Chapter Text
As Gimli walked the familiar path from Erebor to Dale, the rugged terrain beneath his boots felt both comforting and scary. The sun cast long shadows over the landscape, and the crisp air hinted at the changing seasons. The winter’s winds still bit harshly on his cheeks, and though he had taken this journey countless times since he had moved back to Erebor almost sixty years ago as a Dwarf barely of age, today's purpose added a clandestine thrill to his walk.
His steps resonated with purpose as he navigated the rocky terrain. The hood of his cloak shielded his features from the prying eyes of others, especially fellow Dwarves who might recognize him as Gimli, son of Glóin the Treasurer, Axe Master, and right hand and favorite pupil of Dwalin, Captain of the Royal Guards.
Gimli's mind wandered as he walked, lulled away by the crunching of his boots against the rocks on the ground. The walk towards Dale was always lovely, what with the glittering waters of the lake welcoming you to the city and the now green valley all around. Yet, he still thought leaving Dale was even better, for the majestic view one was treated to when going towards Erebor was unparalleled, so much so that he could still remember the first time he had laid eyes upon the Lonely Mountain.
Sixty years ago, after months of traveling through the Misty Mountains with the royal caravan bringing Lady Dís to Erebor, he had seen it for the first time after emerging from the forest of Mirkwood. A fitting prize, had someone asked him back then, after having to endure the escort of the most annoying, irritating, arrogant, sanctimonious Elf King Thranduil could have sent their way.
Yet that day he would never forget, for it was with that very same Elf by his side that a young Gimli saw the Erebor’s peaks for the first time.
The sun had been setting, he recalled. He also recalled being terrified at the thought of spending another night in that foul, dark forest. In the end, they had been escorted outside just in time to see the sun casting a warm glow upon the mountain's side, and the last rays of light kissing the Lonely Mountain's summit, turning it into a crown of purplish gold against the deepening blue of the evening sky. The sight had left him breathless, gaping like a child looking at magic—and after all a child he had been at the time, with his seventy-nine years of age and an almost non-existent fuzz on his freckled cheeks.
Impossible to forget were also the eyes of the escorting Elf on him, probably thinking Gimli was a ginger childish fool for getting emotional over a mountain.
Lost in his memories and thoughts, Gimli reached the outskirts of Dale quickly. The city's bustling sounds grew louder as he approached, and he couldn't help but feel a twinge of anxiety. He always did, and usually with a hint of guilt as well. The whispers of the wind carried the distant sounds of daily life, of a city that was unaware of his covert mission.
Gimli's keen gaze scanned the surroundings, ensuring that no prying eyes followed him. Call it paranoia or dirty conscience, but after years of doing this secretly, he knew very well how to not get caught.
He deftly navigated through the crowded streets, deviating whenever possible through dark, small alleys. The cloak over his head served him well; he went completely unnoticed and soon he arrived at the hidden entrance to a small home nestled in a dark cul-de-sac, tucked away from the main streets of the city. Taking out a key from a hidden pocket, Gimli unlocked the main door and entered.
Once inside, the homey atmosphere immediately enveloped him in a sense of intimacy and comfort. Despite its modest size, the home boasted tall ceilings that gave the space an unexpectedly airy feel. The walls, adorned with shelves, were crammed with books of various sizes and colors, with geodes collected over the years and with trinkets Gimli had brought from Ered Luin in his youth.
But the real protagonists of the house were the indoor plants, flourishing even in this home that did not receive a lot of sunlight. They adorned every available surface with their vibrant greenery that added a touch of nature to an otherwise very stony home. Gimli always thought it an absurd juxtaposition, but then again the unusual followed him wherever he went and often not in the shape of plants.
A crackling fire in the hearth cast a warm glow across the room, illuminating the eclectic collection of furniture: a comfortable armchair of the ideal size for a Dwarf and a sofa disproportionally long for the size of the living room, made for someone with too-long legs.
As Gimli stepped further inside, he noticed a large pot simmering over the fire with a concoction made of oils and aromatic herbs, clearly intended for the preparation of a hot bath. The air carried the sweet fragrance of lavender and chamomile, and finally – although he would never admit it to another living soul – Gimli felt like he could truly breathe again.
“I was expecting you tomorrow morning,” said Gimli to no one in particular while removing his cloak.
“You know I live to surprise you,” replied a voice from behind his back, emerging from the shadows of the bedroom. “Keeping on your toes is my favorite pastime.”
Gimli snorted while sitting on his armchair to remove the boots. “Might be why I already have white hair.”
“Nonsense. There is not an inch of snow in your red or I would know; I keep track of every inch of you.” Two hands touched Gimli’s shoulders and then hugged his neck from behind. A slightly pointy chin followed immediately after and landed on his head, like a bird happily snuggling in its nest of red hair. “You are here finally. I have reheated that pot of water more than once.”
In the corner of the room, a modest bathing area awaited, complete with a wooden tub large enough for two. The steam began to rise from the pot as the water heated, promising a luxurious and tranquil retreat from the outside world. The crackling fire, the scent of herbs, and the prospect of a warm bath instantly eased Gimli’s tension. He finally turned to look at the other’s eyes.
And there was Legolas Thranduillion, the beautiful golden-haired, stubbornly rebel Elvenprince of Mirkwood… and Gimli’s secret husband for the past thirty years.
“I would have come earlier had you told me you wanted to meet tonight already,” he grumbled, studying Legolas attentively and looking for changes after almost two months apart—or more realistically for wounds from one of those awful forest spiders. “But you are too unorganized to remember to send me messages.”
Legolas completely ignored his complaints, continuing a tradition that started the day they met when he was escorting the royal caravan of Dwarves sixty years ago. Instead, with gentle fingers, he began to undo the clasps of Gimli's armor, piece by piece, setting each one aside as if revealing a treasure underneath. The room was filled with the soft clinking of metal against metal as Gimli’s tough exterior gave way to vulnerability.
As the last piece of armor fell away, Legolas moved Gimli’s long hair from one shoulder to the other and placed a tender kiss on the back of the now-exposed neck. “There, much better,” he murmured, his voice a soothing melody. He led Gimli towards the waiting bath, the warm steam embracing them as they approached. With his innate fluid grace, he gracefully moved back towards the pot of aromatic water simmering over the fire. The warm flickering light accentuated his lithe figure and Gimli’s eyes never left him, not even as he retrieved the pot with the ease that only an Elf could possess.
With the hot water now in hand, Legolas turned back towards Gimli, a glint of playfulness in his eyes. As he approached, he poured the aromatic water into the wooden tub with a fluid motion, the scent of herbs and oils intensifying in the air.
“What did you put in the water to make it smell like this?” Gimli asked, if anything to at least do something besides standing there naked like an idiot.
“A little touch of woodland magic to make the bath more enchanting,” Legolas replied without actually addressing the question.
“Is that your way of saying you are about to poison me?”
Legolas chuckled at the question, once again choosing to ignore his grumbling Dwarf. He instead turned his attention to undressing himself, a slow and deliberate process carrying an elegance that one of these days would certainly kill Gimli on the spot. As each piece fell away, fair skin unmarred by the passage of time was revealed and Gimli’s hands twitched with desire.
Though accustomed to the sight, Gimli still found himself captivated. He reached out to touch the toned abs, but Legolas intercepted his palm and instead guided him into the water with a gentle hand on his lower back. The warmth enveloped him, soothing muscles tired from the journey and the weight of the mountain’s responsibilities.
Legolas joined him in the aromatic waters a few seconds later, settling in behind his Dwarf. The warmth of the bath embraced them both and the Elf, with a tender touch, began to massage Gimli's broad shoulders. Skilled fingers worked away the knots and tension from the muscles, each movement a gentle, well-practiced caress.
“Legolas…”
“Quiet,” he said, reaching for a comb placed on a stool nearby. “We’ll talk in a minute. Let me take care of you. I can sense you need it. You are troubled.”
A few minutes later, Gimli found himself a slave of the quiet tenderness of his Prince. He leaned forward and he let him untangle his hair. He only spoke up when he saw Legolas reaching for a hair lotion brought from Mirkwood. “Wait. Don’t put that in my hair. Last time you did my mother asked me for three days why I was smelling like freaking flowers and I don’t like lying to her.”
Legolas looked disappointed, but he nodded curtly and finished combing the red curls. “You could always tell her the truth, you know. I remember you thinking that she would not be unreasonable.”
“Of course she wouldn’t, she is the most tolerant Dwarf I know. But I can’t breach such a topic in this way, and especially not now,” he sighed. “And I know what you are going to say! I know I have been telling you this for years now, but… it’s complicated.”
“Peace… your heart is speeding up,” Legolas said, putting the comb back on the stool and enveloping Gimli with his arms and legs. “Take a deep breath. It will be alright,” he said, whispering against his temple.
“Not this time, my love. Great are the worries haunting the mountain these days,” he murmured, laying back against Legolas’ chest with another deep sigh. “Ach, I probably shouldn’t say this, especially to the Prince of Mirkwood.”
“I could not care less about politics, Gimli, you know that very well. I only care about finding a way to finally be together without having to hide like criminals. Tired is my heart of acting like there’s something shameful in loving you.”
Gimli grasped Legolas’ forearms and held onto them for dear life, as if he was drowning in the tub. “There’s nothing shameful in our love. It is why I bought this home for us, have you forgotten? You deserved more than shady taverns. We stopped truly hiding a long time ago! And besides—”
“You are changing the topic,” Legolas interrupted, with his voice cutting the air like one of his arrows. “What is happening in the mountain that has you in such a panic?”
Gimli sighed and turned his whole body slightly, so he could press his cheek against Legolas’ shoulder. “Last week, we received a visit at the gates. This messenger, he was no ordinary envoy. He spoke of the Dark Lord's interest in Hobbits. Sauron wants information about them, their whereabouts, their appearances. It's as if he has a specific target in mind, and that target is none other than our dear friend Bilbo, we believe.”
Legolas' eyes widened with concern. “Why such interest in a Hobbit?”
Gimli shifted uncomfortably in the tub, the warm water no longer bringing him solace. “That's what we aim to find out. Dáin has bought us more time, but I fear it won’t be enough. We must protect our mountain at all costs, but not at the expense of Bilbo Baggins. He deserves our loyalty for his services in the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.”
“And yet…” Legolas tightened his grip around Gimli. “You fear Erebor will fall prey to the shadows should you refuse the deal. What does Dáin plan to do?”
“It has only been a few days and I trust my King’s wisdom. He will lead us in the right direction, I am sure of it,” he caressed one of Legolas’ arms. “Only… promise me you won’t say anything to your father. I could be thrown in jail for telling you this. Half the time I am with you I spill all sorts of secrets, it’s already bad enough. I really don’t need to be accused of treason too.”
“Erebor’s secrets are safe with me,” he reminded him while running his fingers through the freshly untangled red curls. “You are safe with me. You have always been, since the very first day I met you while riding that pony. You had short fuzzy braids, freckles all over, no beard, and…”
Gimli interrupted, his face red, “Argh, shut your mouth, Elf!” He jumped away from his arms, embarrassed. “You are the one who looks like a teenager here, with that baby face and all your smooth rest,” sputtered Gimli, settling on the other side of the tub and leaning his arms against the edges of the tub.
“Why are you so upset? If there’s anyone here who knows you are not a teenage Dwarf anymore, it is certainly me.” With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he joined Gimli on the opposite side of the wooden tub. His wet, flawless skin glowed in the soft light of the fire, and his golden hair cascaded down his shoulders like liquid sunlight.
Without hesitation, he shamelessly made his way onto Gimli's lap creating ripples in the water, and draped an arm casually around Gimli's shoulder. “Besides, I thought you were just annoyingly cute when I saw you the first time. The real problems only started when I came back from my travels in the North to find the snarky ginger fuzz ball of the forest had become a full warrior with armor and a lush, amazing beard.”
Gimli, grumbling incoherently, decided to change the topic. “Enough of this banter. You talk too much and act too little.”
“Well, let me try to fix that…” Legolas leaned forward, closing the distance between them and placing a gentle hand on Gimli's cheek, his touch strangely cool against the wet, heated skin of the Dwarf. Their lips met in a kiss that was both tender and electric. Legolas's mouth moved with a familiarity that spoke of years of shared moments, a dance of tongues that conveyed a longing that had built up during their time apart. Gimli responded in kind, his strong hands finding their way to Legolas's waist, fingers tracing the contours of the little dimples on his lower back.
The warmth of the bathwater embraced them, and the flickering firelight cast dancing shadows on the stone walls around them. The water sloshed gently as they moved together and when Legolas broke the kiss, it was only because of a moan he could not suffocate. “I missed you, meleth-nin,” he murmured, while his fingers trailed down Gimli's chest hair.
“Missed you too, my darling Elf,” Gimli replied, his gruff voice finally giving in to the vulnerability he had been hiding since entering their home. “And I have a feeling that I will miss you even more soon… these are dark times, Legolas, and perhaps it will be harder than ever for us to meet. The mountain might need to go in lockdown should war begin.”
After Gimli’s whispered admission, the air hung heavy with something unspoken. For a moment, Legolas seemed on the brink of saying something. Yet he quickly chose a different kind of communication and his eyes, now a shade darker than desire, darker even than his Mirkwood forest, gazed upon Gimli with lust.
Without breaking eye contact, Legolas shifted his position, moving sensually against Gimli in the warm water. His skilled fingers traced teasing patterns along Gimli's shoulders, sending shivers down the Dwarf's spine. A soft sigh escaped Legolas's lips, his breath brushing against Gimli's ear.
Legolas placed his hand between their bodies, exploring the contours of Gimli's chest before descending lower. Gimli's breath caught in his throat, and a low, guttural sound rumbled from deep within him. Legolas's touch was both gentle and firm, and they kissed again, their lips melding together in a fervent dance.
Gimli's grip tightened on Legolas's waist, his body responding with the same kind of hunger as Legolas’ own. Yet as the water around them rippled and the warm caresses became scorching hot, Gimli found in himself the strength to stop him.
“Wait… wait! You know I hate it when the water in the bath gets dirty… let’s go to bed. I haven’t seen you in two months. I intend to properly make love to my husband.”
Legolas paused, his hand still lingering in the space between them. The fire in his eyes softened as he met Gimli's gaze. With one last lingering kiss, he withdrew from their intimate embrace, allowing Gimli to stand.
Water cascaded down their bodies as they exited the bath. Gimli, still damp and wearing only the traces of desire on his skin, led Legolas to the large, canopied bed in the room next to the living room. In the pitch-black darkness of their bedroom, Gimli moved with absolute surety.
For Legolas, the ebony void meant nothing, but for Gimli, it was as clear as day. His dwarven eyes, accustomed to the depths of stone and darkness, navigated the room effortlessly.
The sound of splashing water from the bath echoed as they left it behind, and Gimli reached out for Legolas's hand. His strong fingers intertwined with the Elf's, and with an unspoken assurance, he guided Legolas through the chamber.
Cool, clean sheets soon welcomed them, offering a stark contrast to the warmth of their bodies. Gimli's hands, calloused by a century of axe working and occasional mining, traced Legolas's form as they lay down together.
Legolas surrendered to the sensation of his lover's hands exploring him in the absence of sight. The quiet of the room was broken only by the sounds of their shared breaths, the soft rustle of the sheets beneath them, the screeching sound of the drawer opening, and the soft creak of the oil container being opened.
Gimli's hands moved with a deliberate tenderness as he traced Legolas's skin, exploring every contour with a skill born of love and familiarity. He soon started preparing his Elf’s body to welcome him, with gentle but steady fingers that prompted languid whimpers and sobs.
In the midst of their intimate dance, Legolas, lost in the sensations, finally found words beyond moans and sighs. His voice, barely more than a murmur in the darkness, cut through the symphony of their desire and the work of Gimli’s hands inside of him.
“I fear being separated from you too,” Legolas confessed, his words carrying the weight of vulnerability. Gimli paused, his fingers stilling for a moment as he listened. “In the heart of the forest, surrounded only by pitch darkness and monsters, sometimes… sometimes that fear consumes me.”
Gimli, understanding the gravity of Legolas's words a little too well, kissed his way up from Legolas's abdomen to his chest, providing comfort with each tender press of lips.
“But here, with you, it fades away,” continued Legolas, his hand finding its way to Gimli's beard, fingers gently tracing the familiar soft wool. “I have seen so little of the world and yet… yet when I think about you I feel ready for anything.”
In response to that, with a dark, sensual voice that resonated through the quiet darkness, Gimli asked, “And are you ready for me, Legolas?” His breath brushed against the Elf's ear, and Legolas, moaning softly, responded with a breathless, “Yes.”
Gimli aligned himself with Legolas, their bodies slotting together seamlessly. Legolas's moans became a melody as soon as Gimli pushed inside, guiding their bodies into the well-known rhythm of their passion. His lips brushed again against the sensitive skin of Legolas's ear and in a low, intimate murmur he said, “There is no power dark enough, my darling Elf,” he murmured, his voice a deep, comforting rumble. “No shadow, no abyss that can ever separate us. I will always find you, no matter how deep the darkness may be. My eyes do not fail in the night.”
Lost in the pleasure and comfort of their connection, Legolas felt the weight of Gimli's promise settling over them like a protective cloak. He clung to him and never let go, not even when the sheets beneath them absorbed the wet echoes of their love.
***
Pre-dawn light started filtering through the curtains of their bedroom which was still filled with a serene hush, as if the world itself was holding its breath before the first light of day, not quite ready to wake up again.
Slept had escaped Legolas and even reverie had felt impossible. Thankfully, tracing gentle patterns on Gimli's back for hours while the Dwarf slept was highly entertaining.
The sheets, woven from the finest threads dwarven craftsmanship could find, cradled Legolas as he sat against the pillows. His silver-blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders, a stark contrast to the red strands of Gimli's beard that nestled against his skin.
The two lovers still lay intertwined, their bodies a canvas for passion just hours before.
Gimli, his sturdy form relaxed in slumber, snored softly beside Legolas. The Dwarf's chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of a content heart; his strong arms lay protectively around Legolas, always afraid to wake up in an empty bed.
Legolas gazed upon the sleeping Dwarf with a mixture of love and sorrow in his eyes. His fingertips moved with a delicate touch, tracing invisible lines on Gimli's back, committing every curve, every tattoo, every freckle to memory. Legolas’ heart felt heavy, knowing that the day ahead marked yet another end for them.
When will they meet again? Will they even meet again? A few nights ago, during the lovely bath they had shared, Gimli had been right. These were indeed very dark times, and like never before, there were too many issues hindering their happiness. The bittersweet reality hung in the air and Legolas found himself leaning down to place a feather-light kiss on Gimli's shoulder. The Dwarf stirred but did not wake, most likely lost in dreams where the world was simpler and their love free to flow.
Yet no matter how hard he tried, Legolas could not envision such a world.
What would that look like, this world where love would be cherished and hate forgotten? Before meeting Gimli, Legolas had only seen and known the harsh love of his dying forest, the dark stench of looming threats, and the resigned blue of his father’s eyes. Before him, and before traveling North to meet with the Dúnedainafter the Battle of the Five Armies, he had not known the meaning of the word hope.
Now he knew, and knowing they could not have it all hurt even more.
He hugged Gimli a bit tighter and sighed. With a tender touch, he continued to caress his back, cherishing the fleeting moments before the day took his love away. He looked down at him one more time and studied his round cheeks and the long, light eyelashes.
Gosh, very little stirred tenderness in him like a sleeping Gimli did.
Perhaps, Legolas thought, he should bring this tenderness at home too. Perhaps the creature Aragorn entrusted them with, the very one they were holding in their dungeons would speak more willingly if Legolas were more compassionate, more as Gimli would probably be.
Yes, he would try a new approach with Gollum.
***
Going back to life in the mountain after spending a few days in Legolas’ arms was never easy. The halls of Erebor, grand and forever echoing with the clang of hammer on anvil, always felt somehow colder, lonelier to Gimli. Even his own heart felt smoldered under the weight of stone and duty. The secret of their bond, nurtured in the quiet of Dale, was no back to being hidden beneath layers of armor and beard, as Gimli strode through the mountain’s vast corridors.
In the comfort of their home in Dale, time had been a river flowing softly for them, with waters whispering of dreams and hopes and worries. Now, as Gimli walked the familiar paths towards his family’s place, the echoes of his footsteps seemed to mock the silence left in Legolas’ absence.
Every shade of blue in the mountain reminded him of Legolas’ summer sky eyes, every giggling baby dwarfling brought back memories of the Elf’s laughter at Gimli’s stupid jokes, and every stone wall of Erebor whispered secrets of tales of love and loss.
He pondered the irony of it all, how in seeking to protect the legacy of their people, they were forced to hide the very thing that could unite them—love, in all its forms. How shameful.
As Gimli neared the family’s home, his father Glóin emerged, face etched with concern. Gimli's steps halted, his heart tightening at the sight. “Da’, what’s with the haste?” he asked, masking his worry with a tone of casual curiosity.
Glóin looked up, the lines of his face deepening with worry. These days, he always looked worried, what with Sauron’s messenger threats and the turmoil that seemed to be boiling under their own feet. “King Dáin called an emergency meeting of the royal council. We have received ill news from Mirkwood,” he said, his voice laden with gravity. “Sauron’s forces attacked the Woodland Realm. It seems that Thranduil and his Elves managed to repel the attack, but they suffered losses due to an ambush by the Orcs of Dol Guldur.”
A cold shiver ran down Gimli's spine, his mind reeling from the news.
Legolas.
The thought of him in danger, possibly hurt, was unbearable. Yet, he dared not reveal the depth of his concern, not even to his own father. “That sounds… grave indeed. Have there been any word on the extent of their losses?” Gimli inquired, striving to keep his voice steady, to ask as any concerned ally might, without betraying his personal stake in the matter.
Glóin studied him a little with a grim expression that bared nothing. “Details are scarce. What we know we have learned from our scouts and other allies. As you can imagine, Thranduil has not exactly jumped at the opportunity of informing us of his problems.”
Gimli nodded, his thoughts racing. He needed to know if Legolas was safe, but revealing his true concern was not an option. “I see,” Gimli said, his mind working swiftly. “Perhaps, given the situation, it might be beneficial for someone knowledgeable about the lay of Mirkwood and the tactics of the Orcs of Dol Guldur to attend the council. You might remember that my first responsibility as a newly appointed Axe Master was to lead the patrols around our southern borders. Maybe I can offer some insights to our King.”
Glóin regarded his son, the suggestion catching him off guard. It was unusual for a younger member of their kin to attend such high councils, and even more unusual for Gimli to be willing to join a political discussion at all, what with his son being such a pragmatic Dwarf in general.
After a moment of contemplation, Glóin nodded. “Your point is well taken, Gimli. Your presence could indeed prove useful. Prepare yourself, and join me. But remember, the council is a place of diplomacy and strategy. We must tread carefully, especially when discussing the affairs of Elves. I know you are not a fan of Mirkwood, Gimli, but the King does not appreciate bashing our allies.”
Gimli's heart surged with a mix of relief and anticipation. This was his chance to hear news of Legolas, to gauge the extent of the attack, and perhaps to suggest and support any efforts that might aid Mirkwood—all while maintaining the guise of diplomatic interest and concern for their allies. It was practically an infallible plan, and with some luck, he could convince the King to send a diplomatic mission in support of the forest.
As they made their way to the council chamber, Gimli rehearsed his approach, planning to listen more than he spoke, to glean any information on the state of Mirkwood and the wellbeing of its prince.
The council chamber within the heart of Erebor was carved deep into the mountain's living stone. High, arched ceilings supported by thick, engraved columns gave the room a sense of solemn majesty. Like the rest of the city, the space was illuminated not just by torches but by a clever arrangement of mirrors that reflected and amplified their light, casting a soft, even glow throughout the space. Torches mounted on the walls flickered warmly, their flames captured and multiplied by polished mirrors strategically placed around the room. The effect was both practical and visually stunning, and not for the first time Gimli wished he could show it to Legolas, to the whole world even!, so everyone could finally appreciate the Dwarves the way they deserved to be.
At the center, a large, round table of dark stone stood as the focal point, its surface smoothed by generations of use. Around it, heavy chairs of carved stone and wood were arranged, each bearing the sigil of a prominent dwarven family.
King Dáin Ironfoot presided over the meeting, his expression somber as he welcomed the attendees.
The council began, and reports from scouts and messengers were shared. Details of the attack were laid bare: the surprise of the orc ambush, the fierceness of the battle, the bravery of the elven warriors. Each word weighed heavily on Gimli, but no mention was made of individual casualties or the fates of specific Elves. Surely someone would have mentioned if the heir of their neighboring kingdom was hurt, Gimli thought, but the lack of bad news was not enough for him.
Seizing an opportunity and ignoring any previous intent to stay quiet, Gimli spoke, his voice calm and measured, unlike the beating of his heart. “Might I suggest, your Majesty, that in addition to any aid we decide to send to Mirkwood, we also dispatch a messenger to express our concern for their losses and to inquire about any specific needs they might have? It would be a gesture of goodwill and might strengthen our ties in these dark times.”
King Dáin stopped to consider Gimli's words. He played with his whitening mustache and then nodded. “A sound proposal, son of Glóin.”
Gimli, feeling a surge of confidence, spoke up once more, “Your Majesty, if I may, I would volunteer myself to deliver the message to Mirkwood. My knowledge of the area and my... commitment to aiding our allies could prove beneficial.”
King Dáin Ironfoot, seated at the head of the table, turned his gaze upon Gimli one last time, studying him for a moment that stretched uncomfortably long. Then, with a single, decisive word, he responded, “No.”
Taken aback by the refusal, Gimli could barely mask his confusion. “My King, I… I don’t understand.”
King Dáin leaned forward, his expression serious yet not unkind. “Your eagerness to serve and your initiative are exactly why I have a different mission in mind for you,” he explained, capturing the attention of all within the chamber. “The situation in Mirkwood, while grave, is but one piece of a larger puzzle that we find ourselves a part of. The kind of willingness to step forward that you've just shown is what we need for a task of another nature.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in before continuing. “I wish for you to accompany your father to Rivendell, first and foremost to warn Bilbo Baggins about Sauron’s messenger and ensure his safety. He has been staying with the Elves for years now and I am sure they have taken good care of our friend. Yet they lack the full context we instead have here.”
The room fell silent, the gravity of the mention of Sauron hanging heavy in the air.
“Secondly,” Dáin continued, “we must seek the counsel of Lord Elrond on these weighty matters. The threat we face is not limited to our borders or Mirkwood alone. It concerns all of Middle-earth. Lord Elrond's wisdom and the alliances we may forge or strengthen at Rivendell could prove crucial in the times ahead… and I better not hear a pip about asking the advice of an Elf by those present here, or I’ll kick your ass myself!”
Gimli, digesting the King's words, felt a shift in perspective. The disappointment of not being sent to Mirkwood was quickly overshadowed by the significance of this new mission. To be entrusted with such a task spoke volumes of the King's faith in him and his father. The stakes were higher than he had perhaps initially realized, extending beyond immediate battles to the very safety and future of Middle-earth.
But what about Legolas? The thought hammered at his conscience.
“It is an honor to be entrusted with such a mission, but…”
“No buts, son. You heard the King,” Glóin interjected, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “We don’t have a lot of time, so quit the dilly-dallying and go pack. We leave in two days, and Rivendell is waiting. We might even gather information on Balin, Óin, and the others if we are lucky,” and the mention of Moria’s expedition triggered a whole new set of back and forths in the royal council of King Dain.
f*ck, Gimli thought. He should have just stayed quiet.
***
Gimli's heart was a tumult of stone and fire as he and his father journeyed through the last leg of their path to Rivendell. He had never been, of course, in the so-called Last Homely House of the West, yet it all felt oddly familiar when the secret passage of the rocks opened up to a marvelous, enchanting realm. The stories from his childhood filled what his eyes could not take in and he immediately felt safe in Imladris. They had spent months on a perilous road and to see civilization again felt incredibly good.
Staring at the elven architecture, his ears picked up a familiar song, one Legolas often hummed. How fascinating that realms so far away from each other still shared some common chants. Perhaps they were not that different from Dwarves after all… but then again, Gimli had been arguing that for years now.
“Don’t let them get to you. They are probably masking insults in their songs, but we are better than ‘em,” said Glóin, marching with the pony in front of his son in a way that seemed to sort of shield Gimli.
They were not, in fact, singing insults. Gimli’s Sindarin was not perfect by any means, but it was good enough to allow him to understand something easy. They were singing a lament of some kind, a bittersweet song that spoke of welcomes and goodbyes.
How he wished he could tell his father about this. About everything. But months of traveling alone with him had given him plenty of chances to say the truth about Legolas and he had failed each time to open his heart.
Now was once again too late.
The sun was setting when they finally reached the gates of Rivendell from the main bridge, its light casting a golden hue over the Last Homely House. Gimli felt the weight of his journey in his bones, the heavy clinking of his armor a constant reminder of the purpose that drove him forth from the mountain halls of Erebor. Beside him, his father rode in silence, both aware of the urgency that had brought them across Middle-earth to seek counsel from Lord Elrond.
As they dismounted, the beauty of Rivendell struck Gimli anew, its serene rivers and lush gardens a stark contrast to the strong, geometrical, eternal ruggedness of the Lonely Mountain. Yet, amidst the splendor, a knot of worry tightened in his chest, a fear that had been his shadow since he left the halls of his home. He had left behind not just his kin and home but also his heart.
He was certain Legolas would have loved Rivendell and it did not take much effort to already imagine how he would be hanging from one of the trees.
When months ago word had reached Erebor of an attack in Mirkwood, Gimli had felt the ground slip from under his feet upon hearing the news. The fear that Legolas, his husband in secret, might have been hurt, or worse, still consumed him.
As Gimli and Glóin were ushered into the hall where Lord Elrond awaited, Gimli's eyes scanned a strange-looking gathered crowd, immediately noticing there were plenty of Elves present, but that not all of them wore the colors or the style of clothes of Rivendell. Interesting.
“Welcome Glóin,” Elrond greeted, with a voice carrying the weight of the many ages seen by his eyes. “And this must be your son. Welcome to you as well, may Imladris be your home until you need it. I know your journey has been long and fraught with peril, and I will soon let you rest; but my friends, you could not have arrived at a better time. We were about to start the first of many councils. Please, join us. The wisdom of Dwarves is needed.”
Gimli's heart was a cacophony of emotions as he and his father were led through the intricate paths of Rivendell. The beauty of the elven realm suddenly became lost on him; his mind was a whirlwind of anticipation and nerves about this council and the matters at hand. They had traveled far, and the importance of their mission weighed heavily on his shoulders. War was on Erebor’s doors and what happened in the Woodland Realm could soon happen at home too.
As they approached the terrace where the council was to be held, Gimli adjusted the weight of the axe on his shoulders, trying to find comfort in its familiar presence. His father walked with a determined stride, clearly focused on the task ahead and with a clearer mind than Gimli.
The terrace was filled with representatives from across Middle-earth—a few tall, broody men with short irrelevant beards, but unsurprisingly there were mostly Elves. Yet it was the sight of one figure that caused Gimli's world to tilt on its axis.
There, among the assembled, among these unknown figures that looked down on Gimli and his father, there was Legolas, with his fair hair and that noble bearing only Gimli’s hands could melt.
For a fleeting moment, their eyes met. Gimli felt a jolt of shock, one that he found mirrored in Legolas's gaze. To any onlooker, the exchange would seem innocuous, maybe even vaguely hostile considering the history of their two realms, but to them, it was a tumultuous storm of recognition, fear, relief, and longing.
Legolas's expression quickly became impassive, a mask of calm that Gimli knew all too well. It was the face Legolas wore when he felt cornered, when the walls were closing in and there was no clear path forward. Gimli, for his part, felt as if he had turned to stone, rooted to the spot under the weight of a gaze he had dreamt of for what felt like centuries and instead were only months.
Glóin, oblivious to the silent exchange, nudged Gimli gently, urging him forward. “He’s not our favorite, but we will play with whatever cards we are dealt, son, even the spawn of Thranduil. Ignore the Mirkwood’s princeling and find yourself somewhere to sit.”
With great effort, Gimli tore his gaze away from Legolas and followed his father, mind racing and heart throbbing. How could Legolas be here, in Rivendell, at this council? Was it because of the ambush from the Orcs of Dol Guldur? What did this mean for their secret, for their shared past, and now even more uncertain future?
Never before they had shared a room together with so many other people, let alone kin. Their tucked away home in Dale was their fortress, with sturdy walls protecting them from the evil of others’ judgments. Here… here they were fully exposed in a way that made Gimli feel weaponless, even though he had one axe in his hand and another one on his shoulders.
As the council convened, the terrace of Rivendell served as a grand stage, bathed in the warm, golden hues of sunset. The sky was a canvas of vibrant oranges and deep purples, while the ancient stones of the terrace, worn smooth by the passage of countless years and many Elves, bore witness to the beginning of the darkest days of Middle-earth.
Lord Elrond stood with an air of solemn dignity and with eyes as ancient as the world. “We are gathered at a time when light fades and shadows lengthen,” he remarked, his voice resonant and clear. “Let this sunset not symbolize the fall of Middle-earth, but rather the fire and resolve with which we shall meet our fate. Today is just the beginning of our conversations and not all who will play a role in this story are currently present. But for now, let us start with some of the most pressing news,” and to Gimli’s shock, he turned towards Legolas. “The Prince of the Woodland Realm is here with an ill update.”
As Legolas stood to speak, the setting sun framed him, casting his figure in a silhouette that seemed almost ethereal. Overwhelmed by that view, Gimli felt tears prickling his dark eyes.
He had left Erebor worried to death, only to find his love safe and sound on the other side of the world—happy tears were more than justified.
Yet there was no need to hide them, for they soon dried up when Legolas started talking. The light danced in his golden hair and sparked in his eyes as he recounted the tale of Gollum's escape. “There was a high tree standing alone from the others in our Woodland home that he liked to climb. Often we let him mount up to the highest branches to make his imprisonment less tortuous. One day he refused to come down and Orcs came upon us unawares. When the battle
was over, we found that Gollum was gone, and his guards were slain or taken. It then seemed plain to us that the attack had been made for his rescue, and that he knew it beforehand. How that was contrived we cannot guess, but the truth remains: we have lost the previous ring bearer.”
As the last light of the sun faded, one of the two men, the one with the more raggedy look, stepped forward to speak. He introduced himself as Strider, a Ranger from the North. Yet even with his travel-worn look, he addressed the council with the stance of a King. The terrace, now lit by the soft glow of lanterns and a few fireflies, cast long shadows around the gathered figures, adding a somber depth to the moment.
Oh, Strider’s words dried the last of the happy tears very, very fast.
The Ranger’s voice was controlled, yet the undercurrents of frustration and disappointment were unmistakable. “The escape of Gollum is grave news,” he began, his gaze sweeping across those assembled before settling with a pointed weight on Legolas. “It was upon Gandalf's advice that I brought the creature to your people, trusting in the security of the Woodland Realm. Yet, it seems that even the most vigilant eyes can be blinded. Even yours, Legolas.”
Gimli clenched his fists tightly, reflecting on the countless secrets and intricate details he had freely shared with Legolas throughout their years together. He had entrusted his husband with the deepest confidences of his kind, and trusting his vow of silence, he had shared the most intimate confidences about Dwarves and their culture, and even secrets of the state that would earn Gimli a jail sentence if ever disclosed! And yet, what had he received in exchange? Legolas had been responsible for this creature Gollum for Mahal knows for how long, and not once had he breathed a word of it. No mention of Gollum, no word of this accursed Ring that everyone now seemed desperate to find, and certainly nothing about this Ranger, who had the audacity to chastise his Elf with such disdain. Who was this man to Legolas to dare such a thing?
The silence that followed was heavy, laden with unspoken rebukes and the weight of consequences yet to unfold. Legolas stood still, the glow of the lanterns highlighting the lines of tension in his face. It was a look Gimli knew well, one of internal struggle and the burden of responsibility. A look he had seen in the privacy of their home and certainly never addressed to someone other than Gimli.
As Gimli's frustration simmered, another voice rose above the quiet murmurs of the council, pulling his attention away. The new speaker introduced himself with a proud bearing as Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor. His tone carried a weight of urgency and rebuke, complaining that the council seemed to overlook a critical piece of information. “Has the Ring been found then? If so, what are we doing here exactly?” Boromir demanded, his voice echoing with concern. “Perhaps the Elves are used to a slower pace of time, but every moment we are here discussing, my people’s blood keeps being spilled.” The mention of his city's plight struck a chord in the gathered assembly, a stark reminder of the war that crept ever closer to their doorsteps.
The Ranger responded with a softer voice, acknowledging the sacrifices made by the people of Minas Tirith, who stood on the front lines of the battle against the encroaching darkness of Mordor. “We all know how the white stone of Minas Tirith is darkened these days. It is also for Gondor’s benefit that we are here today.” His words were meant to soothe, yet they seemed to ignite further irritation in Boromir.
“And who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?” Boromir challenged, his gaze scrutinizing Aragorn's rugged appearance and the cloak worn by countless miles and trials.
Before Aragorn could muster the courage to reply, Legolas intervened, the fire that had been absent from his eyes now blazing with an intensity that rivaled the stars themselves. “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” he declared with fierce pride, “and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur, Elendil's son of Minas Ithil. You owe him your allegiance, son of Gondor.” Legolas’ words, spoken with unwavering conviction, silenced the murmurs and drew the attention of all present.
What they did instead to Gimli was far different from the awe it instilled in others. He felt the sting of tears once more, not from joy but from a piercing sense of betrayal. The warm glow of happiness that had warmed him just moments earlier now seemed a world away, replaced by a cold, creeping doubt that wormed its way into his heart.
For the first time, the thought that his life with Legolas might have been built on a foundation of omissions and half-truths began to take root in his mind, shaking the trust that had been the bedrock of their secret union.
The abrupt arrival of an Elf from Rivendell onto the terrace shattered the tense atmosphere. The Elf moved with an urgency that immediately commanded the attention of all present, making a beeline for Elrond. With a respectful bow, he whispered something into Elrond’s ear, the words too soft for the others to catch. However, Gimli, with his keen sense of hearing honed in the deep and echoing halls of Erebor, caught a fragment of the hushed exchange. “Mithrandir na-hi,” the Elf said, his voice barely a whisper yet carrying the weight of importance.
Gimli’s brow furrowed at the Elvish words. Mithrandir is here. He recognized 'Mithrandir' as one of the many names for Gandalf, which made him think maybe the questions raised by Boromir could finally find an answer with the wizard here.
Elrond raised his hands, signaling for silence as the murmurs around the terrace grew. “The matters before us are grave,” he began, his voice carrying a calming authority that stilled the restless assembly. “And they demand our full attention and wisdom. However, the night is already upon us, and with the news that has just arrived, it is clear that we must pause to gather our thoughts and seek further counsel.”
He looked around at the faces before him, each reflecting a mix of concern, curiosity, and fatigue from the day's tensions. “Let us reconvene with the morning light. I promise you, by then, we shall have clearer paths to discuss and, hopefully, better answers to the questions that plague us. For now, I urge you all to rest and find solace in the peace that Rivendell can offer, even in times of uncertainty.”
With a gesture of his hand, Elrond signaled to one of his aides. “Lindir, please ensure that our guests Gimli and Glóin are shown to their quarters. The rest of you, my Elves will guide you to your accommodations. Dinner will be served shortly, and I hope you will join us to share a meal in fellowship, despite the shadows that loom over our gathering.”
Gimli watched as the council began to disperse, the weight of the day's revelations and debates pressing heavily on his shoulders. The Dwarf felt a twinge of relief at the prospect of a momentary respite, a chance to process the whirlwind of emotions and information that had beset him. Yet, as he prepared to follow Lindir, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to Legolas, to the secrets that lay between them, and the uncertain future that awaited.
Lindir approached with a courteous nod, his expression serene yet empathetic, as if sensing the turmoil that stirred within Gimli. “Master Dwarf, if you and Master Glóin would follow me, I shall take you to your chambers where you can rest and refresh yourselves,” he said, offering a comforting smile.
Gimli turned to look at Legolas one last time, but his Elf was already deep in a heated Sindarin conversation with Aragorn. “Lead the way, Master Elf,” he said, finally speaking for the first time since he arrived in Rivendell.
