan out loud. “Stop! In the name of Aule, stop!”

Suddenly eight pairs of eyes are on me and not the back of Gandalf’s head, but I care not. I have to go, and I have to go now. I cannot hold another minute.

I moan loudly clutching my insulted belly, looking around for a convenient spot . . .a rock, not very big, but perhaps large enough. I scoot behind it, down the britches and squat. A welcome relief, a hugely welcome relief, sweeps through me. I sigh loudly, “By the Heavens, I needed that,” I crow.

Bizarrely, there is not a sound, other than the extended trickle of water. Hoicking up the britches again I step out of the shadows to find seven shocked faces staring at me. The eighth face is covered by a pair of elf hands, which slowly slide down to cover only his mouth. Concerned grey-green eyes meet mine.

Oh dung!

“What?” I said nonchalantly, on the outside at least.

There was a question in their gazes, and I knew I could not avoid it, nor avoid answering it.

“That was the best piss I’ve had in years,” I announced. “Now let’s get a move on before those orcs catch us.”

I make to continue along the trail, but it’s blocked by the burly man of Gondor. Before I can so much as open my mouth, an elf sets a hand to his shoulder.

“You heard him,” Legolas began. “We cannot linger.”

“Him?” Boromir scoffed. “Since when does a man . . .”

Two things happen at once. Gandalf’s staff bonks Boromir on the nut, to which he opens his mouth to yell. At that precise moment Legolas shoves a sausage into his open gob.

I doubt we could have planned this if we had tried.

Ârâgorn huffs a laugh, chuckling softly to himself. The hobbits are still eyeing me with strange expressions. I pay them no mind. Despite starting off again near the front, I soon find myself at the tail of the group. Legolas manoeuvres himself beside me.

“Feeling better?” he hisses.

“Ai,” I whisper back.

“Good,” he says. “Now that all your secrets are bared, if you will pardon the choice of words, may I praise you on your self control? You lasted far longer than Boromir has.”

“I did?”

“Ai,” Legolas replied. "And second to that, you left your trousers undone.”

I look down, and sure enough the top button is secure, but the lower three are open. Worse, the corner of my shirt has bunched together and is poking rather indecently out through the gap.

“Oooh,” I groan. “Life is just peachy.”

“I noticed that too.”

My head shoots up to find an elf grin trying to be mastered by an elf who could not, or rather did not want to master it. I nudge his hand and he yelps, and has to stop to pick up the bow he has ‘dropped’. I turn to see him glaring at me.

“That was clumsy of you,” I note smugly. “Can’t have an elf being clumsy with his bow. He might accidentally shoot something.”

Behind me an elf growls under his breath. I have won this round, nay perhaps the battle.

Lorien was a beautiful place, and Legolas intended to enjoy as much of it as possible. He had gone walking in the forest several times alone, but decided to take Gimli with him one afternoon, and he was soon to regret it.

“Legolas,” a voice called.

Legolas looked up, but he could see no one, not that he was looking for anyone. The voice was inside his mind.

Gimli stopped and looked back. “What’s the matter, lad? Lost?” he jibed.

“Shush!” Legolas forced out.

“Come, Legolas of our Woodland kin, join us for dinner. Bring the Star of Erebor with you.”

Legolas abruptly changed direction and began walking. Gimli rushed to catch up.

“Where are we going?”

“This way,” Legolas replied.

“I thought we were going to see the . . .”

“We can go there tomorrow,” Legolas cut in. “We have been summoned to dinner.”

“Summoned?” Gimli gazed about him. “What do you mean summoned? There’s no one here.”

Legolas kept going. “The Lady Galadriel has summoned us, and I do not intend to keep her waiting, Gimli. Nor should you.” He turned with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Lest she turn you into a sweet-smelling flower for all eternity.”

Gimli’s face twisted into a snarl, but he followed muttering under his breath about elves and their mind speech, but soon fell silent upon hearing a familiar jingle of bells within his head. Galadriel was listening. Gimli curbed even his thoughts, just in case.

Legolas began to climb the stairs the moment he reached them.

Gimli hesitated. “Oh, not these stairs again,” he bemoaned. “It darn near killed me the first time.”

“Gimli?” a gentle voice drifted downward. “Are you afraid of heights?”

“Legolas, if you . . .one more time, and I’ll . . .I’ll do something painful.”

Legolas simply laughed. Gimli caught up with him half way up, puffing and panting as he was. Legolas was un-phased by the climb. At the top, Galadriel was waiting for them with a sweet ethereal smile gracing her lips.

“I am glad you have come,” she said, the same dreamlike quality to her voice.

Gimli bowed without thinking. “My Lady,” he said.

Legolas bowed slightly, hand to heart and touched his forehead in deference. Galadriel smiled, and lifted a hand to sweep a wave towards the table behind her. “Come, join us, and tell us of your journey.”

Celeborn stood behind her chair and held it for her while she sat down. Then taking his own seat he smiled as Legolas and Gimli joined them. The fair was varied, dishes of the Noldor, of Doriath and of the dwarves was served, delicious and warming. The conversation was light and did not touch on the darkness of Moria, nor of their loss, but to Legolas’ surprise it lingered more on their thoughts on each other.

“I find him to be an . . .interesting companion,” Legolas faltered.

“Ai,” Gimli said, chewing heartily on a chunk of red meat. “I agree.”

Legolas lifted an eyebrow. “And a little boastful, and too puffed up in himself, but then he is a dwarf.”

Gimli gazed at him with a measured gaze. “Legolas is one strange elf,” he put in. “One minute he is smiling at me, and the next he is showing himself up.”

“I do not,” Legolas said gently, although he would rather have shouted at him. “Not as much as a certain dwarf I could name.”

“Please, do not mention the plate incident again,” Gimli murmured.

Legolas suddenly grinned, the image of Boromir bursting from his bed like an arrow from a bow. “I was trying not to think of that,” he said, and suppressed a chuckle.

Galadriel’s eyes shifted from one to the other, as did Celeborn’s. “Boromir?” he said.

Gimli simply groaned as Legolas launched into the tale regardless, but laughed despite himself as he heard it from Legolas’ point of view. Galadriel laughed softly, as did Celeborn. Gimli selected another piece of red meat and began to strip it from the bone.

“You like our fair, friend-Gimli?” Celeborn asked.

Gimli nodded and swallowed. “This is the best meal I’ve had in weeks, not that our supplies had been bad, mind you,” he added. “But there’s only so far you can carry sausages and bacon before it no longer holds novelty for you.”

Celeborn nodded slowly. “Perhaps I can bake something for your journey south,” he offered.

Legolas was surprised. “Whilst we would be honoured, Lord Celeborn, it is a long journey and the hobbits’ appetite is, shall we say, vastly larger than their stature. You should not . . .” he searched for the right words without sounding ungrateful or rude.

“Lower myself?” Celeborn suggested. Legolas looked embarrassed. “My dear Legolas, I love to bake. And supplying the Fellowship with food would be an honour, not an imposition.”

“And, once my consort gets into the kitchen,” Galadriel smiled widely. “Getting him out again takes a little work.”

Celeborn lowered his head, and hid a grin. “’It is true, baking is my one weakness, besides my beloved Lady, of course.”

Galadriel chuckled softly.

“Then we shall be honoured,” Legolas replied. “Thank you.”

As if adding his own response, Gimli belched loudly and wiped his mouth with his beard. Legolas grimaced. Celeborn had seen and heard it all before, during his days in Doriath, when elves and dwarves were still friends. Galadriel had not, cloistered as she had been in Valinor, but she took her cue from Celeborn and said nothing.

Legolas was incensed that Gimli would do such a thing before the Lord and Queen of all Elvenden. “Do you have to do that every time you eat?”

Gimli regarded him. “Of course,” he replied. “It’s a sign of good manners to belch after eating, or during.”

Gimli leaned forward and farted, to which Legolas turned green.

“You disgusting beast! You smell revolting!”

“You’re just jealous, because you can’t fart louder than a spider.”

Legolas glared at him. “And that is where you are wrong, Gimli. How could you even think that I would be jealous? I was raised to be a gentle-elf, manners and etiquette are foremost on my mind at all times.”

“Oh really,” Gimli said with quiet amusement. “Then how come you have not belched in gratitude for your meal?”

Legolas reined in his annoyance. The dwarf was goading him, and he knew it. “I do not belch, Gimli, it is unseemly for a prince to do so.”

To which Gimli belched again. “I’m a prince,” he reminded him. “And manners are also my closest friend.”

“You have not met your closest friend for a while, then,” Legolas noted. “Elves do not neglect their friends with such ease as you do yours.”

Gimli’s glare hardened. “I’ll have you know, Princeling,” he said, and watched with delight as Legolas winced. “We dwarves are famed for our manners. It is the stiffness of certain elves that make me wonder not why manners eludes you.”

Legolas jolted in his chair. “I am not stiff.”

“You are stiff,” Gimli reiterated evenly. “And rude.” Legolas’ eyes darkened in fury, but he did not let it out. “You have not used the correct knife with the correct dish during dinner for one,” Gimli continued, and watched with quiet triumph as Legolas looked down at his cutlery, and then sink in his seat when he realised the dwarf was right.

“I will grant you that small victory, my friend,” Legolas returned tightly. “But what of hosting? I do not think it possible that a dwarf could portray geniality towards his guests.”

“On the contrary,” Gimli replied, with growing annoyance. “Our guests are always treated as good as we treat ourselves, if not better. A bow, an offer of service, fresh food, red meat off the bone and plenty of malt beer. And to follow, hearty songs around the fire, warriors tales, warm beds turned down, and clothing laundered to perfection to be returned by morning.”

Not to be outdone, Legolas began his own tirade. “How about kindness, and concern, gentleness? I have yet to see a dwarf smell a flower without having all the petals ripped off with the force of your inward breath. Or have one greet the hart upon the road and not shoot it down in cold blood.”

Gimli knew well that story. “Or an elf not greet hungered travellers lost upon the road home and offer them repast, instead give them lodgings in their dungeons!”

Celeborn and Galadriel glanced at each other and smiled gently. There was a twinkle of mischief in his eye that amused his wife. Their guests would learn a valuable lesson. Galadriel carefully unpicked the stitches of a silver bow on her gown, and unknotted it and passed it to Celeborn.

Legolas and Gimli continued, forgetting where they were and who they were with.

“Or pass by a private function, intended for elves alone,” Legolas recalled, “A marriage of song and beauty, uprooted by dwarves crashing through the forest and interrupting the festivities.”

“Pah, weddings!” the dwarf spat. “What do elves know of weddings? You wouldn’t know a wedding from a funeral!”

“Weddings are beautiful, full of song and light, and something you would not understand,” Legolas told him. “You dwarves do not get married, you simply pick one and lie with them.”

“No more than you, elf!” Gimli retorted. “You would not even know how to conduct yourself at a wedding,” he added, when his rebuff silenced the prince.

Legolas quieted. “I have never attended a wedding, since elves do not have them very often.”

“Ha!” Gimli burst out. “There you have it. I know more than you do, elf, for I have attended no less than 48 weddings . . .and farted grandly through all of them.”

Legolas snorted. “Then, you shall never attend my wedding, if I should ever have one, which I doubt. I would not want a farting dwarf to ruin the air of my celebration.”

Gimli turned to him, a cold gaze for the elf. “If we be the friends you claim, then I shall attend, and I shall fart to my heart’s content.”

Legolas was on his feet in a second. “No, you will not! You will be left outside to fart to you heart’s content!”

Gimli stood up and waved a fist at him, but what he had intended to say was never said.

“For the love of the Valar, this was bad enough hearing you two from afar, now I have it in my own house!” Celeborn rose gracefully from his seat and took both their right hands and tied them together with the ribbon. “I have had enough, and I know my Lady and Queen has. Go back to the pavilion and cool down. You are a pair of hot heads.”

Legolas and Gimli stared at the ribbon around their wrists in horror. Galadriel grinned to herself, but said nothing. Mumbled apologies were offered from both princes, and then silence came.

“At last,” Celeborn noticed with much relief. “It is quiet. Now, rest, sleep and when peace is restored to our world you may learn to like the peace that is in your hearts . . .if you ever learn to find it.”

Legolas left the table and made for the stairs. He quickly realised that he would have to remove the ribbon first if he was to ever walk normally. It would not be seemly to fall upon Gimli, not that it had ever occurred to him to do so; actually it had, but not with their hands tied, and certainly not in front of Celeborn and Galadriel. Legolas turned red at the thought and fussed over the ribbon for a moment before it came loose. He stuffed it into his pocket and walked as quickly as he could from the scene before anyone could ask any awkward questions.

“No one knows except Celeborn,” the elf noted quietly. “Let us return to the pavilion and act normally.”

“Agreed,” Gimli said stiffly. “Normal as in normal, or normal as in how we normally are to each other?”

“Gimli, just . . .do it. That way no one will tell that we are now less normal than we normally are.”

Gimli nodded as he walked. “How normal is that?”

Legolas rolled his eyes. “If the others find out, they will insist we share . . .beds . . .to sleep in . . .that, I would not be able to live with. No, we had better just be ourselves and not let on a thing. They do not know what has happened.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“For the moment,” Legolas added.

“For the moment? What do you mean, for the moment?”

“Say another word and I promise, I shall not be held responsible for what I do to you.”

Gimli fell silent for all of thirty seconds. “Ârâgorn will have a field day . . .”

“Gimli . . .”

“I can’t keep silent,” the dwarf complained quietly. “I can’t believe you walked right into that. Of all the elves’ wisdom and now look where it got you.”

“I know where it got me!” Legolas exclaimed. “Tied to a dwarf for the rest of eternity.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Gimli muttered. “I was there.”

Legolas groaned. “If I wasn’t bound to you I would . . .Ârâgorn!” Legolas almost shrieked, coming to a sudden halt. “Fancy meeting you here . . .”

“Yes,” the heir put in, with a light frown. “Never would have thought it.” As calm as ever, he regarded them both. “Are you two still arguing? Why not just be friends? Is it so hard?”

As he passed him, Legolas replied, “I wish it were possible to just be friends.”

Ârâgorn sighed and sucked on his lower lip. “Gandalf, why did you go and die on me?” he beseeched softly to the sky. “Anything . . .anything at all would be better than those two as enemies.”

Gimli and Legolas sat in mutual and sullen silence for two days. Finally, having had enough of Gimli’s sighing, Legolas exploded.

“Will you stop huffing in my ear!”

Gimli shot to his feet. “Why in Arda, would I want to huff in your ear!”

Elsewhere, startled eyes rose.

“You were huffing in my ear, dwarf! Cease it, or suffer the consequences.”

“And I say cease complaining, or I will truly lose my patience.”

Ârâgorn calmly interjected, “You notice Legolas did not mention that he didn’t like it . . .”

“You be quite!” Legolas snapped, and turned back to the dwarf. “You have been nothing but a thorn in my side since the day we met. You are a low-down earth-raping numb-skull, who does not even clean his teeth to kiss an orc!”

“Your father is an orc!” Gimli threw back. “You silver-haired, prissy no-brainer with hands so clean, you probably have maidens to wipe your rear end for you. You have never done so much as a hard day’s work on your life, you spoilt brat!”

“You are my hard day’s work!” Legolas rejoined. “Never in my many long years have I felt the kiss of time as I do having to spend it with you! You are a pest, a warg’s growl is fairer, a goblin’s smile is fairer. And what is more, I would rather kiss an orc!”

“And your hair is so short and soft, I could swear you were a babe in arms, waiting for titty time!”

Boromir stepped back from the full spat, gathering the hobbits all around him to protect them, should any sharp pointy things be drawn. This was worse than anything that had gone on before, and even Ârâgorn was on his feet in concern.

“You wouldn’t know tits if they slapped you in the face!” Legolas shouted.

Gimli winced briefly. Ouch. “And you wouldn’t even know what to do with a pair, if you had any!” he roared. “You are an egotistical, spineless, self-centred half-wit, with ears that no mother would love.”

Legolas did not hesitated to retaliate. “You leave my mother out of it, you tactless, spiteful, unceasingly insulting, stupid dwarf! It is your fault Gandalf is dead.”

“That’s low, and short sighted, even on hindsight you witless immortal!” Gimli shouted back. “If I hadn’t taken us into Moria, we would have all become icicles on Caradhras, or have you no memory of that?”

“I have perfect memory, you ungrateful mole rat!” Legolas stormed. “Gandalf warned us and you ignored that warning. Now he is dead.”

Unaware, elves had gathered not far away, drawn by the clamour, but keeping their distance.

“Mole rat?” Gimli spat. “You worm! If you had half the wisdom you profess to possess you would have known better than to question Gandalf! And don’t bring in the dead to fight your battles, lad, or I’ll hew that twig body of yours into crow meal!”

“Twig? If I am twig, you are a barrel. I can see where Bilbo got the idea for rescuing your father from. You dwarves are all barrel-shaped. You eat too much, you drink too much, you talk too much and you fart too much. And, if that was not bad enough, you annoy me!”

“I take it back,” Gimli retorted. “Nay, you are not a twig. You are a twisted twig. I’ve seen more meat on a skeleton. If you ate any less, you’d be a flea. In fact, you are a flea!”

“If I am a flea, why are you sitting next to me?”

“You sat next to me,” Gimli countered. “Is this forest not big enough for you?”

“I sat down first. Admit it, you cannot stand being alone. So stuck on mines and jewels you cannot stand the light of the trees.”

“Don’t try weaving your elven magic on me, princeling!”

“Do not call me princeling, you coughed-up hairball!”

“Hairball, eh? Trying to get into my good graces are you?” Gimli growled loudly.

Silence.

Legolas sank in his boots at the indrawn breath from nearby. The sound of his last words echoed across the glade and away through the mallyrn. Gimli’s look said everything. Why did he have to open his big mouth?

More silence.

Suddenly Boromir collapsed into laughter. After several gasping fits and wrenching his gloves off to wipe the tears from his eyes, he managed to speak. “I should have known. Only two locked in mortal wedlock could fight so harshly.”

The hobbits looked at each other, shocked, not fully taking in the big folks as their speech had come fast and intense. “Married? They’re married? When did that happen?”

Ârâgorn choked on his own breath as he stared at them both. “Wife!?”

Pippin finally looked up. “So when’s the reception? I hope there’s enough food. I’m starving.”

Gimli snarled up at Legolas and though the fight in him was spent, he managed a quiet growl. “Now, you’ve gone and told the entire city. Nice one, you nitwit.”

Legolas sighed tightly. “I am sorry,” he said softly. “I am sorry.”

Gimli looked at the ground between them for a moment before looking up at him. “So am I,” he replied. “There was no need for what I said. Any of it. More than that, I meant none of it.”

“Nor I, Gimli.”

Ârâgorn smiled gently and walked up to them without interrupting the moment. “It is customary to kiss and make up.”

“I forgive you, Gimli . . .forgive me?” Legolas beseeched softly.

Gimli took a tentative step closer and smiled. “Aye,” he said. “I can do that.”

Legolas smiled softly and dropped to one knee and kissed him gently

Gimli looked at him. “Pah! You call that a kiss?” the dwarf demanded gruffly

Legolas’ reached out and pressed his fingers to Gimli’s lips to stop the rest of what was sure to be one hell of a tirade . . . “No,” he said. “That was just for starters.” Legolas’ lips descended onto Gimli’s in full force, love and passion, and continued until well beyond what was thought of a ‘customary‘, let alone decent in public.

A light tap on Legolas’ shoulder and the kiss ended abruptly. Legolas’ head shot up to gaze upward at Ârâgorn, breathless. Gimli swooned, but somehow managed to retain his feet.

Ârâgorn indicated with a nod of his head in the direction of the tents. “Get a room.”

Legolas looked up at him and his gaze turned dark, as his eyes suddenly took in a multitude of elves hidden among the mallyrn. He rose, lifting Gimli with him, and ran.

They did not return for several hours. Legolas eyes were all puffy from having been crying, and Gimli was holding his hand. No one said a word beyond greeting them. With care, Gimli attended the elf, offer him food and sitting beside him. Neither said much, but there was a slow smile that curved their lips.

“I suppose you realise, I shall tease you relentlessly through all time?” Gimli voiced quietly.

“I had occurred to me,” Legolas replied. “And I shall repay in like manner.”

“Oh good,” Gimli said, and smiled. After a moment, he added, “Husband.”

“Wife,” Legolas said softly, gazing up at the tall trees towering above them. He turned to Gimli and smiled.