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“Well?”
Legolas started at the sound of Gimli’s voice – how had he missed his husband’s return to their bedroom? He looked up, fighting the urge to snatch his hand out of the wooden chest like a child caught among the leavings from the autumn feast. There was something almost indecent-feeling about being caught wrist-deep in a dwarf’s jewels – even if Gimli was his husband, and even if, as Gimli so patiently reminded him, the jewelry did officially belong to Legolas himself.
He managed to soften the abrupt motion of his hand, to temper the instinctive guilt in the gesture. But then Gimli was smiling at him, and the soft tinkling of a gold waterfall spilling through his fingers was drowned out by the thump of his own pulse in his ears.
“Well?” Gimli repeated, tilting his head coyly so the light gleamed off the sapphires adorning his left eyebrow. “What are your thoughts?”
Legolas’s thoughts, in that moment, had deserted him, vanished somewhere in the depths of Gimli’s eyes, or the intricate coil of his braided hair, or the tantalizing flash of clavicle not quite hidden beneath his gold-embroidered collar. Years enough had passed since their wedding, since their friendship, since the shaky early days of their first coming-together, to temper Legolas’s inclination towards speechlessness, to soften the block in his throat that cut off his words – at least around Gimli. But as always, the sight of the dwarf in full finery was an exception.
All he could manage was a soft exhale, and Gimli laughed – full and rich as the deep blue and gold brocade of his tunic. “Will I serve?”
The appropriate response would be a laugh in response and a dry, “You will do,” but Legolas could not manage it. Often enough had he struggled and failed to parse it, what it was about the sight that so seized him. Such finery was hardly uncommon at dwarvish banquets, and tonight’s – a feast meant to honor visiting lords from Erebor – would likely boast attire more dazzling even than Gimli’s: the older, grander kingdom was always represented with gold and jewels aplenty. (Though it was best not to dwell on it; that time would come soon enough.) But there was something about the way Gimli wore his own: the breadth of his shoulders and chest beneath the swirling gold designs on his tunic, announcing his stature and his strength – more expansive than a starry sky. The way the elaborate coils of his hair and beard shone like a reflected sunset, braided to perfection and set with gold, even his hair boasting the skill and concentration of his hands –
The way he glittered, studded with gems like a constellation come to earth. Legolas had never cared for jewels, but Gimli made them magnificent – and he wore them with care and pride. If asked, he could name the maker of each piece he wore and his memory of its acquisition, as though he decorated himself in memory and heritage rather than in gold and gems –
Body and soul, he was resplendent, and Legolas swayed towards him now like a magnet drawn to the metal that gleamed from every inch of him.
Gimli smiled, a slow sweet devastation that outshone all the glitter of his adornments. “I will take that as a compliment, then,” he said softly, and leaned forward to catch Legolas’s mouth with his own.
At the first touch of his lips, everything fell away – the uncertainty that laced through his own preparations; the nagging anxiety of what awaited him. Even the sight of Gimli in finery was eclipsed by the warmth of his mouth, the gentleness of his hands as they came to rest on Legolas’s shoulders. Legolas’s eyes fell closed, and suddenly the sight mattered not at all – he was alone with Gimli in the darkness of their sweet shared world; nothing else existed but Gimli’s lips, Gimli’s hands, and he could live in this moment forever.
That was, until he leaned forward too far and nearly upset the jewel chest open beside him on the bed. He jerked back with a yelp as it overbalanced, and for a moment all was a confusion of lips and teeth and hands tangling amidst the cascade of metal and gems that spilled from the tilted chest, fighting to catch it all before any could strike the ground.
“I am glad to see you sought that on your own,” Gimli said when they had scooped the mass back into the chest and settled more decorously onto the bed. “Perhaps you are finally becoming accustomed to dwarven celebration.”
Legolas sighed a laugh and looked down at the chest through which he had been idly sorting, shaking his head. “Not enough, I fear.” Not enough, anyway, to be prepared for what came after these hours of preparation together, the sweet intimacy of dressing for the feast. He supposed, looking down at his jewel chest, that he had made some progress, at least. Like Gimli, he could name the provenance of every item in the chest, though as his collection was diminutive in comparison, this was no great accomplishment. Every piece in the chest belonged to him, a few gifts from his father from their own spare treasury, but the majority procured by Gimli over years’ worth of visits to dwarven markets and crafters. Legolas had no great sense for quality himself, but Gimli delighted in gifting him things: no sooner had Legolas made some exclamation or moved to finger some piece of jewelry than Gimli had already removed his purse and was counting out coins. At first, Legolas had resisted – he had no use for such finery, save on his visits to Gimli – but the gleam in Gimli’s eyes as he presented Legolas with each new purchase was the true gift, one Legolas could not bear to turn away.
And so the collection resided on a shelf in their chambers in Aglarond, awaiting such events as tonight, when Gimli would sort through it to find the pieces that would best suit the occasion.
Gimli eyed him, now, twining his fingers with Legolas’s amid the mass of cool metal and colder stone. “I think you could do this on your own,” he said. “If you wanted to.”
It was Legolas’s turn to tilt his head and try for coy. “But why would I, when you have so much more skill?”
Gimli laughed, and there was such tenderness in the sound that Legolas almost had to turn away. Gimli’s free hand came up to cup the side of Legolas’s face, slide fingers through his yet-unbound hair. Legolas’s eyes fluttered closed, and he inclined his head into the sensation. “And that is why I must braid your hair as well?”
Even a few years ago, Legolas might not have understood the tease in his voice – might have tensed up in automatic gut-clenching apology. But they had felt their way into this place as carefully as Gimli’s fingers now slid up and down the sharp edge of Legolas’s ear – Gimli knew how far to push the jest, and Legolas knew, now, to take his words in the fondness with which they were intended. More, Legolas knew that Gimli loved to do this – to braid and adorn Legolas for his celebrations, to display him before the other guests so there would be no doubt whose hands had wound the braids into his hair, clasped the chains around his neck. There was a thrill of possession in the way Gimli touched Legolas at such times – a declaration that made his belly warm and his heart sing, even now, even still.
So he smiled, with his eyes still closed, and said, “Yes.”
The warm rumble of Gimli’s laughter nearly shook the bed, and then his lips were warm and soft and beard-bristled against Legolas’s temple. “Very well then, lazy thing; I suppose I had best begin.”
He withdrew, and Legolas opened his eyes to watch avidly as Gimli sorted through the box with deft fingers, holding up this piece or that and eyeing it critically. Legolas’s tastes ran simpler than Gimli’s own – what use were intricate adornments in the wood, after all? Lasgalen had never counted its wealth in gold or jewels, save those few that Legolas’s father and grandfather had brought with them upon their arrival, and Legolas had never valued them for himself. Indeed, for his work in Ithilien he typically wore no jewelry but the hair-beads Gimli had made him for their wedding – and sometimes not even those, if his work was rough enough that he feared to lose them. The array of gifts in the chest was nearly too dazzling for Legolas’s eyes, and yet he knew that they were plain to a dwarf’s tastes.
Tonight Gimli selected the most intricate of the lot: a necklace of gold that swirled over Legolas’s collarbones and chest like a tangle of snakes, adorned with chips of jade drawn from the very walls of their chambers, during the hollowing-out process. Gimli had commissioned this necklace especially for Legolas on the ten-year anniversary of their dwarven wedding – but the stone he had saved for years longer than that. It was Legolas’s favorite piece of the collection, though he found little occasion to wear it: delicately beautiful, lined with stone that drew the eye in deeper without dazzling it. Legolas’s jewelry did not catch the light as Gimli’s did; he found the glitter too distracting – and felt no need to add more sparkle to the gathering of dwarves, who would provide enough on their own that his eyes watered already in anticipation.
In addition to the necklace, there was a plain gold cuff for his wrist, a gift from his father; a brooch made by Gimli’s mother to clasp the green wrap he wore about his shoulders; and diamond clasps to hold the detailed braids Gimli carefully wove into Legolas’s hair. He could duplicate the pattern if he chose to himself – his fingers were not as deft as Gimli’s, but he was skilled in ropes and all manner of braiding patterns – but he had no occasion to wear his hair thus outside of these feasts with Gimli, and he would not pass up this opportunity for anything.
He loved dressing for dwarven feasts with Gimli. What came after . . . he would just as soon delay that for as long as he could.
But it could not be helped. At last, the final pin nudged his scalp as Gimli clasped the last braid and stepped back to survey his handiwork with a grunt of satisfaction. And then he was sliding off the bed beside Legolas, offering his hand.
“Shall we?” he asked.
For that gleam in his eyes, Legolas would do much worse. He nodded and slid his fingers through Gimli’s own.
“We shall.”
The sensation of the feast hall nearly bowled Legolas over from a corridor away.
The sound would have been enough – at feasts of men or elves, the sound often was enough to leave him staggering, the cacophonous confusion of hundreds of voices overlapping onto one another, a babble-roar percussed by the tramping of feet and clinking of goblets and cutlery. It hit him in the stomach like a fist, a dull blow that left him tensing to stay upright – but it was a familiar overwhelm, one against which he had developed defenses. Even now he felt himself withdrawing, his consciousness retracting back into itself, long-practiced shields sealing over his heart. He would keep some part of himself safe inside from the sound, from the pressure of eyes on him, from the demands of conversation.
For the sight, he had never learned a counter.
On an ordinary day, his sharp eyes were keen enough to make out the hall in perfect detail as soon as they turned the corner to bring it into view – down to the designs on the sconces on the walls. But on a night like tonight, with the brightest lights Aglarond had to offer and the hall crowded with dwarves all dressed in their finest, the view was nothing so much as a blur of shooting light – like concentrated starlight brought down from the heavens and positioned before a collection of mirrors, bouncing rays of light like blades crisscrossing before Legolas’s eyes. He sucked his lower lip hard into his mouth and blinked back the involuntary tears that rose at the sight.
Gimli squeezed his hand, brought it to his lips to brush a kiss over Legolas’s knuckles, but said nothing. They both knew by now the trials of these nights, and years of conflict and compromise had brought them to an unspoken understanding. Gimli could not leave the festivities until their end, and Legolas would not leave him to preside alone until at least the meal was finished; in turn, Gimli would ask nothing of him until he had recovered from the overwhelm. The understanding was so well practiced that they did not need to speak it aloud – but that did not ease the moment of impact.
There was nothing more to say, but the brush of Gimli’s lips spoke his support and apology more eloquently than any words he could have said aloud.
Legolas squeezed back, too tightly, but he made no attempt to loosen his grip and Gimli made no complaint. They continued forward.
Moving through the archway into the feasting hall was like stepping inside a star. The dwarves themselves stood out as multicolored blurs in the distance, resolving more clearly as they drew nearer – until, that was, they ventured to move, changing the angle of the light and sending a new dazzling ray of light searing its way across Legolas’s vision. Beside him, Gimli too was a constellation, navigating his way through the crowds, stopping to exchange pleasantries and smiles, as Legolas clung to him.
“Good evening, Lord Balar . . . ah, it is such a pleasure to see you gracing our halls again . . . and your sister? Is she well?”
The words melted into a babble like Legolas might hear in a forest he knew well, an underlay of ambient sound he did not need to parse, for it spoke nothing new to him – nothing he might need to understand. He trailed Gimli like wisps from a broken cobweb, letting Gimli part the paths for him, letting Gimli make their greetings.
“. . . oh, thank you, Lady Turis; I will pass your compliments on to my chef Henni; she will be glad to hear . . . say, have you met my second yet?”
He could feel the tight grasp of Gimli’s hand on his own, the comforting weight of the necklace about his chest and shoulders. At first he had found it almost suffocating, that weight, the shackle of gold – but now it was an anchor: a reminder of Gimli’s care for him, a point of sensation to keep him grounded while his spirit wandered. Armor, even: protection from the stares that might otherwise scoff at his paltry adornments, lay judgment upon Gimli for his choice of companion. No one could look at this necklace and not see the care in its design, the commitment from its giver. It might not dazzle, but it could not be overlooked, could not be disrespected.
And was that not, after all, why he accompanied Gimli in the first place? – to deflect the disrespect that might accompany his absence?
He wondered, not for the first time, if this was how Gimli felt in Mirkwood – or even in the more thickly-forested areas of Ithilien – surrounded on all sides by a forest that did not sing to him, uncertain with every step of where to place his feet. Legolas’s stomach was a knot hooked into the line of Gimli’s lead, the tension the only thing keeping him upright, and still they moved.
“. . . I am sorry to hear about your joints, Duke Jarin; I do hope the weather here will be kinder to you in future . . . no, of course; I would not dream of taking offense . . .”
A familiar scent pricked at his nose, sudden and sharp above the usual mingled scent of food and wine and sweat, and he fought the urge to sneeze. Heavy, floral – the scent of carnations long dried to dust, but strong as though left to age in a room closed for years. He knew this scent, and his heart sank even as he turned to face her, bracing himself against the sear of her diamond necklace.
“. . . and Lord Legolas; it is a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you as well, Lady Dorith.” The words came out with only the slightest rasp; he cleared his throat and blinked rapidly, though the blur of the dwarf before him was kinder to his eyes and his heart than a clearer sight. She was one of Gimli’s far-distant cousins, though Gimli saw her only on such occasions as this and claimed he would disavow the relation if he could – an elderly dwarf who feigned sweetness and whispered bitter things in dark corners, and who seemed to take vicious pleasure in Legolas’s every discomfort. Still, he knew what to say, and he bowed politely without letting go of Gimli’s arm. “I hope your visit has been pleasant.”
“Pleasant enough,” she sniffed. “These accommodations are so quaint, are they not, Gimli dear? You are so kind to make such sacrifices to . . . other tastes.” She toyed pointedly with the diamond at her neck, and Legolas wondered if she meant only to draw a comparison to his plainer adornments, or if she knew how it pained his eyes. His own lovely necklace suddenly felt heavier against his chest, the air closer around him, and he tensed to keep from squirming.
“Tastes may vary, cousin,” Gimli said lightly – so lightly even Legolas almost missed the controlled irritation in his voice. “Indeed, I have found our fellows here have much to offer.”
“I suppose you have.” Dorith made no pretense of hiding the disdain in the meaningful look she swept over Legolas’s body: up and then back down. “And indeed, Lord Legolas, I do so love to see you at these feasts, scarce as the sight is.” Long years of practice kept Legolas from flinching at the well-aimed words. “I trust I will see you for a dance once the meal is finished?”
Back, down, and away. He pushed his dismay down with the rest of it – the bubbling spike of panic in his belly, the shock of dread when asked to speak to someone he hardly knew and liked even less. “I shall hope for the same, my lady.”
“You may have to pry him from my arms, first,” Gimli laughed. His hand slipped free of Legolas’s – Legolas’s fingers clenched, panicked, around empty air before Gimli’s arm was looped through his own instead, body solid and snug against him. “But do excuse us now, cousin; I have many greetings to make with others who do not have your patience. Surely we shall speak again later!”
And then he was tugging Legolas away, murmuring an “I am sorry for her” in his ear as he swept Legolas through another knot of dwarves and away.
Always Dorith asked Legolas for a dance; she seemed to take pleasure in his discomfort – standing too close, her heavy-booted feet landing on his own light-shod ones. Gimli had jested once that he ought to line his shoes with iron to protect his toes – but such events as this were always as crushing as a pair of indiscriminate feet, and it was more than his toes at risk. She had asked him only to ensure that he would stay for long enough to dance – knowing, surely, the toll that the sight and the sounds took on him.
And still they moved on, and still there was more – more conversation, more questions demanding polite answers, more flashes of light in his eyes. Legolas could not decide if the overwhelm of sight and sound made it better or worse, the unshakeable panic at the thought of speaking to these people he did not know, these people who did not know him – was it better when he could not see their faces, could not spot in an instant the disappointment or disgust at his own inadequacy? Or was it worse, for now his ravaging thoughts could fill in the picture for themselves?
He clung to Gimli’s arm as they moved through the crowd until they had reached their seats. As soon as he was seated, Legolas clutched at the arms of his chair until he feared his knuckles would break the skin of his hands, gazed out through the protective blur of tears, and tried desperately through the noise to disappear into himself, so he might endure. Gimli’s hand rested on Legolas’s where it tensed around the chair, a steady point of contact to keep his body grounded as his mind retreated – just enough to keep the barest sliver of focus on the sensations around him, to remember where he was even as he sought desperately to escape it.
A member of the kitchen staff brought them wine where they sat, and Legolas murmured his thanks, though his voice disappeared immediately beneath the dull roar of conversation. He stared into its ruby depths and willed the dancing lights to cease their whirl.
And then . . . an ebb. Slowly, then all at once, the sound receded; the light stilled. The dwarves had taken their seats, ceased the flow of their motion about the hall. The stars stayed in place, and Legolas dared to squint through the film of his tears to take it in.
There were so few moments in these feasts that he truly enjoyed, but this was one of them – the moment that the guests stilled and sat, arrayed in their finest clothing and lined up like portraits, rows and rows of artistry for Legolas to enjoy as he would the jewels laid out at a market. It was lovely enough – as it always was – to make him wish he were someone else, someone for whom these nights could be as beautiful as they were meant to be. Someone who could stand straight at Gimli’s side without apology, without condition – someone who could match him as he deserved.
In moments like these the wistfulness took him: an ache, fierce and throbbing deep inside him – even now, even years into their marriage, when he could finally bring himself to believe Gimli did not wish it otherwise. Legolas did, at least in this one moment of peace amidst the swirling storm of the feast.
Around them the roar faded to a murmur, and then to a rustle – and then to nothing, the eye of the storm. The food would be brought shortly, and the noise would resume . . . but first, beside Legolas, Gimli rose to his feet.
“Friends,” he began, his voice resonant in the quiet, “on behalf of myself and of Éomer King of Rohan, I bid you be welcome here in Aglarond.”
Legolas twisted around in his seat to gaze at him as he continued: the finest of them all, with stars in his beard and the earth in his eyes and his voice deep and rich and rolling like upturned soil ready to be planted. It mattered not what he said; Legolas could listen to him for the rest of his life.
No – this moment. This was the reason he came. As Gimli spoke about friendship and bounty, about welcome and warmth and the promise of the future, Legolas watched him and listened to him and – for that one instant – he could not wish he were anywhere else.
And then the food was brought in, and the roar of voices began again, and Legolas let himself float away once more.
The throbbing behind his eyes commenced around the third course – platters of roast pig and heaps of root vegetables garnished with herbs. It was the beginning of the end. Legolas ate the meat in Aglarond, trusted Gimli’s people to raise and slaughter their animals with respect and dignity, but he could only pick at his food. The ache in his head was different from the burn in his eyes, a stab that reached deeper than his defenses. It only grew the more he noticed it, expanding behind his eyes and lancing sharp flashes back into his skull until he could think about nothing else.
He found himself grateful he had not promised Dorith her dance. He rarely managed to stay at such feasts until the end of the dancing, and tonight he could hardly make it to the beginning.
When the food was cleared away, and the musicians took their places, he could bear it no longer.
The first drumbeats were skull-shattering, and the first dancers rising from their seats sent light fracturing around the hall, sparkle bouncing off itself and multiplying into diamond-sharp facets of agony. His stomach rolled with the lingering scent of roast meat, and he knew that even Gimli would have no dance with him tonight.
The pain in his head nearly eclipsed all other sensation, but he forced himself to slide one foot slowly across the floor until it found Gimli’s calf. Carefully, he hooked his ankle around Gimli’s and tugged.
Gimli responded immediately to the long-practiced signal, excusing himself from his conversation with the lord on his left with a “one moment, please,” and turning to look at Legolas. His face was such a blur that Legolas could not read his expressions with his usual precision, but he leaned forward until his lips were nearly brushing Legolas’s ear, to breathe, “Already?”
Another pulse lanced through Legolas’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.
Gimli’s breath whispered over Legolas’s ear, stirring the wisps of his hair – and as if prompted by that, every clasp in Legolas’s hair seemed to dig its claws harder into his head, little starbursts of pain exploding around his scalp. The ache intensified until he felt he would weep with it.
“Very well,” Gimli murmured. “Let me excuse myself to Lord Balar. Can you wait a moment longer?”
Could he? It mattered not – Gimli had asked him to, and so he would. He nodded again.
Gimli kissed the tip of his ear, left one hand on Legolas’s arm as he turned around. Dimly, Legolas could hear him excusing himself – “forgive me, Lord Balar; I must step away for just a moment. Do finish your tale when I return,” and then his hand was tightening on Legolas’s arm, tugging, guiding him up.
Legolas went willingly, closed his eyes as Gimli steered him across the room – moving into the rhythm of their gait as naturally as a dance. This was their compromise at such events – that Legolas would leave when he could bear it no longer, but that Gimli would escort him out to make it clear that Legolas departed with his knowledge and approval – to save face for both of them and, crucially, to ensure that Legolas could depart without mishap.
This was not Lady Dorith’s first attendance at Aglarond, after all.
He could smell her even as she approached, that distinctive dead-carnation scent swirling towards him, strong and sickly. He clung to Gimli’s arm, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain in his head, but her, “Departing already?” had barely rung in his ears before Gimli was turning, excusing them both in words that were terse without being harsh, and leading Legolas out from under the arches.
The hall was cool and blessedly dim, out in the lighter air and away from the oppressive crowds and the sparkling lights. The sight and sound out here, so overwhelming only hours ago, now felt as good as dark and silent. But in the absence of the immediate pressure in his head, the ache redoubled, as though to take up all the space within his skull. Gimli pulled him down for their usual parting kiss, and Legolas nearly toppled over, overbalanced all the way down to the ground.
Ah, but he could stand this no longer.
“You will be well on your own?” he murmured, nearly flinching at the sound of his own voice.
“I will manage.” Gimli nuzzled at his jaw. “And I will manage her, as well; never fear, she will not hound you all the way home.”
Again, Legolas fought the urge to weep. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” Gimli kissed him again. “Will you wait up?”
“Will you forgive me if I do not?” His head felt like it was splitting; all he wanted was the darkness of mortal sleep.
“Always.” One more kiss, the light graze of beard against his lips, and Gimli squeezed his hand and released it. “Rest well.”
Legolas wrestled the corners of his lips into a tiny smile. “Revel well.”
Every step away was like a gift – a lessening of the screaming pain – and by the time he had at last made his silent way back to their chambers, the worst of the ache had receded. The pressure of noise and light and conversation had faded, and at last he could breathe – full, shaky breaths – and think. He retained enough presence of mind to remove the clasps from his hair – ah, bliss – and carefully return all the jewelry to its chest, arranging the necklace in pride of place before at last he collapsed into his bed in their cool, dark chambers to sink into reverie.
His dreams were shallow and confused – scrambled memories and flashes of sensation, lined with the lingering echo of the music, but he could not tell if he heard it in dreams or in moments of waking. He woke briefly when Gimli came to bed, smelling of whiskey and radiating the satisfaction of a successful night, but sank back down before he could do more than murmur a greeting. And all the while the headache lingered, a low-grade pulse beneath his reverie, surfacing between dreams as a sharp pain behind his open left eye.
Sometimes, rest after a celebration was all he needed to outwait it . . . but not tonight.
It was waiting for him even when he woke in the morning at last, lurking to pounce as soon as he blinked his eyes clear of the memory of sparkling lights – and into the morning sunlight, the waking world, and a new haze of pain. He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight through the open shades, though it did little enough. The starbursts were behind his eyes, a throb in his forehead that only built by the second until he feared his head would burst from it.
Beside him, Gimli stirred, and another low moan escaped Legolas’s lips, a wisp of steam that did nothing to ease the pressure.
Another motion, a shift of the bed that left tears beading in Legolas’s eyes, and Gimli was leaning over him. “Love?”
Ah, but this was the one time Gimli’s voice repelled him; Legolas cringed away from the sound of it, retreating beneath the blankets and pulling them tight around his head. Perhaps if he could block out all light, all sound, tuck himself into a tight cocoon safe from the world – perhaps then he might one day feel like emerging ever again.
Gimli let out a long, rushing sigh – and then moved all at once. Legolas whimpered at the sound of bedclothes sliding away, feet hitting the floor, the nauseating motion of the mattress as Gimli’s weight left it – but then he was up and out of bed, bending over Legolas to whisper, “Feel better.” The pressure of lips against Legolas’s head outside the bedclothes, and then the padding of feet – and then sweet, blessed darkness as the shades were drawn, drawn so tight that only the slightest ray of sunlight seeped in. The creak of the door opening – and then it closed, and Gimli was gone, and he was alone.
He drifted. There was nothing for this kind of ache but time, and he knew it even as he cursed it with the passing of each hour. Sometimes he slept, though the pain never lessened enough to allow him the true mortal sleep that would wipe it away for good. And outside the room, he could hear the quiet sounds of Gimli going about his business of the day.
It was days like this that Legolas most missed the cool darkness of Lasgalen, the comforting shade of forest canopy and the quiet steps of those who traveled beneath it. No walls of stone, however dark green and glorious, could match it on a day like today – and no floor of stone could yield silent footsteps. The padding of Gimli’s feet, which would have been comforting at any time, sounded like the thudding of a herd of animals – even outside the closed stone door of the bedroom. And then, at perhaps midday, it grew worse still.
Footsteps approaching the door – louder and louder, as though each step doubled in weight. The click of the door handle – and a blaze of light into the room as the footsteps approached the bed.
Legolas curled tighter in his lump beneath the bedclothes, squeezing his eyes shut against it, wishing he could tear off his ears. The footsteps were earth-rattling, practically shaking the floor, each one sending the headache bouncing around the inside of Legolas’s skull, setting off new flares of pain each time it made impact, and finally he could bear it no longer.
“Who let the mumakîl into Aglarond?” he snapped from beneath his blankets. The words held more bite in his head than emerging from his mouth; he nearly flinched at the ragged sound of his own voice.
A pause in the footsteps. A brief, hurt intake of breath . . . and then a slow exhale. The ambient rustle of a body moving through space, and then a quiet clink as something was carefully set on the bedside table.
“Rest well,” Gimli whispered – scarcely a breath, quieter than Legolas had ever heard his voice – and then he was padding back across the floor in lighter steps than before, and the light vanished as the door closed again.
The guilt crashed down in a wave in the ebb of his absence. Legolas fought the urge to call after him – what would he do but snap again? And it was all the effort he could muster to uncurl from the blankets, grope shakily towards the bedside table to see what Gimli had brought him.
A mug. His fingers encountered smooth, warm stone, and then – he had not noticed it in the other sensations of Gimli’s arrival – the pleasant scent of mint.
Tea. Gimli had brought him tea.
Legolas collapsed back into his huddled lump and allowed himself the indulgence of tears.
The pain ebbed slowly, receding in waves of dream like the tide and washing back over him with less strength each time he woke – until finally, blissfully, he resurfaced to the realization that it was gone.
Gone? He touched his forehead with tentative fingers, wincing in anticipation of another wave of agony – but there was nothing. Slowly, carefully, he shifted and eased himself upright, but felt no pain but the discomfort of cramped muscles. And the sound of his feet hitting the floor did not echo through his skull with the mind-rattling intensity of a drumbeat.
He squinted around the room. Little light filtered through the well-drawn shades, so it must be well into the day or perhaps evening – he had slept the whole day away, then, and kept Gimli out of his bedroom. The sight of the mug on the bedside table reminded him of his harsh words, and he winced again – this time, for reasons unrelated to physical pain.
Well. He must apologize at some point.
He groped for the mug and swallowed the last cold dregs of the tea – at least he had managed to drink most of it while it was warm, in tiny sips between scrambled dreams – before easing himself at last to his feet and venturing to the door.
He wobbled out of the bedroom on unsteady legs, one hand on the wall to keep himself upright – but even in the better-lit sitting room, the pain did not return, and he could not hold back a sigh of relief.
Across the room, Gimli stirred at the noise. He was seated on the couch with a book, still in his sleep clothing – of course, his wardrobe was in the bedroom. He had at least washed up and neatened his hair, and Legolas winced at the feeling of his own, falling in untidy clumps about his face, still crimped from the braids and smelling of the remnants of last night. But that was nothing compared to the look of trepidation on Gimli’s face when he met Legolas’s eyes.
Legolas’s lip trembled again, his heart as tender as his head, but he blinked back the tears and wobbled across the room to Gimli instead. His throat burned like sandpaper; his tongue lay dormant in his mouth – he could not remember how to speak, let alone find the words for an apology – but Gimli’s eyes softened at the sight of Legolas’s tentative approach. He closed his book and set it aside, then held out an arm in wordless invitation.
It was all Legolas needed.
Gingerly, he lowered himself onto the couch beside Gimli – still in his own sleep clothing, unwashed from the feast, but he tucked his feet up beneath him and leaned cautiously against Gimli’s shoulder. Gimli’s outstretched arm wrapped around him and pulled him in close, and Legolas let himself melt into Gimli and be held.
They sat there for many minutes in quiet. Gimli’s hand rubbed absent circles on Legolas’s upper arm; he turned his head to peck gentle kisses against Legolas’s forehead, seemingly heedless of the state of his hair. Legolas let out a long sigh, releasing what felt like a whole day’s worth of trapped air, and at last he felt himself begin to relax.
Gimli had gleamed like a constellation last night, dazzling in his finery and his lordly confidence. Now he was barefoot in day-old sleep clothing, hair unbraided, wearing no jewelry but a few plain metal studs – and still he held Legolas like he was precious, a marvel wrought by the finest craftsman.
If he had to choose, Legolas would choose this every time.