I lift my head and gazed at the face in the bed beside me. My elf. I smile. The words still make my heart leap up into my throat. We have been together for six years to this very day. The first year was spent on the Quest. We fought. Oh Elbereth, did we fight? I chuckle as I think back on that time. We may have fought, but the jibes and posturing had quickly become a matter of jests and posing. Smiles shared in secret were not secret for very long.

We were fast becoming inseparable, he and I. Legolas saved my life and I enjoyed ribbing him about pulling my beard out for several days, and he enjoyed throwing comments back at me until, finally, Boromir had blurted out his challenge; “For goodness sake, Gimli. Just kiss him!” To which the hobbits fell about laughing.

Legolas and I spent the next two days pussy-footing around the subject of us. I begged Frodo for over an hour with fancy words, reason after reason, why he should not record the truth about Legolas and me in the journal of the Quest he planned to write, only to discover that Legolas has already flattered him just two hours before hand on the same subject.

The patient hobbit had sat there without so much as a glimmer of emotion all through my monologue. Not a word. I could have killed Legolas . . .if it hadn’t been so funny. We spent a sleepless night simply giggling at our ridiculous behaviour, and Frodo wrote it all down regardless - at least the part that he knew about.

Since Frodo left for Valinor, Legolas and I have grown closer. We have our own realms and duties, it is true, but we visit each other often and share a bed. If anyone six years ago had told me that I would not only befriend an elf but sleep with one as well, I would have cleaved them in two.

I smiled down at him now in the first grey light of dawn. Getting used to his eyes being open while he sleeps was a little difficult at first, but it does not bother me now. I am happy and my life brings me contentment. I am in Minas Tirith for a year, and Legolas has taken this year to visit the White Tower himself. Ithilien is beginning to flourish and Aglarond is an on-going project, but for now, we are biding our time.

Many of our women have chosen to have younglings this year, which is a surprise to many. There are so few of us and it has been too long since there were younglings. As a result, I have had to call a stop to all mining, to ensure that our women are well rested and not over-exerted and, more importantly, not so exposed to accidents as they have been in the past. It is a fact that more expectant mothers and younglings were lost in this way than to orc attacks, and the most common reason why our woman chose not to have them.

We dwarves are itinerant, I suppose it is fair to say. We have been exiled more times than we have settled anywhere. Now all that has changed. We will never return to Moria, and Erebor had been abandoned for warmer climes.

At one time, I had planned to visit with Balin, my cousin, and perhaps remain there, working the mines of Moria for the rest of my days. I would have been happy with that . . .who am I kidding? Once I had experienced the life above ground, ridden a horse, received the smile of an elf, gazed upon the beauty of the Lady of the Woods herself, how could I possibly return to the darkness of Erebor?

Nay. I have been changed forever. To the see the Lady again, I would give my life. To forever roam the world beside Legolas, I would give up everything. He is my everything. I sigh as I rise. This idyll is about to be torn asunder, and I must find a way to tell Legolas that his peace is about to be shattered.

I smother a groan. What am I to do? Of all the surprises life can bring, this had got to be the worst one yet. The healer I spoke to yesterday told me that the sickness I have been suffering was not something he could treat. He did not know anything about dwarf diseases.

By the time yesterday had dawned I had suffered for a week and had no idea what was causing it. I thought at first that it was food poisoning, but no one else was sick. I then thought that perhaps I was reacting to the more fruit and vegetable diet of Gondor, but that did not make sense either. Losing meal after meal was getting harder to keep from Legolas each time. So I went to the healer, only to be told that he did not specialise in foreign medicine. I thought of cleaving him in two, but then thought better of it.

As a last resort, I went to see Aragorn. He knows me better than anyone else in Gondor, including the dwarves who live in Ithilien. Aragorn was horrified with me for not coming to see him earlier. I was unphased by his anger, it paled in magnitude to the anger I am expecting from Legolas when he finds out that I was ill and never told him to begin with. I trust him implicitly, but I am still embarrassed when all is said and done. Dwarves are very private creatures. We don’t like to admit when something ails us. So imagine what I must have felt when, after describing my symptoms, all I get is laughter.

And yes, I thought of cleaving him in two, but, alas on that occasion, I was unarmed. What was so funny? Did I have some sort of sickness of man or elf that I was not immune to? Was I allergic to Legolas? That thought turns me cold, even now. Did I have the pox? When Aragorn finally stopped laughing and had wiped his eyes he informed me that I was not sick at all. ‘Tell me, Gimli, did you truly not know if you are a man or a woman?’

I growled at him, but knew I could not conceal the truth if he was to cure me. I am both, I told him. If my voice could have been any lower only the dog that lay by the hearth would have heard me. It was the sole reason, if truth be told, why I had never married. I could never decide which one to be and which one to go for. Man or woman? Fancy that, you might say; an indecisive dwarf?

I am the only one, as far as I know, who is like me. I am alone in what I have suffered with in silence. Dwarfs, when all is said and done, as I have said, are very private out of habit. So unless they undress for a quick roll behind the tool sheds, no one would know which side of the hall you were on. I tried that once . . .and you can guess the result. It was the reason I did not go on the quest for Erebor with my father, nor to Moria with Balin. I was a loner, a freak, a billy-no-friends, as Frodo once described himself.

It’s probably why, despite my being brought up to hate them, that attracted me to the elves. My father had had dealings with elves; Legolas’ father’s dealings to be exact. But Legolas is very different from his father. Even now that there is peace between our two peoples, there are some elves that do not like or trust us. Why does this have anything to do with my gender? Or lack of said? Because, as I discovered five years ago, elves are not pigeon-holed either.

I found this intriguing when it came up in conversation one night not long after Helm’s Deep, and we had returned to Edoras. Legolas had overheard my conversation with Éowyn, and he had asked me specifically, which I was; male or female. I took a long time to reply and to my surprise, he was supportive and accepting. He understood what that meant for me and it deepened our friendship. I had finally found someone who understood. That he was androgynous too came as a double surprise.

I was shy on our first night, but I was lucky to have a loving being with me, to love me as ‘normal’ and not run away screaming or, worse, laughing into the night. A joyous union, I have to say, one born both and one born neither. Elves, I discovered, chose who they marry and then choose which of them would father a child and which of them would conceive and carry it. Once decided, they love each other often, requesting the blessing of the Valar for a child.

My memory has no lapses. I would have remembered if Legolas and I had discussed such a hugely important subject. We have not. Nor have we called upon the blessings of the Valar. Which brings me back to my conversation with Aragorn yesterday morning. It seemed obvious to him why I was sick and off my food, why certain smells sent me heaving from the room and why I could not get enough of those Gondorean sun-dried tomatoes.

‘Who spoke the ritual,’ he asked me. I said, ‘what ritual?’ That sobered Aragorn instantly. He said if I trusted him he would test a theory. I snorted at that. Of course I trust him and told him so. ‘How much more could brothers of blood trust one another than we do?’ I said. Aragorn accepted this and agreed to treat me for this ‘malady’. Finally, I thought, we’re getting somewhere.

Within an hour he confirmed this most strange of occurrences, he said, although he did not tell me what he had confirmed. He said that I was male and it was supposed to be impossible. I murmured that I was not male, and he had me repeat it a little louder. It seems that he had forgotten already.

I told him that I needed a cure not a long discussion about my gender, to which he replied that I would get a cure, but that it would take a number of months. I asked him how many. He was evasive. ‘For a woman of my kind, it is nine months, for an elf it is twelve. How long it is for a dwarf . . .you’ll have to tell me.’

I gaped at him for a long time, for so long that I grew stiff with lack of movement. ‘Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?’ I asked. ‘I think I am,’ he said. My world had fallen out from under me.

I wander out to the balcony and look out upon a still slumbering world. I have yet to tell Legolas. All through dinner last night I had tried to make sense of the bewildering truth. I was expecting. Aragorn told me that whatever my plans had been concerning getting back to Aglarond, they would have to be postponed for the duration. He had had no idea that elf and dwarf could mate, let alone conceive. He did not want me taking any chances. As I have mentioned, dwarf mothers are somewhat fragile when with child.

I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t. What was I going to tell Legolas? We had both resigned ourselves to never having heirs to our respective countries. I am, for all intents and purposes, the heir to the throne, that is if my one remaining relative, beside my father, has no offspring. I don’t want the throne. I want to spend my life with Legolas, and hoping for the day when I can see the Lady Galadriel again.

Legolas. My mind wanders over all the possible reactions he might have to my news. Shock, anger, speechless with joy? Wary, wondering how it could have happened if we had not said the ritual - which, I suddenly realise, I did not ask Aragorn the details of. What will I say? How do I word it? Good morning, Legolas. Breakfast is here, and by the way, the larger portion is mine, because I’m eating for two?

I cringe and shake my head. That will not do. I love Legolas, and the more I think of it the more I like the idea of carrying his child. Bringing it into the world is going to be another matter, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, I am still facing each moment with renewed realisation. No working down the mines; no riding of any kind; no brisk exercise; no strong drink; no smoking and no love making until after the bairn is born. That last one will be the hardest.

I growl under my breath, wondering if Aragorn was having way too much fun with this, that he thought up this impressive list of dos and don’ts just to get as much fun out of this, at my expense I might add, as he can.

I have to tell Legolas, and as if he has read my thoughts, the bed behind me rustles softly. I stiffen, knowing that a certain elf is awake and wondering why his reaching hands are finding nothing but an empty bed.

My ears catch the telltale sound of bare elf feet on wooden floor. I flinch, wondering if Aragorn has already told him, but I doubt it. He told me that it was my job. I am the one to tell Legolas that I am going to have his child. I know I have to be careful and I also know I should tell him as quickly as possible. Dwarves carry for only six months, not very long, even shorter for the fact that I have no idea when I conceived. That, too, will shock Legolas. Elves pride themselves in knowing the exact day and even the hour of their conception.

Legolas, for all his strength and prowess, is very sensitive. He does not react well to sudden shocks and surprises. Losing Gandalf almost killed him, I think it would have if the rest of us had not been with him. I sometimes wonder why Lord Elrond chose him, but then I realise many would ask the same question about my involvement.

I am shaking now as I hear the footfalls come closer. I look up as Legolas steps onto the balcony and kneels beside me. There is concern in his face and I dread the possibility that he already knows. I swallow dryly as I gaze into those beautiful grey-green expressive eyes. There seems to be a spark of joy in that look of love that he sends me. Does he know? Do his elven senses betray me? Did Aragorn tell him? I do not think so, but I shall cleave him in two if he has.

I take a deep breath and get ready to speak. No time like the present. And as I do so, Legolas opens his mouth. What is he going to say?

“Gimli . . .”

I tense, turning away from the magnificent view. I wait and do not wait long. A flash of uncertainty crosses his face and a step forward to take his hand in mine, a gentle coax to speak.

Legolas takes another breath. “I have something to tell you . . .”

El fin