Aragorn was walking through the gardens, a short cut to his meeting with the Captain of the Guard. He had a proposal for the last Steward of Gondor, a gift for Faramir who had fought to protect Osgiliath and for all that his brother had done for Middle Earth. Aragorn was giving the last of the line of Stewards the land of Ithilien as a princedom. He tried to picture what the man’s reaction would be.

As he crossed the garden he looked at the dark marble pedestal that stood in the centre where once had stood a statuette of Elendil, but now was bereft of decoration save for a number of notches where the figurine had been crudely removed. Now, he spied something lying on the pedestal and came to a stop, looking at it with surprise. It looked like a sheet, nay two sheets of paper, with writing on at least the top sheet. As far as he knew only members of the Royal House, his guests, and the House of Stewards used this garden, servants were not even permitted to enter it except in its upkeep.

So who had been writing a letter in his private garden? More to the point, had he disturbed someone? It was his house, he had a right to know. Perhaps he could return it to them and speak no more of it. He stepped closer and found no quill or ink nearby. The ink on the parchment was already dry, which meant only one thing . . .the writer had deliberately left the sheets here.

Aragorn lifted the parchment and looked at it more. There was no name, title or address at the top, but it was a letter. Was it for him? His heart skipped a beat as he began to read.

Aragorn tipped his head up to look at the lamp above him. It was the only lamp within the walled garden, its small oil-filled bowl cradled beneath the overhanging lid to keep off the rain. He had not been aware that it was even lit at night. He was aware of another breath, one that escaped his lips, and he read on.

Aragorn let out a short sharp breath. “Arwen,” he whispered. “You certainly have a way with words.” At least he could think of no other who would speak to him thusly.

Aragorn gasped. It was hard enough being apart from her for the hours he had duties to perform, but this . . .?

The letter was unsigned. Aragorn frowned at the depth of the feeling written there. It had to be Arwen, he could not think of another who would write so fully of her love. He certainly had not given anyone else any reason to doubt his being foresworn.

He set the letter down, suddenly remembering the meeting with Faramir. He could take it with him, but had no pocket to stow it away in, and holding it in his hands would be distracting. Leaving it where he had found it, as it said to do, even though he wanted to carry it next to his heart, he set off again at a run. He left the garden re-entering the palace by another door. He was now late, he hoped Faramir would forgive him.

For the past three hours, Aragorn paced him rooms, adjusting things, readjusting things, and pacing some more. He was nervous, anxious, and yet . . .he was in truth too old for this teenage behaviour. He knew Arwen loved him and she knew he loved her. The letter was probably some romantic idea of hers to court him, to make up for her father’s attempt, albeit with the best intentions, to separate them forever. Yes, he decided with a smile. Arwen would do that. She had done similar in the past.

He looked up at the moon and judged the time. Another hour before midnight. He sighed, and went in search of something else to do. After a few minutes, he could stand it no more and left his rooms and took the corridor towards the garden. His heart was skipping a beat as he walked, and he willed himself to calm down.

Suddenly he was at the door, one of eight identical doors. The lamp was lit and beneath it, on the marble pedestal lay the letter, just as he had left it.

Aragorn held the letter in his hands as he turned at her approach.

“You write so profoundly,” she said.

“You did not write this for me?” he asked in surprise.

Arwen shook her head. “No. I thought you had written it for me.” She turned and his eyes lifted as three people arrived from different directions, Merry, Frodo and Faramir.

“If this letter is not for us . . .” Aragorn’s words faded away.

“I thought the letter was for me,” Faramir spoke. “Though I must admit, I have had no lady in mind.”

A pair of eyes surveyed the scene with confusion and disappointment. He mentally cursed his lack of foresight, he had not written the person’s name at the top. He had to save what dignity he could and walk away from this unscathed . . .if possible. Just as he was about to step into the light he pushed himself back into the shadow, someone else was approaching the gathering.

“You wrote the letter?” Pippin asked in shock.

“Not I,” Aragorn replied. “We are as much surprised and baffled as you.”

Gandalf stepped into the light just as Pippin sank onto the step at the foot of the pedestal. “I thought I had finally had some luck,” the young hobbit said, his eyes downcast.

“Hmmm,” Gandalf noted. “It seems that this letter fooled me too. That is . . .unless all of us love each other?”

Gimli stepped in from another direction, surreptitiously brushing brick dust from his clothing, pursing his lips in deep contemplation. “I think the letter was meant for one of us. Why else would it be here?”

Éowyn rushed up out of breath. “Am I late?” she puffed.

Aragorn regarded her, finger to his lips in thought. “You did not write it either?”

“No,” she said.

“I didn’t write it,” Frodo said. “I thought it was for me, but like Faramir I don’t have anyone in mind.”

Merry smiled softly. “I was kind of hoping it was for me, but Éowyn loves Faramir,” he grinned.

Éowyn smiled softly, her cheeks pinked at his teasing.

Faramir turned to him in surprise. “She does?” He paused a beat. “She does,” he realised, and mentally chastised himself for not thinking of her. She elbowed him in fun. “Only, she does not fear to come to me and tell me her inner feelings. Éowyn fears nothing. She would not have written a letter.”

Samwise stepped into the light and frowned as he pulled cobwebs from his hair. “Well, this is a fine mystery, if ever there was one. Don’t tell me we all read the same letter.”

Aragorn looked up to see yet another figure approaching. “Legolas,” he said.

Stepping boldly beneath the lamp Legolas caught the gazes of those already standing within its light. He stopped before Aragorn and held out his hand. “Mine, I believe,” Legolas said. There was no emotion in his voice or his face, and his steady blue eyes were clear.

Aragorn saw the grey dust on the sleeve of his tunic where he had been leaning against a wall, either to observe the responders, or perhaps see who had written the letter, Aragorn could not tell. “You wrote this?”

“I did not say that,” Legolas replied. “Simply that it was mine.”

Aragorn released the letter into Legolas’ care, who promptly folded it neatly and slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt. Without another look, he walked away.

Legolas spent a sleepless night, pacing his rooms. The letter was pressed against his chest, near his skin, almost close enough to sear the words written there into the flesh of his heart. The letter was burning him, at least it seemed to be. In truth it was his anger that burned. Eleven people had turned up all hoping that they were the lucky recipient, and eleven went away thinking the letter was meant for them.

Legolas could barely conceal the fury. As he passed the chair that stood by the desk he punched downwards upon its solid wood backrest. He recoiled, shaking his hand. “Æb el min ar-nädh noeth! Nasdh sen jah min!” he shouted, not caring if he woke those sleeping in the rooms on either side of his. Angry tears sprang to his eyes and he could not find it in him to care. He sucked defensively at the purplish bruise already beginning to darken his hand. “It should have been mine,” he whispered.

An unexpected knock at the door startled him. Had he been so enraged that he had not heard the approaching footsteps?

“Come,” he called, expecting some servant to be bringing a night cap or some such. Instead, his visitor as none other than Prince Imrahil. He bowed his head, even when he did not feel like doing it. “Your Highness, I was not expecting you to call at this hour,” he greeted stiffly.

“Of course not,” Imrahil replied. “It is not a habit of mine, but I wished to know what became of the moonlight tryst.”

“That letter has caused more harm than good.”

“So I would imagine.” Imrahil replied. He was doing his best to look the epitome of sobriety, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his blue eyes as he looked down his nose at the lesser prince.

That only added fuel to Legolas’ fire. “You arrogant, cold-hearted . . .!”

“Who answered it?” Imrahil asked, interrupting the flow, completely unfazed by the insults.

“You know who answered it,” Legolas snapped. “There was no name at the top. Every person born of royal blood in residence in the palace turned up at midnight. Even Gandalf and Sam were there.” Legolas turned his anger darkened eyes towards the Prince. “All except you,” he noted.

Imrahil spread his hands wide. “Why would I turn up? The letter was not for me.”

“Everyone believes it was meant for me!” He let out a short huffed breath. “I am not in love. I have no idea who would wish to bestow their affections upon me.” Legolas narrowed his eyes. “Who was the letter from?”

Imrahil smiled gently. “Dear Legolas, write a reply and find out. The author was there, trust me.”

Legolas noticed the brick dust on the back of his tunic. “You were in the garden,” he realised. “Why did you not show yourself?”

“Does the hind show herself at the wolves’ feast?”

“Will you stop regaling me with riddles! I have taken it all day.” Legolas retorted. “With all due respect, your Highness, but I can take no more. You must tell me who the message was from.”

“If the letter was not intended for you why then is it so important to know?” Imrahil stepped towards him and gently took his elbow, guiding him to the desk where ink, quill and parchment were laid out. “Prince Legolas, please sit.”

Legolas sat down and sighed. “I do not feel like writing.”

“I think you aught to,” Imrahil coaxed him. “The letter at least deserves a reply. That way, the one who asked me may get what is justly his. Could you, in all honesty, allow such a love to perish for want of sustenance? Or leave it unspoken or unanswered? How could you let such a deep love wither when it has barely begun? I would answer it, but I have not the heart of a lover. Not like you. You are the poet, a master of the word, the owner of a heart and soul of one in love, even if denied. A visionary of feelings . . .”

“Alright,” Legolas cut in and sighed in frustration. Legolas thought for a moment. He picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink. With a tap on the well’s rim he brought it to the parchment. For a moment it hovered, suspended above the fibres, waiting for his thoughts to gather and take form.

Legolas threw the quill onto the parchment, splattering ink across the page. “No,” he cried out. “This is wrong. I should not be doing this.”

“Legolas, you . . .”

“No, your Highness. I will not. Gone are the days when I would answer to your every whim, simply because you were higher than I. Gone are the days when I would fulfil every command you gave, blindly, with no thought to self or sanity. You cannot and should not force me to write a letter in response to one that was not meant for me. I cannot feel something for a person I cannot name. You have my respect, Imrahil . . .this would break it.”

Imrahil gazed at him, not knowing what to say. “It is true I did once look upon you as no better than a servant, because your status is lower than my own. I am truly sorry for that. It was undeserved. I should have looked upon you as an equal, not a common beggar, even when we all look upon our Woodland kin as no better than Avari scum.”

“There is no ‘we’, Imrahil,” Legolas grated back. “Only you.”

Imrahil paused for a moment, and cast his eyes to the floor. “It was callous and unnecessary, I realise that now,” he said, not acknowledging the correction, nor offering any apology. “Legolas, this is different. I know it is within you to do this, for the heart that waits for a reply. Two hearts so deserving of each other, a love that has never been so great upon these shores since before the world began.”

Legolas gazed back at him, feeling the corners of the letter in his breast pocket dig into him with every rise and fall of his chest. The letter burned into his very soul, the burn stung at the corners of his eyes. “I am through being manipulated by you. I have my dignity and my pride.” Legolas walked towards him, reaching for the folded sheets of parchment in his pocket. In disgust he tossed it in Imrahil’s face. “You should not have had me write the letter,” he whispered.

Aragorn pulled her against him and kissed her head before sighing. Arwen lay awake hearing the raised voices in the next chamber.

“Who is he arguing with?” he whispered.

“Imrahil.”

Aragorn frowned gently. “What about?”

“I am not sure,” she replied. “The palace walls are thick, even elf ears have their limits.”

“Perhaps Imrahil wrote the letter to Legolas,” he suggested. “It has certainly whipped up a royal storm.”

“Imrahil did not write the letter, Legolas did,” she replied. “Upon second glance I noticed something that is uniquely Legolas.”

“What is that?”

“He does not dot his i’s, he writes circles above them. I do not know of another being who does that.”

“Who did he write it for?”

She turned enough to look up at him. “I do not know. Everyone was in the garden, save for Imrahil. If it was not for us, then it must have been for Imrahil.”

“That would not make sense,” Aragorn said. “Legolas has harboured a centuries-long resentment for Imrahil.”

“I know,” Arwen whispered. “I have felt it, too, but my father bade me not to speak of it.”

The voices rose again from beyond the stone partition.

“Shall we drown out the shouting with our own?”

Arwen suddenly laughed softly before turning to face him fully. “And how would we ever get to sleep before dawn, if we did?”

The dwarf puffed at his pipe in deep thought. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Of all the beautiful words written in the letter, he could only have come up with half of them. And they said dwarves were unromantic. He huffed a sigh.

“I thought every bone in my body was romantic, but that took the biscuit. Not in a thousand lifetimes could I have thought all that up, say nothing of writing it down.”

“Don’t take on so, Mr Gimli, sir,” Sam comforted. “You’re not alone. I thought it too.” Sam sighed. “If only I could remember it all, so I can repeat it all to Rosie Cotton when we get home,” he added wistfully.

Frodo smiled from where he sat beside him, sitting up against the wall. “I’m sure you will think of some equally eloquent words to say, Sam,” he assured him.

Sam smiled hopefully. “I liked the bit about the moon and the sun . .. how did it go again?”

“You are my sun and my moon, the hours, days and seasons. You are my breeze upon heated skin, the flesh of my desire and my soul for eternity. As the cool moon claims the sun’s heat from the earth so does your smile drive the pain from my heart.”

Sam and Frodo lifted their heads in unison to stared open mouthed at the dwarf. Gimli turned to look back at them. “Or something like that,” he added.

He stood up, hearing the raised voices from across the hall. “Get some sleep, young hobbits,” he said. “I’m going to bed. Thanks for the pipe weed.”

“You’re welcome, Mr Gimli,” Sam said as the dwarf stepped through the doorway and into the hall.

“Write the reply,” Imrahil demanded again.

“No!” Legolas shouted. “I will not be a pawn in your game. Write it yourself.”

“I told you, I cannot.”

Legolas lifted his eyes to his cousin and asked, “Who was the letter for anyway?”

Imrahil opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Who did the message come from? Why could they not write the letter themselves? Why get me involved?”

From the en suite bathroom a silent figure stepped through the door unnoticed, to observe the feuding pair.

“That is for you to discover, not for me to tell you.”

“Yet another riddle. Will you never give me a straight answer?”

“I was told not to reveal it, only to ask a friend to write the letter, that is all.”

“Then you know that person, and possibly who the recipient is,” Legolas noted. “Name them. Who was the letter from? Who was supposed to receive it?”

“I will tell you nothing,” Imrahil replied.

Legolas suddenly whirled on him, a white blade in his hand. “I am in no mood for your lies, your treachery, or your deceit. Either tell me or get out and leave me to my own feelings!”

“I would much rather watch you and hear your anger.”

“You are getting your wish!” Legolas retorted loudly. “You are the one the letter is from, are you not? Why did you get me to write your foolish letter? Who is she that has taken your heart, when you have a wife at home? Is she really worth going to war for, because that will be what this will lead to? I cannot believe you have so little honour! You have such disrespect and disregard for your wife, and for yourself. How could you? How could you do this to me?!”

The watcher remained hidden. At this point the angry elf had his back to him, but Imrahil caught a glimpse of an outline in the half-hidden doorway. “If you want to be angry, you should turn your anger towards the person whose idea it was to write the letter.”

Imrahil stood silent as Legolas turned, startled, towards the drapes behind him where the voice had arisen. Gimli stepped from the shadows, silently gloating at having sneaked up on an elf. With ears like that it was not an easy thing to do.

“What are you doing here?” Legolas demanded. “This has nothing to do with you!”

“Yes, it does,” Gimli replied evenly. “Writing the letter was my idea.”

Legolas levelled a glare at Imrahil. “And you have had me ranting at you for over half an hour?”

Imrahil lifted his hands wide, but said nothing of the matter. “I’ll leave you two to sort this out between you.”

“You down-right, self-centred, dishonourable, arrogant, scheming . . .!”

“Cousin,” Imrahil put in quickly, to replace what looked set to be a very nasty word indeed. “I was hired, for a good price I might add, to bring two hearts together. I did that.”

“You had me write a love letter for a dwarf!”

Imrahil smiled slightly. “Good night, dear cousin,” was all he said.

Legolas watched in consternation as Imrahil left him alone with Gimli. He turned his angry eyes to the small fellow. “I have written a love letter for a dwarf!” he voiced in exasperation, hands on hips.

“And every word of it is true.”

“And that is supposed to make me feel better?” he asked. He turned to gaze out of the window, disappointment sagging his shoulders, leaning on his hands on the sill. “I have been used.”

Gimli cast his eyes downward. “Are you going to ask me?” he wondered quietly.

“You are my friend,” Legolas said quietly. “At least I thought you were. I feel cheated.”

“Aren’t you going to ask who the letter was intended for?”

Legolas’ turned his head, the predawn light casting a silver sheen across the side of his face, his eyes large and round with untold depths of pain. “I would rather live with the not knowing,” he voiced softly. He pushed away from the window and crossed to the door.

“The letter was for you.”

Legolas froze. There was a long silence, so deep that it belied the grave. The voice that followed dripped with the ice that had formed around his heart, of betrayal, of deceit. “You had me write a letter of love . . .to myself.”

Gimli swallowed. “Some of those words were not mine, I should remind you. Imrahil told me that none of them were his, so I would conclude that they were yours.”

“They were mine,” Legolas spoke quietly. For another silent moment, Legolas stood still, head slightly bowed.

“I’m sorry I hurt you. It was not my intention,” Gimli said. The silence continued. “Did the letter also say how the moonlight makes you glow like mithril? Did it also say how alone I feel when we are apart, how inadequate I am when you don’t talk to me?” The silence continued. Gimli fair shook with frustration. “Can we at least have a fight just so we can make out . . .I mean, make up?” Gimli corrected.

Legolas’ shoulders shook slightly and for a moment it was unclear if it was laughter or tears. He turned and knelt before the dwarf in one move, so fast that Gimli stepped back, blinking, half wondering if the blade was still in the elf’s hand.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are most infuriating, vain, self-pious, puffed up dwarf I have ever met?” Legolas’ voice was filled with disgust.

Gimli had the presence of mind to look shocked, but little else. There were tears on the elf’s face, but his eyes were laughing. At least Gimli thought they were, he wasn’t sure. “Er . . .no,” Gimli said.

“Well, you are!” Legolas almost shouted at him. He rose and returned to the window. He leaned on the further side gazing out at the world, growing ever brighter with the dawn.

Gimli stuck his hands behind his stout frame and rocked slightly back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“I cannot believe you would destroy my trust, my friendship over something that you know cannot exist between us,” Legolas spoke. “I thought these things meant something to you.”

“They do,” Gimli replied. “I thought they meant something to you, too, but, obviously I was wrong.”

“Friends do not use each other,” Legolas snapped.

“I was not aware that Imrahil was going to ask you to write the letter.”

“Why, in the name of Valar, did you not write it yourself?”

“I cannot read and write,” Gimli replied, shocking the elf into instant silence. “I never learned. I tried, but I could never do it. So I gave up. Why do you think it was Gandalf who read the great book in Moria, and not I? You really think that I would put quill to parchment and scribble shapes onto a page and impress an elf such as you? Sometimes your foolishness surpasses my own, did you know that?” Gimli pulled a glove from his hand and threw it at the elf’s feet. “Show me an elf who would be impressed by me and my short-comings, including my height. Show me an elf who would ever see a dwarf as anything to smile at, or speak with kindness to. Show me an elf who loved me as a friend, when all others would rather see me dead. Show me an elf who would lay down his life to protect a dwarf from a thousand Rohirrim,” he challenged. “I once was stupid enough to think you were that elf, but I see I was wrong. If I could take back the past twenty hours I would do it, but you will never make me take back what was said. I refuse,” he said, lowering his voice to a mere growl. Gimli noted the folded parchment on the floor where it had been thrown. “Don’t slip on the letter you discarded,” Gimli warned gently and turned for the door that Imrahil had left by. “I would hate for you to get hurt on my account.”

In silence, Legolas listened to the door behind him close softly. In total shock, he stood alone, gazing at the forgotten letter that lay at his feet and the gauntlet of challenge that lay beside it. He had been a fool. He had wasted a once in a lifetime chance and had not a single clue as to what he could do to change it. You could not take back words once they were spoken, no more than Gimli could forget what was written in the letter.

He had been right, half of those words had been his. Legolas had supplied the medium of words for a being who could not use them, and he had replied by doing nothing more than scoff at him. He still expected the anger to be there, but instead all he could feel was emptiness.

He blinked back the bitter sting in his eyes and snatched up the parchment and gauntlet. His blade still lay on the table, not knowing when he had left it there he slipped it back into its sheath and pushed the parchment back into his pocket. He paused for one glance at the soft hide in his hands and closed his hand around it. He knew what he had to do.

Leaving the room without a backward glance he went straight to the dwarf’s room. “Gimli?” he called upon opening the door.

The room was empty, the bed unused and his axes gone. Legolas turned, thinking quickly. “Where would he have gone?” he whispered. He rushed from the room and called out, knowing that some people would be asleep, but beyond caring. “Gimli?”

Gimli’s favourite haunts, the dining hall and kitchens, were deserted. “Gimli?” Legolas called, his voice cried hollowly through the columned halls. Everything was silent and only his echo came back to taunt him.

Retracing his steps to the archway that led into the Hall of Kings he ran passed the kings of old, through the great wooden doors and out into the early morning sun. The stone courtyard was empty apart from the Tower guards.

“Did a dwarf pass through here?” Legolas asked.

“Yes, my lord,” the guard replied. “About an hour ago.”

An hour? Had he really been gone that long? “Which way did he go?”

“Down the pass to the next level, my lord,” the guard told him.

Legolas thanked him and left at a run. Perhaps he could catch up with him. And then what? he asked himself. He did not know, but decided to deal with that when he found him. The city was still asleep. Only the guards were milling about, in an attempt to keep warm in the early spring sunrise.

Far below him the gates, such as they were, were being closed. At this angle, he could not see why, but he could guess. At a run, Legolas made for the stables where his horse stood munching on hay. Taking a moment to say good morning, he mounted and urged the horse down the hill to the lower levels. It seemed to take forever to weave back and forth through the gates between the many levels, but finally he reached the outer gates.

He paused only briefly at the edge of the fields, wondering which way the dwarf had taken. There was no sign of him in either direction. Looking from right to left and back again, he chose one and dug his heals into the horse’s ribs. At the back of his mind he knew he had left without a word, but he had to find his friend. Right now, Gimli was more important.

Legolas travelled north to the forests of Fangorn where he and Gimli had promised to explore together once the guests from the Shire and Rohan had begun their journey home. Now he travelled it alone, calling for his friend, but finding no sign of him.

After days of fruitless searching he turned south towards Helm’s Deep, and the Glittering Caves. There he gazed up at the crystalline deposits and tried to imagine Gimli’s enthusiastic words. They had also planned to visit the caves together, but there was no sign of him. And the words he thought Gimli might have spoken would not come to mind.

Alone and bewildered he returned to Imladris, knowing that on this day the fellowship would be meeting there before parting for the last time. Imrahil was waiting for him at the threshold of the palace, as were him friends, Aragorn and Arwen and the hobbits.

“Legolas,” Aragorn greeted. “You are looking tired. Come, join us for a meal.”

Legolas clasped his shoulder. “I am tired,” he admitted. “But my journey is not done. I must press on.” While he gave a brave but watery smile to his hobbit friends, there was nothing but pure hatred and contempt for the Prince.

Imrahil approached him, hand outstretched to greet him in the usual elven way, but Legolas stepped back from him and uttered not one word. Instead Legolas turned to Elrond, who was both surprised and confused by the elf’s arrival alone, and shocked and deeply hurt by the display towards Imrahil.

“My lord Elrond,” he said. “I require only a little food and water before I continue my journey home. I do not doubt my father will be in need of my help before leaving for the Grey Havens. I am sorry I must take my leave of you so quickly.”

Elrond was taken aback for a moment before recovering and answering him. “Yes, of course. The battle in Mirkwood was no less fierce than those in Helm’s Deep, Pelennor and Dagorlad.” He raised a cursory eye in Imrahil’s direction. The Prince looked away. Elrond knew that something had happened, but no one had said a word. “Send greetings to your father. I wish him well.”

Legolas bowed and said nothing more, walking away towards the eating halls at the foot of the wide staircase.

Arwen followed down the sweeping steps. “Legolas,” she called.

Legolas halted on the last step, but did not turn to meet her gaze. “Please, do not stop me,” he pleaded softly.

“I will not stop you from leaving,” she replied. “But you are going to explain it to me first.”

Legolas half turned towards her, ignoring the man and the elf stood at the top of the stairs, ignoring, too, the presence of others out of sight in the portico courtyard above, hobbits and elves alike. “Gimli set me a challenge. Show him an elf, he said, who would be impressed by him, an elf who would smile, speak with kindness or lay down his life for a dwarf rather than kill him.” Legolas battled to stay in control, his voice breaking. “I did not find that elf, because there is no elf besides me who would do these things,” he whispered.

“The letter was for you,” Arwen spoke softly.

“Imrahil,” he said simply, and it was enough for her to understand. Legolas swallowed, his eyes wide as he looked up at her. “I searched . . .everywhere, but . . .I could not find Gimli . . .to tell him . . .” He frowned, unable to go on. Turning he stepped off the stairs, but hesitated. “My father will be waiting,” he finished, and disappeared into the lower hall.

Arwen turned to the man at the top of the stairs. “Estel?” she whispered a plea.

He shook his head, equally lost for answers. He descended the stairs and entered the hall, but it was empty, almost as if Legolas has simply turned himself into a vapour to be carried away on the wind. Moments later, he heard the sound of horse’s hooves crossing the bridge. Rushing to the window he saw a flash of grey vanishing in the trees beyond the river.

Aragorn took his leave of Elrond that afternoon and set off for Mirkwood, a detour that was desperate and justified. Upon reaching the Woodland Realm and Thranduil’s palace three days later he found it already deserted. He returned to Rivendell in despair.

Legolas sighed with relief. He had been back in Osgiliath for thirteen days and he could hear them from his rooms. They were strong, hard working creatures, he would give them that, but being around them was heartrending. Being around them reminded him of a loss so profound he could barely speak. If he allowed himself to think or feel or remember it was beyond his ability to stop the pain. So he shut it out.

There were thousands of them, quarrying, cutting, hauling, setting stone upon stone rebuilding Minas Tirith and Osgiliath. They were like ants, seemingly never tiring. They ignored him as he walked back and forth on his tasks in the city, for which he was grateful, and he ignored them in return.

Today was his last day in the city. That morning he was moving further north to where Sauron’s mining had poisoned the land of Ithilien. It would be a relief to be away from dwarves, a constant reminder of his shame. Every dwarf he saw was like a mirror image of Gimli. Too many beards, too many watching eyes, too much silence.

He set his bow against his back and stepped out into the summer sun. It was a glorious day, but he barely noticed. Sometimes he wondered if Valar just made it shine just to trick him into believing all was right with the world. It wasn’t, no matter how he tried to deny it.

“Morning, Prince Legolas. I brought you some food to take with you . . .” The elf’s words faded into nothing as he watched the prince walk right by him without replying or even looking in his direction. It had been like this every morning.

Legolas spoke to no one, and acknowledged less.

“Mr lord,” the elf followed him, regardless. “You will not need your bow. The scouts have said the land is safe.” He stopped following when he realised that it was fruitless.

Legolas kept walking, passing the stable. Ears flicked round in his direction and a head turned. Eyes shifted from the passing form he recognised to the elf grooming him. If horses had ever been known to glare, this one did. A yelp slipped passed the elf’s lips and he wisely opened the gate. The half-groomed stallion was out and following his rider’s smell with a satisfied snort. Arod caught up with him ease and followed like an obedient shadow.

Legolas did not speak to Arod, or even make a sign that he knew he was there. Arod knew the score. When Legolas grew tired of walking, he would mount the broad equine back and Arod would carry him wherever his whim bade him go. He had longer to wait that day than most days.

At the East Gate Legolas frowned, his feet drawing to a stop. Something stirred within his heart, a familiar tug, an unspeakable name . . .he turned his gaze toward the city heights to where countless hands were at work. Countless faces and countless unknown names, but only one knew his. For a moment his elven eyes searched the phoenix-like city, but he could not pick out that one. They all looked too much like . . .

Legolas gasped and pulled away sharply, unable to take that step, unable to think it. He mounted and urged Arod away north. He had work to do.

Legolas urged him faster and faster through the wooded glades, leaving Arod wondering what the hurry was. Were they being chased? What fell beast’s scent had he not detected?

Legolas sank lower against Arod’s neck, the wind lifting his hair behind him like a banner of gold. A year ago riding like this would have thrilled him, now it was to get as far away from the city as possible in the least amount of time.

Finally he could sense Arod slowing down and simply sat back and let him come to a stop. Arod stood still, sides heaving and Legolas dismounted, out of breath. He could not explain what he had done or why, if someone had been around to ask. He leant against the warm body of the horse, taking comfort in its closeness, its scent mingling with his. But upon the flanks was another smell, an earthy smell of dwarf.

Legolas flinched. It wasn’t all that strong, it had been a while since Gimli had ridden with him and Arod had been groomed since, but it was still there. Legolas sucked in a breath his hand reaching out to touch that place where Gimli had sat behind him. He shuddered, the tears falling before he realised they were in his eyes. Burying his face in the scented hair he at last allowed himself to let go, and wept.

Nasdh sen jah min - It should have been mine.

Twenty-six years had passed and the elves who had worked to clear and replant the lands of North Ithilien returned to Osgiliath. The city had been rebuilt and there wasn’t a dwarf in sight. Legolas had been dreading the return all morning, but on rounding the bend in the river he sighed gently with relief.

He smiled more, or at least attempted it, than he did when he had left. His eyes were dead, he could tell by the way others reacted to him when they spoke. It would always be that way. Nothing would change. He had had twenty-six long years to come to terms with being alone, and he was certain that he had done well.

Aragorn met them at the gates to hear the latest report on plant growth. He was pleased with the progress. His eyes caught a familiar figure to his right and looked again, and stared.

“Legolas?” he hissed in horror.

“What is it, my old friend?” Legolas inquired.

Aragorn wondered if he should lie and protect his feelings or just be blunt. The words tumbled out of their own accord before he had decided which. “You look terrible,” Aragorn said and immediately regretted it.

Legolas’ eyes told the whole story. They were dark and shuttered, and the smile he wore was fake. “It has been a long twenty-six years, but hard work never hurt anyone.”

“Legolas, you are sick,” Aragorn corrected.

“That is not possible. I am elf-kind. We do not get sick.”

On impulse, Aragorn grasped one of his hands. It was hot, which disproved one theory. “The life of the Eldar is still with you.”

Legolas frowned slightly. “Of course it is,” he replied.

“Regardless, you are sick,” Aragorn repeated. “No elf ever looked like this before.”

“What are you talking about?”

Aragorn drew him aside and lowered his voice. “Do not lie to me, min mellon. You are suffering. Everyone has seen it, no one can miss it. You may still have the life of the Eldar with you, but you are dying.”

Legolas turned away. “What do you expect me to do?” he asked more harshly than he had intended. “I will continue my work in Gondor until it is completed. I will then build a ship that will bare me away to the white shores and there I will live out my days . . .in solitude.” He turned his hard eyes up to the friend he had known for more than one hundred and fourteen years. “What have I got to look forward to? What do I have to live for?”

Aragorn regarded him for a moment. “I cannot begin to understand your pain, Legolas,” he whispered. “But at least try to heal it . . .before it destroys you.”

“I tried,” he replied. “He left and I could not find him.” Legolas walked away leaving him alone.

“There must be something I can do,” Aragorn said to his wife in frustration. “I am supposed to be able to heal, but I can find no herb that will cure his pain.”

“Father?” Eldarion called softly.

Aragorn turned his head a little, displeased that his son had interrupted a private conversation.

“Estel, do not be angry with him. He is as much concerned as you and I,” Arwen spoke as she felt her husband clench.

“I have known of Legolas all my life, but I did not recognise the elf I saw today. He is not the vibrant being you have told me of. He is like the shell of a tree that has rotted beneath the weight of ivy, leaving behind only the vines.”

“I have seen it, too,” Aragorn agreed.

“I am young, but I feel that his only cure would be to restore that which he lost,” the young prince suggested.

“We have tried. Gimli was nowhere to be found,” Aragorn replied.

“It runs much deeper than that,” Arwen put in. The faces of her most beloved men turned to her questioningly. “The bitterness between elf and dwarf forbids that which Legolas wishes most. No elf is permitted to love a dwarf. No dwarf has ever gone into the west.”

Aragorn was suddenly inexplicably angry. “I am of Numenor. The Valar gave to Earendil and his descendents many skills that were solely those of elf-kind before that time, why must they be out of reach to a dwarf? I would gladly give all my inheritance, every last piece, to see my friend live!” Without thinking he stepped away from her, looking up at the sky spread as it was with the twinkling of stars. “Valar!” he cried out. “You gave me everything . . .but you give your own kind nothing? Save his life! You hear me?”

His hands shook as he held the quill above the parchment. It was all he could do to finish it, it was all he could do to start it, in truth. Finishing it had sapped him of what little strength the dawn light had given him.

He knew this would be his only chance of setting everything right, even if the person he had written to was forever gone from his side, and even if he could and would never read it. Letting his head sink onto his arm he fell asleep, the first rest he had allowed himself for more than two decades. He did not hear the door to his rooms open, nor the gentle footfalls approach him.

“Uncle?” the softly spoken voice of a young man drifted across the still air.

Legolas stirred in sleep and his eyes opened. He lifted his head and looked up. “Eldarion? What are you doing here?” he asked gently.

“I came to see you,” Eldarion replied. “My father said you were unwell. I brought you tea.”

Legolas took the mug held out to him. “Thank you,” he accorded and sipped the steaming liquid. “But I fear it will take more than tea to heal the pain I feel.”

“If it is not too bold of me, uncle,” the man began, seating himself, without invitation, in the other chair. “Tell me what it is that keeps you apart from us?”

“I am not permitted to utter it,” Legolas replied. “Least said, it is a love refused and a love forbidden. I cannot tell you more.” He rose stiffly and walked over to the window and gazed out across Pelennor fields. “Long ago, I stood in a room much like this one. It was in the small hours of the morning that I stood by the window, looking out on a view almost identical to this . . .the night I had my heart torn out.” His voice was soft, barely audible, full of an anguish he could find no words to describe. “I could not answer him. I could not tell him. And now I face all the carefree days and endless years of forever without him. Valinor, the land of joy, of white shores and . . .emptiness. The life of the Eldar is kind, and yet it is also a curse.”

Eldarion considered this for a long time. “Uncle, why do you hold on to something that will not bring you the peace you wish for?”

Legolas turned his head to gaze forlornly at the king’s son. “Eldarion, you are too young to understand. My people chose this path, and so I also have this path. Without it I would have perished thousands of years ago. Had I died at the end of a single life span I would never have known Gimli at all. I would rather that I had never been born, than never to have known this pain. That is what life and experience teaches you. You cannot undo the past, and even if it were in me to do so I would not. The past twenty-seven years have been a living darkness for me, but they are set in stone. Nothing I can do will change what was said, nor what is forbidden since before the day of my birth.”

“What is forbidden?” Eldarion asked.

Legolas stepped away from the window and regarded him gently. “Long ago elves and dwarves fought over the love of one woman of Erebor. In the midst of the battle she stepped between them the stop the fighting. She was killed by both axe and white blade. She died instantly. The war that followed was bitter and long. Many died on both sides and neither won. It was written from that time forward, that no elf should love a dwarf.”

“But you love Gimli anyway,” Eldarion noted.

“I have tried not to. Why do you think I was away for so long?” Legolas demanded. “You would not understand,” he decided.

“You are right, uncle. When it comes to matters of love, I do not understand yet, but when it comes to a person suffering, I understand it more fully than you give me credit for.”

Legolas frowned suddenly. “Why do you call me uncle? Was it your father’s idea?”

Eldarion grinned. “It is entirely my own. You are kin on my mother’s side, but not her brother. Nevertheless, you are as much a brother to my father as Elladan and Elrohir are brothers to my mother. That makes you an uncle, like it or not.”

Legolas’ eyebrows twitched, otherwise he did not move. “I am tired,” he announced.

“You need to sleep,” Eldarion decided, in the rich gentle tones that Legolas recognised from his father.

Legolas nodded and crossed to the bed. He sat and began to loosen the laces of his calf-length boots. “I have not slept in years. Today, I will sleep.”

“You do that,” Eldarion said. “I will have someone wake you in time for dinner. My father will wish for you to eat something, I am sure.”

Legolas lay down without answering, eyes already closed. Eldarion turned toward the door and stopped, his gaze falling on a letter lying on the desk. Curiosity won over good manners and he crossed to the desk. Lifting the parchment he began to read.

Eldarion’s eye rose from the words written with an unsteady hand and an idea formed. Quickly he left.

The echoes of his father’s plea to the Valar had long died down before Eldarion had located Elladan working in the fields of Pelennor. The prince looked up at his approach, wondering what could be the cause of such a hard ride from the citadel. In more elf-fashion than of man, Eldarion jumped off the horse and panted a moment before speaking.

“Uncle, I am in need of your help.”

Elladan smiled. “If you are running from a severe scolding, do not look to me,” he said with much humour. “What is it this time? Sneaked up behind Faramir and pounced on him again?”

Eldarion turned red, but pushed on. “Legolas is dying. He is sick. My father beseeched the Valar for aid, but I am sure more can be done.”

“Legolas is elf-kind. He cannot die except in battle,” Elladan replied evenly, but there was something in his voice that told him the youth was not lying.

“He is battling matters other than the physical,” Eldarion added. “Please, uncle. Do not pass up my plea as some notion of childish ignorance.”

Elladan clasped his shoulder and turned his face to the fields. A face rose from his task, as did another and another, all answering a silently spoken call. Elladan turned back to the young man. “Return to your father.”

“No!” Eldarion refused. “I am coming with you.”

“This is an elven matter . . .”

“Then it concerns all of elven blood, including me.”

Elladan had to concede defeat. He nodded and sought out the first elf to reach him. “Gil-nimril, take word to King Elessar that his son is riding with me. It is a matter of great urgency. We shall return as soon as we can.”

Elladan stood before the doors of Erebor and lifted the scroll up in the light of the sun. “By decree of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, Woodland Realm of Elvenden on Earth, open this door and hear my words!” His bold voice instantly stilled the noise of mining from within. He allowed a moment for the silence to settle around them like a shawl to stave off the cold. “In the year 28 of the Forth Age, it has been proclamed that the laws of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, denouncing and forbidding ties between elf and dwarf be superseded by a decree of peace and unconditional acceptance between our two peoples. Open the door, I bid you, to Elladan, son of Elrond and Eldarion, son of Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor!”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then a loud creek sounded as the little used doors to the underground city of Erebor opened. The king himself stepped forth into the sunlight. He stood there regarding them in silence, turning his axe head downward and leaning on it in a mannerism Eldarion had seen many a time described to him by his father. He stepped forward and knelt on bended knee.

“Lord Gimli,” he addressed him, to the surprise of the dwarf.

“Do I know you, lad?”

Eldarion lifted his head and looked into his eyes. “I am Eldarion, son of Elessar, a friend to you.”

Gimli nodded, wordlessly. Memories of Aragorn brought with them memories of an elf too similar in appearance to the ones standing before him to be comforting. “You come with an army of two hundred, boy, and in peacetime too. What is it you want?” he asked.

“I have journeyed many a month to find you. All I ask is that you hear my message, and then decide for yourself what it is that I want,” Eldarion told him.

Gimli huffed softly in thought. “Then you had best come inside.”

Eldarion followed him into the royal palace of Erebor, a place no one other than dwarves and Bilbo of the Shire had ever seen.

“Bring food and drink,” Gimli called. “We have guests.”

“How is that you became king?” Eldarion asked. “My father had not mentioned it to me.”

“I was in the right place at the right time,” was all Gimli said on the matter. “What is your father’s message?”

“The message is not from my father,” Eldarion told him. “The message is from Legolas, heir of Mirkwood.”

Gimli froze. “Make it short,” he replied, his tone unreadable. “There is little left to say between he and I that has not already been said.”

“There is much that has not already been said,” Eldarion snapped. “You left him before he could tell you. He spent almost a year searching for you, and you were nowhere to be found.” Eldarion sighed thickly, ignoring the look in the dwarfs’ face. Gimli seemed unaware that Legolas had even gone after him. Eldarion curbed his sudden anger. “I come in his stead, to search you out.”

“You have found me, now tell me why you were searching for me,” Gimli urged him, shortly.

“Legolas is dying.”

That more than anything grated on the dwarf, although for some reason he tried to hide it, ignore it and above all tried not to feel the pain it caused him. “Dying?”

“It is possible for an elf to die, you know,” Eldarion retorted. “After so long apart, do you really think he could survive without that which sustains him?”

“Breath sustains me,” Gimli said, seemingly unperturbed. “As does food, water, and good company.”

“Good company!” Eldarion exploded. “Legolas is good company, too, or he was before you left him to die, alone, half of his being cut out and discarded like the body of a murderer left in a gibbet for the buzzards to pick over!”

“How dare you preach to me of things you know nothing about, boy!” Gimli growled back. “This matter arose before you were even conceived, so do not press me of it. It does not concern you.”

“It concerns me when my uncles cannot stop their feuding and act like the adults they profess to be!” Eldarion shouted back, his voice echoing around the grand hall beneath the mountain like the retort of a horn of Gondor against the ear.

Gimli scowled. “What did he pay you to get you to come all the way up here to speak to me thusly?” he demanded. “I will gladly pay you twice and twice again to make you leave.”

“Prince Legolas paid me nothing,” Eldarion returned, stressing the name Gimli, apparently, refused to utter. “He does not know I am here. Legolas knows of very little these days, except that he draws one breath after another. I told you, he is dying, and his only cure will do nothing but take pleasure in his passing!”

“I will do no such thing, boy!” the growl came back. “I’ll have you know they we faced death together, he and I, and no amount of puffed up accusations and lies from you will change that fact. Legolas is an elf. Did these elves not tell you that they cannot die unless killed in battle?”

“I did,” Elladan replied. “Nonetheless, Legolas is dying of a wound far deeper and more fatal than one that could be inflicted by a Morgul blade.”

Eldarion turned away in disgust. “We are wasting our time. My uncle wishes to hear none of it.”

Gimli suddenly roared. “Will you stop calling me uncle! I am not your kin, lad,” Gimli shouted.

“Then you do make to naught your days with the Fellowship,” Eldarion noted. “You dishonourable worm, that you would deny even the oath you made with my own father, and here speak of it as dust in your throat to be spat upon the ground!”

Gimli suddenly realised what he had said. The young man was right, they had been like brothers, had loved, laughed and fought together, had been inseparable, protecting each other unconditionally, had faced death and cried together, irrespective of race. In short, brothers.

“I do not know what my uncle ever saw in you,” Eldarion spat in disgust. “You are not the famous warrior I have been told about. You are nothing but a stubborn, selfish coward, fit for nothing but to dig holes. You are not worthy of the love of one such as Legolas!” With that he threw a folded parchment at his feet. “And you are not worthy of this message. I hope you choke on it.”

Gimli blinked, the pain he had carried for so long snatching at every breath he attempted to draw. He sank into a seat watching the heir of Gondor walk away from him, his acidic words of truth left hanging in the air. He lifted the parchment and stared at it uncomprehending. “I can’t read this.” His voice, quiet as it was, carried across the great hall.

Eldarion paused. Elladan, beside him, also stopped. “Cannot or will not?” Eldarion sneered with spite.

Gimli gazed up at them, his shame clear as day light. “I can’t read or write. Did Imrahil never tell you?”

Behind him unseen hordes of dwarves gasped; behind the heir-apparent elves were equally shocked. Eldarion took a step towards the dwarf. “You can’t read?” the young man gaped at him.

Gimli looked at the shapes and swirled letters before him. “No. Not a thing.”

Eldarion reached for the letter. “Let me read it for you.”

“No,” Gimli voiced with determination. He stood up and lifted his chin with a sudden dignity and a determination he had not felt in all those long years. “Have you read it?”

“No,” Eldarion replied. “Uncle Legolas does not even . . .”

“Know you have it,” Gimli finished. “Why am I not surprised?” he added rhetorically. “Sneaking out of the palace, summoning up an army without your father’s consent or knowledge, stealing . . .your father and I need to have a long talk about you, lad.”

Eldarion swallowed. He had been down this road before, and probably would again.

Gimli stepped closer to him, looking him deep in the eye. “Teach me to read. I want to read this letter for myself. No eyes shall read the words written here until I do.”

Eldarion smiled then, a tear came to his eye. “It is a long journey home,” he said.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Gimli asked.

Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed, but there was no response from the occupant. He shook his shoulder, but there was nothing. The elven eyes, open just a crack, did not even turn to look at him, even if they blinked every now and then; it was the only sign of life. It reminded Aragorn of the meeting with Théoden long ago in Edoras, poisoned as he had been by Saruman’s witchcraft.

“What has he eaten?” Aragorn demanded, listing several poisons in his mind.

“Nothing, my lord,” a servant replied. “I bring him a meal morning and night, but he had touched nothing.”

“Search these rooms for a plant, anything that he might have eaten that . . .” Aragorn swallowed, unable to utter it. “Legolas,” he whispered. “Do not do this.”

Legolas laying in the bed, alive but unresponsive. He was dying, a wound invisible but just as deadly as a knife to the heart. Indeed, that was what it was.

“We should try giving him water,” Arwen suggested, but her husband seemed inconsolable.

Aragorn wept softly. “I cannot save you, but at least give me a sign that death is what you wish for.” He waited, but nothing happened. “Send for the singers,” Aragorn ordered and the elf by the door bowed and left.

A piece of slate and a piece of soft, white rock served well. Gimli looked at the symbol drawn for him. “Dd,” he said.

Eldarion smiled. “Good,” he said. “Now put it together with this symbol, what sound do you get?”

Gimli watched him add another letter. “Ff,” he said.

Eldarion grinned widely. “You are picking this up quicker than I did. I think we should start on whole words.”

Gimli smiled with delight. Eldarion wrote five symbols on the slate with the white stone and held it out to him. Gimli took it and looked at them carefully. “G . . .gi . . .gim . . .giml. Gi-ml-i. Gimli!” He looked up. “It says Gimli, that’s me!”

Eldarion laughed with delight. “Well done, uncle, you are getting there. And this one?” He rubbed out the symbols with the outer edge of his hand and wrote six letters in their place.

Gimli concentrated for some time before giving his best guess. “Lg . . Lgo . . .Lgol-es. .oh!” Gimli growled with frustration.

“It is alright, uncle,” Eldarion assured him. “This symbol here is the same as ‘L’ but the upper slash it punctuated with a cross hatch, see? That means the letter that follows is é, making the sound shorter.”

“But the fourth symbol is the same,” Gimli said. “Ah, it has no cross thing . . .so it stands alone?”

Eldarion nodded. “And it follows a stressed syllable.”

“L’-gol-es . . .Legolas.” Gimli was pleased with himself, it was true, but the name brought a sigh to his lips. His eyes gazed out into the distance, thinking. “How did Imrahil die?”

“Imrahil killed himself twenty-four years ago,” Elladan said tonelessly from where he sat not far away.

“Killed himself?” Gimli was shocked.

“After Legolas returned from searching for you, they met by chance in Imladris. My father and my sister both described the meeting with less than pleasure. Legolas immediately left for Mirkwood,” Elladan told him. “His father refused to acknowledge him because of his dishonour, enraged that he would entreaty him for nought but a dwarf. And Legolas returned to Gondor alone. Imrahil was also there and he watched Legolas slip further into despair. He could no longer live with his guilt and ate the berries of the nihtscada or hymlic plant, we are not sure. Both were nearby. By the time we realised he was not among us, it was too late. Imrahil had slipped into a slumber from which there is no waking.”

“Does Legolas know?”

“Legolas found him,” Elladan replied. “But he made no reaction. Nothing has moved Legolas for many a year, and he has barely spoken for decades. I am unsure what, if anything, he understands now.”

“Does Legolas know about the proclamation?”

Elladan shook his head. “I and my brother demanded it of the King on our way north. In light of the freedom for Middle Earth bought by your hand and those of your fellows, I cannot see why King Thranduil has been so harsh for so long, but there is still a family pride, I fear.”

“I presume then that Thranduil has not visited Legolas?”

Elrohir shorted with contempt. “He was already on his way to the Havens when we came upon him. He had already given his son up for dead. No, he will be away across the sea now.”

“We - um - roughed him up a little,” Eldarion admitted.

Gimli’s eyes went round. “You beat him up?”

“No exactly,” Elladan replied, po-faced. “We . . .gave him some friendly advice.”

Gimli purses his lips together and sighed. “Oh boy . . .just as well for me that he is across the sea, then.”

The elves and the man smiled gently.

Their journey continued as did Gimli’s lessons and by the time they reached the walls of Minas Tirith, he was both excited and nervous. None of them yet knew if Legolas was still alive. The city was in quiet, sombre mood.

Aragorn stood in silence, his wife wrapped in his arms, and he in hers, listening to the elven voices singing the song of lament for the dying prince. He wondered not for the first time if Legolas could hear it, what he was thinking while he listened. Aragorn lifted his head at the sound of the latch and was surprised to see his son entering the room. A small smile of comfort dusted his lips as he came forward to squeeze his father’s hand. Eldarion looked at the being in the bed and shuddered.

“Am I too late?” he asked softly.

Before Aragorn could respond he turned to see another figure enter the room, followed by Elladan and Elrohir. He watched in silent astonishment as the fellow crossed the room, ignoring everyone in it save for the elf lying unmoving on the bed. There was a sound in the dwarf’s throat, a wordless stifled cry.

Aragorn watched in silence, unable to ask how his son had achieved the impossible. He watched in wonder as the dwarf hopped up onto the bed and gazed into the sunken face and sat back in abject grief. The grief suddenly turned to anger.

“Out!” he yelled at the elven priests who had been performing the last rights. “I’ll have no lament at my passing, so we’ll have less at his. Out. He isn’t dead yet. Out, I said!” Legolas was unresponsive, so close to death that he might as well have been dead. Gimli leaned in again to look into the barely open eyes and was certain he saw them move. The eyes blinked and blinked again as brain registered face and the smile that slowly appeared.

Bristled lips touched soft forehead in a gentle kiss of brotherhood and the face reappeared in his field of vision. Legolas blinked again, as a memory surfaced. He wanted to make it go away, but it remained before him. After several minutes, he realised that it wasn’t a memory or a dream. Gimli was there.

“I am so sorry I hurt you, Legolas,” his voice said. “I should not have been so hasty. I should have paid more attention to what you were trying to tell me, and not to what I thought I heard. I could sit here all night and give you a whole list of apologies, but I have something here that I think you will want to hear more.”

Gimli gently cradled him head and lifted his shoulders. “More pillows, please,” he asked. Pillows appeared instantly, affording Legolas a better range of vision. The eyes remained open just a crack, but Gimli was certain that they were fixed on him. He smiled as he took out a wad of folded parchment, five in all.

“I have a surprise for you, and no it’s no letter from that sorry excuse for a prince Imrahil.” Gimli recognised the enlarging pupils, often the only sign of an unhappy elf. Fear, anger, sorrow and worry all did that to Legolas, at other times his eyes were as blue as a clear sky. “I’m sorry that he died, nonetheless,” Gimli added. Although the look in Legolas’ eyes did not change Gimli doubted that he missed him much. “This letter was penned by my dearest friend, and I’m going to read it for you.”

Legolas almost frowned, but the effort was too great.

Gimli patted his hand and curled his fingers around the elf’s. “No one has read this letter, yet, not even me. And my eyes will be the only eyes that will ever see it, I promise you. I have been practicing long and hard for this moment, but be patient with me,” Gimli told him.

Arwen stood at Gimli’s shoulder looking down at the sheets in his hand and recognised the handwriting. She looked at Aragorn, but said nothing as the dwarf sat back and began to read.

Gimli paused for one moment to gently squeeze the elf’s hand in his, realising what the words meant. Legolas was willing to die so that the dwarf could live. If Gimli could not go with him to the Undying lands, then he would give up the life of the Eldar and die along side him. He sucked in a breath and continued.

Gimli stumbled and sighed. A gentle hand on his shoulder squeezed in support and the tender voice of a woman spoke to him.

“Imrahil,” Arwen whispered over his shoulder.

He looked up, unable to say the words, but thanking her all the same.

Arwen felt her husband beside her, curling an arm around her waist, resting a tear-dampened chin against her temple. He thought about stopping Gimli from reading further, but should he? Could he do that to Legolas or to Gimli?

He watched Legolas’ face as he lay there unmoving, seemingly soaking in the sound of Gimli’s voice, a balm to his soul, and yet the words of the letter causing him as much pain to hear as to write.

Arwen trembled softly within her husband’s arms, hiding her face in the curve of his shoulder, the tears dampening his shirt. Aragorn glanced around him briefly to note that no eye was dry. No, he would not stop him reading. Legolas needed this, and in a way he could not explain, so did they.

Gimli paused, heaved a breath, and continued, struggling more with his grief than with his meagre skills at reading.

Gimli sobbed gently as he read, but bravely continued, vaguely aware of other people around him. Legolas’ chest gave a sudden heave of a breath that did not go unnoticed by any other them. It was a sob of pain that had neither the will nor the strength behind it.

Eldarion had thought he had understood what he was doing when he had allotted himself the task of bringing his uncles back together. He had not understood at all. This was far stronger than anything he had ever heard or imagined one being could feel for another. Perhaps he would never understand.

Elladan finally knew the dept of the love Legolas felt, it had been a trifle to him before, even to the extent of humouring Eldarion on his quest into Erebor. Now he knew for certain that this was no dream. His turned his eyes to his brother, and Elrohir’s eyes were no drier than his own.

The Singers were silent, no elf had shown such affection for a dwarf. It was unheard of. Wasn’t there a law against it? Even so, they could not and would not gainsay it. They bowed their heads, in silent respect. This was one time they would give it due honour.

Aragorn remembered that night well, and the bitter anger in Haldir’s eyes when they were discovered. He silently wished Haldir could have heard this now. He lifted his eyes upward, wondering if he could. He hoped Haldir would understand.

Gimli sat in tears for some time before his better judgement took the sheets from beneath his face. The droplets had not smudged the ink, but he could not guarantee that they wouldn’t spoil the words written there. Every word had been written as much in pain as it had been in love.

He slipped a lifeless hand into his own feeling the delicate skin against his palm, still warm with the Eldar and yet he could not move. He cupped a cheek in his palm, dragging a fingertip down the side of his face. The blue eyes blinked every now and then, as much as they had when he had arrived, but somehow subtly different. His lifted his fingertips away from his Legolas’ cheek and realised they were wet. There were tears running from his eyes.

Gimli looked again and noticed that the barely opened lids revealed something more. His eyes were watching him, unable to speak of the sudden elation that he felt, unable to move because of the terrible weakness that had enveloped him. Gimli leaned closer to be sure, and yes, the eyes followed his face as he moved.

“I know,” he whispered, almost as if he could read his mind. “I am not leaving, nor am I letting you out of my sight again.” He lifted his tear-streaked face to the frowning King. “He still lives. Fetch soup and water, scrambled eggs, anything soft. Hold off on the salted port, mind! Men! You have no finesse when it comes to real food!” he groused in mock disparagement, his voice overjoyed. “Soup, beef broth with vegetables! His stomach will be nothing more than a shrivelled - Legolas,” he whispered, changing tune and sentence without a thought. He smiled down at the shadow of a being he had once exchanged insults with, much to the consternation of Gandalf, and vied for top spot in a game of who could kill the most orcs. Now he lay almost dead.

Gimli looked up seeing the elves still crowding the room. “Get these priests out of here!” he suddenly shouted. “Go tend the dying, not the living! Fetch me a basin of warm water, scented with athelas, and a cloth and towel. Where is his hairbrush? Confounded girl, do you not know how to tend a prince-ling?” Gimli scowled. “His hair has not been brushed in weeks!”

Aragorn and Arwen watched in growing amusement as maids scurried about doing the bidding of a stranger. Gimli was in his element, he was going to see to it that Legolas was waited on hand and foot, as if the servants had never done so before. If truth were told they were pleased to be doing something, anything to help the prince recover. To see the prince back on his feet would please them, to see him smile again would be an honour and a joy.

“Fresh clothes,” Gimli called out. “These smell like a horse!”

“We will leave you to your work, Gimli,” the king said.

Gimli nodded, still holding Legolas’ hand as if his life depended on it. The warm water arrived and Gimli stripped the filthy clothes off of Legolas and handed them to the maid, who scurried away with them. As gently as he could he bathed the fragile skin with the soft cloth soaked in the athelas water.

Legolas closed his eyes, taking in the gentle touch and the scent of herbs, freshly warmed clothes slid over his body again before he opened his eyes to find the same smile beaming down at him. Then he closed his eyes and slept.

Hymlic - hemlock

Gimli had sat for a while, watching him sleep. It had been a restful sleep, perhaps the first he had had for many a long year. Getting him undressed, washed and dressed again had been about as much action as he could stand in one go. Now he sat brushing the golden strands of hair. He would braid it later, for now he left it fanned out across the pillow like a seam of mithril.

Gimli smiled. “Ready for something to eat? I have beef broth, vegetable broth, chicken broth and some freshly squeezed grape juice. Shall we have a spoonful of each?”

Legolas was not hungry, hunger had been driven from him long ago along with the will to live, but Gimli was here. He would try, for him. More pillows had been slipped behind him and a spoon was racing towards his lips. Seven thousands years ago, a memory played this scene out in a dozen different sing-songs his mother had sung to him upon trying to get him to eat his meals, the eagle flying home, the frightened bunnies running home, chased by naughty elflings, or perhaps the . . .

A spoon nudged between his lips and he swallowed. It was vegetable, the one that followed was chicken, and the one after that was beef. After several spoonfuls he choked. Gimli dropped the spoon into one of the bowls and grabbed a cloth. Gently tending to his charge, he waited for him to stop coughing and wiped his mouth. “Full?” he asked softly.

There was a small, almost imperceptible nod, and Gimli offered him a little water. There was a sigh, even a sad one brought a smile to Gimli’s lips. It meant he was at least trying. Legolas blinked and lowered his eyelids and slept.

Legolas opened his eyes to see the dawn lifting above the mountains. Beyond them lay the sea and above them flew white gulls. He watched the short figure by the window, standing gazing out at the world below.

Legolas swallowed and opened his mouth. At first nothing came out, his body unused to speaking after so long being silent. “Gimli,” he whispered.

The sound, although no more than a hiss of breath, made a figure turn in surprise, pipe plucked from his lips.

“Legolas!” he called out, running to the bed and climbing up. His face was wreathed with a huge smile. “Bless you, you’re awake. Hungry?”

Legolas nodded a little. Yes, he was hungry.

“I have eggs. I can cook them up for you. I had the kitchens bring me up a supply of food I can cook up the minute you wake up. Saves time,” he added. He pressed a gentle kiss to the elf’s forehead before skipping away to the fire roaring in the grate.

Legolas watched him, turning his head as far as his weakened muscles would allow. He too weak to be amused, too wary to ever hope he was staying for good. His father, for one, would not allow it. He was forever trapped.

Gimli broke the eggs and agitated the pan watching the egg mixture fluff up. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said. “And the eggs with bring strength to you. When you’re well again, I shall take you into the garden to sit beneath the trees . . .you remember the garden?”

There was no reply, he knew Legolas was too weak as yet. He poured the eggs onto a plate and stood up. Crossing to the bed he took one look at the occupant and set the plate aside. He jumped up and gazed at him, laying there, tears poring down his cheeks. “Now, why did you go and do a thing like that?” he asked gently.

Legolas sobbed quietly for a moment. “You will leave soon,” he whispered hoarsely.

Gimli shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere. Not even if you kicked me out the door . . .which at the moment is not very likely, you laying there like a rag doll.” Gimli leaned over to retrieve the plate from the bedside table and filled the fork. “Now, we’ll make a deal right here and now, young prince-ling. I will feed you one mouthful for every sentence I speak and you accept. If you don’t accept what I say, without question, you will go hungry. Agreed?”

Legolas nodded and watched the fork approach.

“The first, is this. I came back for you.” Legolas’ pupils enlarged. “Don’t start,” Gimli warned him. “I told you what would happen.” Gimli hesitated and put the forkful of egg into his mouth and watched him suck the fluffy yellow pulp so that he could swallow it before filling the fork with another mouthful. “I have it on good authority that your father has left Middle Earth.”

Another fork full.

“That makes you King of Mirkwood.”

Legolas’ pupils shrank alarmingly. He coughed as he swallowed. Gimli smiled gently in amusement.

“Before he left,” Gimli continued, lifting the fork again. “He signed a decree overruling a previous one. I think you know which one I’m talking about.”

Legolas swallowed.

“Which means, I am not leaving you, ever again . . .King Legolas,” Gimli added for good measure.

Another forkful vanished.

“You’re stuck with me, King Legolas,” he stressed with some relish, putting another piece of egg into the open mouth. “And no amount of complaining, no insults, excuses or rebuffs that you could think up, imagine or contrive are ever going to make me leave.”

Obediently another piece of egg vanished to be swallowed. Gimli laid the empty plate aside and smiled.

“Gimli,” Legolas whispered. “You told me you could not read.”

“Eldarion taught me,” Gimli replied. “He is more like his father than his father realises. Did you know he came looking for me without his father’s leave.”

“He took the letter,” Legolas realised.

“Well, yes, that too.” He patted his tunic above his breast pocket. “I have it right here.”

Legolas suddenly began to panic, and struggled to lift a hand. Gimli took his hand in his. “Hey,” he soothed gently. “The other letter is safe. It’s in my pocket, too.”

“I want it.” Legolas sighed softly.

Gimli took it out of his other breast pocket and slipped it into the pocket against Legolas’ chest. He pressed it there for a moment, feeling the heart beating behind it.

Aragorn left his wife sleeping, another daughter lay in the crib by their bed. It had been a long night. The first person he whished to tell was Legolas, but a bundle of excitement rushed down the hallway towards him.

“Atar!” it squealed and half launched herself into his arms.

Aragorn chuckled softly and hugged her close. “How is my little princess this morning?”

“I am well, Atar. Is mother awake?”

“Not yet, you mother has had a tiring night, and you have a new sister. Go and find your brother and sisters and I shall bring you in to see her after breakfast.”

“Yey!” the small girl crowed and ran off down the hallway.

Aragorn smiled to himself and continued to the next arched doorway. He knocked, but there was no answer. He quietly opened the door and peered inside. There was no one in sight, until he came to the end of the bed. He paused and looked again.

Gimli was reclining against the pile of pillows, Legolas’ head was on his chest and his arm curled around his impromptu pillow. They were both asleep. Quietly he turned for the door until a voice stopped him.

“Is it morning already?”

Aragorn turned to find Legolas looking up at him. “My apologies for waking you,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“For some of the night. For the rest of the night I was awake, although Gimli slept through it all.”

Aragorn winced slightly. “My apologies for that, as well,” he said.

Legolas smiled softly. “Another daughter,” he noted.

Aragorn nodded, tying to hide his delight.

Legolas’ smile widened. “My blessings to you both,” he said. “I am happy for you.”

Aragorn smiled. “Thank you. I’ll let you sleep. I have a son and three daughters who are waiting for me to introduce them.”

Legolas nodded and rolled back to that warm spot he had been occupying and closed his eyes. The door clicked shut and a dwarf grunted in his sleep. A furred head rose.

“What? Who?”

Legolas chuckled softly. “No one. Go back to sleep.”

Gimli looked down at the top of a gold head. His eyes widened. “Did I fall asleep in the middle of that story?”

“You did,” Legolas grumbled good naturedly. “As punishment, I turned you into a bolster with that elven magic you love so much.”

“I see . . .at least we’re still dressed.”

Legolas lifted his head in shock. “Of course, we are . . .” He sighed with a smile. “I have not regained enough strength for anything other than playing drahtr or singing a few verses of a song . . .and . . .” He watched the wicked grin spread across the dwarf’s face and felt the heat rise up his cheeks. “Oh, you insufferable . . .!”

Gimli suddenly burst into laughter.

Legolas slowly smiled. “Aragorn was in here. He saw us sleeping together.”

“Aragorn?” Gimli suddenly looked serious. “He might think that we were . . .”

Legolas stuck an elbow out and set his head in his hand, regarding him with amusement.

“And you didn’t say anything . . .?” Gimli groaned loudly. “Legolas, you will be the death of me.” He jumped up amid chuckling and ran for the door. He stopped. “And what do you find so funny?”

“You slept all night, while I lay awake. Aragorn already knows this.”

Gimli walked back to the bed. “How?”

“Because I told him,” Legolas replied. “The queen gave birth last night. I could not sleep, all those of the same blood line would have had a sleepless night.”

“Then why did you not wake me?” Gimli asked. “I would love to share that moment with you,” he added, wistfully.

Legolas smiled softly. “I have no intention of having children,” he replied. “I have all I need right here.”

Gimli suddenly smiled. Embarrassment forgotten, he climbed back onto the bed. “In that case, you can go back to sleep for another hour.”

“But . . .I . . .”

“No buts.”

Legolas laid back against the pillows and closed his eyes. After a moment, he giggled through his nose. A second later a dwarf followed suit.

Gimli brushed the golden hair with the soft brush more times than it needed. It was beautifully soft and addictive. Legolas sat, eyes closed, enjoying the feel of the fingers working through his hair. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” Gimli told him.

“I know,” Legolas replied and slowly smiled.

“Reminding you of the last time someone did your hair?”

Legolas’ eyes opened instantly, the smile frozen. “Gimli?”

“Yes?”

“How did you know abut her?”

“Your mother? Well, even an elf has to have had a mother . . .”

“I thought we were talking about the last time someone brushed my hair.”

Gimli hesitated. “Oh . . .I see. You had a ‘friend’ once.”

Legolas eyed him out of the corner of his eye. “Twice, actually,” he admitted. “If my father had ever found out he would have been very angry.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Gimli replied. He was busily braiding the hair above his right ear, to keep it back from his face. “If it had been my daughter, I would have been very, very angry. I probably would have killed you.”

Legolas suddenly smiled. “You would?” He snorted with irreverent laughter. “Fathers! They are such strange creatures.”

“And there’s one of those strange creatures in the next room,” Gimli reminded him. “And two bachelors in here. Should I tell Aragorn to lock up his daughters now while they are still young and won’t miss their freedom?”

Legolas chuckled. “Do not tease me,” he said. “I have already told you. I neither want nor desire intimacy, whatever her race.”

“Make that the both of us,” Gimli replied. “If dwarves were meant to roll around in bed squealing like pigs, they would have been born pigs and save the bother.”

Legolas let out a hearty laugh, despite the colour of his cheeks. The elf sat back against the cushioned backrest, exhausted with the effort it had taken.

“Sorry,” Gimli muttered, and started on the braid above his left ear. He was silent for a while watching the colour in Legolas’ cheeks return to normal and the amused smile begin to fade. “I take it elves sound like pigs, as well,” he said suddenly, and the colour returned even stronger than before.

“Gimli!” Legolas complained.

“That’s what I thought,” the dwarf smirked.

It was barely twenty feet, but it might as well have been a mile. Legolas paused, leaning against the wall for a moment.

“You can do it,” Gimli coaxed him. “The door is right here.”

“And they will be surprised to see me,” Legolas said. “I will fall asleep as soon as I get there,” he warned, and pressed on. Foot in front of foot the door was at last beside him. Gimli knocked.

The door opened and Eldarion opened it. “Hello, uncle. Atar, mother, Gimli is here,” he called and opened the door further to allow him entry.

“And Gimli does not come alone,” the dwarf added.

Eldarion looked again and offered his arm to the elf in the doorway. Legolas took it gratefully. Aragorn stood from the chair beside the bed and smiled. “Legolas,” he greeted. “You are looking well.”

“I have had a wonderful nursemaid,” the elf replied. Suddenly an infant began to cry. “I also have a niece with a wonderful set of lungs.”

“Here, sit down. That must have been quite a walk from your room,” Eldarion offered. His father gladly gave up his seat for him.

Arwen quieted her daughter who lay in her arms and smiled. “Eldarion, take your sisters into the garden for a while.”

“Yes, mother.” He ushered them all to him and led them from the room.

At an unspoken word Aragorn lifted his youngest and passed her to Legolas, who was not entirely skilled in holding something so tiny and so delicate. He gazed down at the tiny face in the crook of his arm and smiled.

Gimli leaned in and said softly, “This is for practice, just in case you change your mind.”

Legolas turned his eyes up at the dwarf, who was eyeing the ceiling innocently. “You set me up,” the elf hissed.

“Well, of all the nerve, you suspicious . . .yes.”

“And I suppose you have an elf maiden in mind?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, no. I couldn’t find one,” Gimli admitted. “But there are plenty of other races in Middle Earth.”

“I dare you. I second thoughts, I do not dare you. I order you not to.”

Gimli grinned, looking smug. “You can’t order me around.”

“I can and I do,” Legolas replied. “I am not the prince any more, you know?”

Arwen and Aragorn smiled to each other.

Gimli touched the simple line of mithril across his brow “And I,” Gimli began with much flourish. “Am not just a prince either, my dear Legolas.”

Legolas gazed at him eyebrows having vanished somewhere near his hairline. “That . . .was not known to me.”

“So, does this mean I should lock up my eighteen year-old daughter?” Aragorn asked. “And my thirteen year-old as well, just as a precaution?”

Gimli and Legolas both shook their heads. “That will not be necessary,” Legolas assured him.

Gimli added, “We do not desire . . .”

“Pigs . . .”

“Squealing, that is women,” Gimli bravely continued, despite the distracting interruption. “We have a full life planned out . . .in other areas.”

“She is beautiful, like her mother,” Legolas put in, to change the subject.

Arwen smiled. “Thank you.”

Later that night, in the garden, Legolas watched the stars. Gimli sat beside him. A young maiden approached them and smiled.

“May I join you?”

“Of course,” Legolas replied and indicated the seat across from theirs. “Is there something that troubles you, Eledhwen?”

“Not troubles so much as confuses,” she replied. “I heard you talking in the my parents’ chamber today.”

“Ah, yes.” Legolas remembered it well. “We were teasing each other. Nothing more. It was not intended to frighten you,” he assured her. “We are not really going to lock you up.”

“I was not frightened,” she replied. “Just concerned that you had intentions towards me at all.” She paused for a moment. “I have had my eye on someone,” she admitted.

Legolas stared at her for a long moment. “Just your eye?”

Gimli coughed.

“Uncle!” Eledhwen cried out, hand to her mouth, looking round hoping her father was not around. “We held hands, nothing more . . .well, we kissed too, but . . .we certainly were not . . .squealing like pigs. Not that I know what is meant by that.”

“I should hope not,” Legolas replied, hoping that the darkness was enough to hide the glow of his cheeks. “Who is he?”

“Peregrin of Ithilien,” Eledhwen replied.

“Prince Faramir’s younger son?” Legolas was surprised.

“Yes.”

“I would suggest that you speak to your parents about this. Peregrin is a fine young man, and you are a lady of the Realm. Your father wants you to be happy.”

“Yes, uncle.” She stood up and kissed his cheek. “It is good to see you well again, uncle.” She bent to kiss Gimli’s cheek as well. “Good night.”

After she had left Gimli said quietly, “Still want to kill him?”

“I might.”

“Protective, aren’t we . . .for mere uncles?”

“We are,” Legolas agreed. “I wonder what Aragorn would think if he heard us talking like this.”

After a moment, they chuckled together.

In the shadow of a doorway into the garden, a smile slipped back into the palace, unnoticed.

It had been hard and it had been long, but it had been worth it. Legolas helped to haul the last beam into place and others hammered the last nails home. He heaved a little to regain his breath before climbing down onto the main deck. His work was finished. In a day or two he would be leaving the shores of Middle Earth.

Gimli stood on the quayside waiting for him. “It’s finished,” he called up.

Legolas jumped lightly down and smiled. “It is done,” he agreed, perusing the keel.

“Will it be big enough to carry everyone?” Gimli asked.

“Easily.” Legolas turned away from the ship he had built and smiled at his friend. “Come, Gimli. The king is expecting us for dinner.”

Gimli set off after him, running to keep up. “Slow down, Legolas. I’m not as young as I used to be!”

Legolas laughed and fell, disappearing into the long grass. Gimli looked on in horror. “Legolas!” he shrieked. He rushed to the place where the elf had vanished, but the grass was empty. “Legolas!” he cried, looking this way and that.

“Boo!”

“Aaah! Confounded elf!”

Legolas collapsed onto the ground in laughter. Gimli took one look at him and grinned. He dropped onto the ground next to him and chuckled.

“You never quit teasing me do you?”

Legolas pushed up onto his elbows. “No, and I never will.” He sat up and ran a finger through the greying hair on the dwarf’s head in deep thought.

“What is it?” Gimli asked.

“When we reach the white shores, you will lose these defined white streaks,” Legolas told him. “You will be forever young, like me.”

“As long as I’m with you, I don’t mind if I look like a toad.”

Legolas smiled. “I would mind that,” he objected. He rose and took his hand in his. “I love you as you are, Gimli Elf-friend.”

Gimli pressed his hand to his heart and then pressed it to Legolas’ heart, a wordless gesture of love. Gazing at each other for a moment, Gimli voiced a thought he had not found it in him to speak of before. “I put you through a living hell, Legolas. I wish I had never done that.”

“Do not wish away the past,” Legolas told him softly.

“Sometimes it is difficult not to.”

Legolas watched him struggle with the thought. “Looking back on the memory of all the years we have shared, there are good times and bad times,” he agreed. He looked up to see the first star appear in the sky above them. “Do you remember the night after Aragorn’s coronation? Everyone was sleeping, and you and I spent an hour or more just gazing up at the stars. For a moment, everything was right with the world, even though everything was in ruins. The war was over, finally there was peace in Middle Earth. I am glad I did not know then that you would leave, or how the future was to play out for us. I could have missed it, I might have had a better life. We both would have been a lot happier. I might have changed it all, had I known what was to come.” Legolas sat up and looked at Gimli, his eyes wide in the half light. “Gimli, if we had missed that pain, if he had avoided it altogether, we could not have enjoyed these last years so mush as we have. I once told a friend that if I had missed all that, I would not have known you at all. I believe it all the more now. Please do not wish that pain away, because if it were gone we would never have had the love. You cannot enjoy the good without the bad to show you how good it is.”

“It made us stronger?”

“Yes, Gimli, so much stronger. And closer.”

“What would you have done if your father had not issued that decree?” Gimli asked.

“I do not know. I am more concerned about what might have happened if you had not come back to save me.”

“Eldarion has a lot to answer for,” Gimli groused in good fun.

“I am glad that he does,” Legolas smiled.

“I still carry your letter close to my heart.”

Legolas pressed a hand to his breast pocket. “Yours is here.”

“Maybe we should ask Eldarion to send them to Keeper of the Book,” Gimli suggested. “They can add it to the last entry of the Fellowship, so that everyone who read it when we’re gone will know how great our love really was.”

Legolas shook his head. “I want this to remain between us. Once we leave, let them read of our deeds, but make their own judgements about you and I.”

Gimli smiled gently. “So you like to tease even after you are gone, eh?”

Legolas chuckled and got to his feet, pulling Gimli to his with a helping hand. “If you reach the gates of Minas Tirth first, we’ll sent the letters to Westmarch. If I win, we take them with us.”

“Hey!” Gimli called out, but it was too late. Legolas was gone. Gimli ran after him, but had no hope. He arrived at the gate, breathless, to find Legolas leaning against the gates waiting for him. King Eldarion was also standing there.

“Where have you been? I almost sent out a search party.” Eldarion’s eyes shifted from one to the other. “What have you been doing that has you both so covered in grass?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Gimli replied.

“Nothing to squeal at, that is speak of,” Legolas added.

Dinner was a quiet affair, although Legolas and Gimli were in high spirits. King Eldarion insisted that they spend a few hours of the following day with him before they walked through the streets of Minas Tirith, being showered with flowers and tearful farewells. It was a moving sight. Riding the great grandson of Arod for the last time across the Pelennor fields they saw a great procession following them. Upon reaching Osgiliath the streets were lined with people all the way to the dockside.

Legolas and Gimli knew that once they were gone, their names and deeds would pass into legend, and when the people here passed into memory the Fellowship Of The Ring would become nothing more than myth. Legolas halted by the dock and hopped off Arod’s back, reaching up to lift Gimli down. There were tears in both their eyes; although they were going to the undying lands they were leaving friends behind.

Legolas turned to King Eldarion, greeting him as of old, hand to shoulder. “I will never forget you, Eldarion, son of my brother.”

“And I you, uncle,” Eldarion replied, struggling with his tears. “Either of you.”

“Not all tears are for ill, my friend. Remember the good times,” Legolas advised. He smiled and Eldarion replied in kind.

Legolas turned sweeping his eyes around the assembled crowds. Then, taking Gimli by the hand, he stepped across the walkway and into the ship. The host who had remained with them were already aboard. The rope was untied and the ship slipped away on the tide. Eldarion watched it drift down the river for a few moments before the sails opened and the ship was borne out of sight.

El fin

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