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The arguing voices are the first sound to reach Gimli’s ears – the muffled sound of discord an awakening that would not be gentle, could he hear more clearly through the haze around his mind. Two of them, he thinks: one lighter, one rougher – both familiar, both heated. The sense of their words escapes him; he strains for understanding and his head begins to whirl.
Oh. Not only to whirl, he realizes as more sensation returns to him. To hurt. His head pounds like hammers on anvils in a bustling forge, and now other hurts begin to make themselves known – a stinging line across one arm; the stabbing in his chest at each indrawn breath that can only mean broken ribs. And the ache – the ache everywhere, like bruises on top of bruises mottling his whole body.
When the first flush of pain subsides into something duller and more manageable, he realizes that he is lying down on something soft – a bed? How did he come to be in a bed? He casts his memory back, ignoring the spike of pain in his head as best he can, to conjure up faint images: grass trampled beneath heavy boots, furious-elated faces of foes, shouts and snarls and screams, the sound of steel on steel. The field of battle.
Above him, the rougher voice speaks again, short and sharp. Still Gimli cannot make out the sense of the words, but even as alarm surges in his chest, he realizes. It is not his mind betraying him, but only the language – Sindarin, a tongue he has only begun to learn. Of course – he is in Gondor, and it is Aragorn’s voice he hears.
The second voice responds, hotter even than before, and even more familiar to him. Legolas.
Legolas?
But – something is wrong here. The last thing he remembers is battle, and that was the last time he heard Legolas’s voice – louder then, more urgent, crying out Gimli’s name – he remembers turning toward the sound of that voice, certain his husband was in trouble and needed him – and then a blinding flash of pain, and then darkness.
What happened? How much time has passed, and how did he come to be here now?
It strikes Gimli that he has not yet opened his eyes, but to his dismay that task is more daunting than he can remember it ever being. His eyelids seem to have been weighted down with sandbags, and he grunts in his effort to drag them open – and then gasps at the ensuing sharp pain from his jostled ribs.
“He wakes.” Legolas’s voice again, in Westron this time. A rustle of cloth, and then Gimli’s hand is wrapped in warmth; he can feel the press of Legolas’s fingers against his own. “Gimli? Gimli, love, can you hear me?”
Gimli grunts again and has to lick dry lips before he can rasp, “Legolas?”
A shaky exhale, and the voice is unsteady when it speaks again. “I am here.”
“What” – His mouth dries out immediately, and he licks his lips again. “What happened?”
“In a moment.” Aragorn’s voice again, this time businesslike. “Let me look at you first. How are you feeling?”
Gimli manages to drag his eyes half open for the sole purpose of giving Aragorn a glare – though his vision is so blurred that he can hardly make out his friend’s face. “How do you think I am feeling?”
Aragorn sighs. “Satisfy a healer’s curiosity,” he says. His face leans in closer to Gimli’s – not nearly as beautiful as Legolas’s, Gimli thinks petulantly, which he has yet to see. “How fares your head?”
“Aches like it was struck with a blacksmith’s hammer,” Gimli croaks.
“It very nearly was,” says Aragorn. His voice hides the hint of a laugh, but behind him Legolas hisses in displeasure. “A club can be a fearsome weapon in the hands of one who knows how to wield it. But how much do you remember?”
Gimli would like to shove Aragorn’s head out of the way so he can see his husband, but he does not trust his arms to obey his command – and the thought of moving his torso does not appeal. It seems that humoring Aragorn is the only way, so he dutifully casts his mind back as best he can. “We were seeking raiding parties of orcs,” he begins. In . . . yes, they were just outside the city. His vision is beginning to clear, and on the ceiling above him he can make out the distinctive stonework of a building in Minas Tirith. “We found one, but . . .” He frowns. Yes, the memory is coming clearer now. “There were more than we expected – another party that had lain in wait. We were fighting, and then the second force took us by surprise, and” – He would have surged upright at the realization, had his chest not protested sharply as soon as he tensed. “How did we escape? There were so many!”
“You may ask your husband about that.” Aragorn’s voice is wry. “Well, I am satisfied that your memory serves you, so the damage to the head must not be too severe. And you can hear and talk with sense. Can you see?”
“Better every moment.” It is true – his vision is clearing rapidly, though it still hurts to focus too intensely on any one thing. “I think you may be assured that I am sound in mind.”
“I agree.” Aragorn fusses with the sheet over Gimli for another moment. “Your ribs are broken” –
“That I can feel,” interrupts Gimli.
“ – Then you will know not to move with too much haste,” says Aragorn. “And you have a few superficial wounds, but those should heal before the bones do.” At last he rises and steps back. “I will want to keep a close watch on your head wound for the next few days at least, but I am comforted by your words and I give permission for you to sleep again when you are ready to rest. Legolas may attend you now, though” –
With Aragorn moved aside, Gimli can finally behold his husband clearly, and he jerks halfway up before falling back onto his pillows with a gasp of pain.
“ – you may not wish him to,” Aragorn finishes with something like a pained grimace.
Gimli cannot even bring himself to rebuke Aragorn for those words. Legolas looks as though he ought to be in a bed beside Gimli – spattered and stained with blood both black and red, his hair twisted and hardened into blood-soaked spikes, his entire face swollen and bruised with a sharp red slash extending halfway up his face from his chin, splitting his lips into two. The sight of that gash, along with the look in his eyes – somehow furious and haunted at the same time – makes him look rather like some creature from nightmare, some mutilated spectre, the incarnation of battle itself.
“What happened to you?” is all he chokes.
Legolas’s head twitches to one side as though Gimli’s concern is little more than an errant mosquito. Despite the suddenness of the motion and the harshness in his eyes, his voice is gentle. “Take no thought for it, love,” he says, pressing Gimli’s hand again. “I am merely glad to see you awake again.”
“As am I,” says Aragorn. “For perhaps now that he has at last assured himself of your well-being, he will consent to wash and have his own wounds seen to.” Though he does not speak to Legolas directly, those words are punctuated by a narrow-eyed glare.
“You have not been seen to?” It is a foolish question – he can see the answer for himself. But how long have they been here? And with how ghastly he looks – “But your face – what happened?”
“Shield,” Legolas says almost carelessly. “Do not worry – it looks worse than it is.”
“I certainly hope so,” mutters Gimli – but still he cannot entirely stop himself from teasing. “I have never seen an elf’s beautiful face so battered. You had best not show yourself before any of your kinfolk until you are pristine again.”
At that, Aragorn lets out a snort of laughter. “Ah, but it is even better than you think,” he says. “Come now, Legolas – show him!”
With a heavy sigh and a glare at Aragorn, Legolas pulls his lips back, wincing, and bares his teeth.
At first the expression only serves to enhance the blood-spattered bruised nightmare visage – but then Gimli sees what Aragorn must be referring to: a dark space towards the back of Legolas’s mouth, a shocking gap between even white teeth.
For a moment, Gimli can only gape.
Legolas closes his mouth again and wipes a drop of blood from his split lip. “It is nothing, really,” he says.
“Nothing?” Gimli finally manages to gasp. “Have you” – He knows nothing of elven physiology. “Do elves – will it – grow back?”
Aragorn snorts again.
Legolas shrugs. “It was a small price to pay,” is all he says.
“A small price to” – But Gimli stops before he can finish. Memories are reorienting themselves in his mind: they were ambushed and outnumbered grievously before he was struck down; Aragorn’s words, you may ask your husband about that ; Legolas’s apparent refusal to be treated before Gimli woke – and that look, that haunted, ferocious look in his eyes, even hours after the battle –
“Legolas,” he says, serious this time. “How did we escape the ambush?”
That same shrug – that jerk of one shoulder. This time, Legolas’s eyes dart away from his own, and it is as much confirmation as if he had spoken aloud.
“You killed them,” Gimli breathes, and neither Legolas nor Aragorn contradicts him. “You killed them all.”
Still Legolas does not look at him. “It was nothing,” he repeats.
Aragorn clears his throat. “I think I will leave you two for a moment,” he says. “Gimli, call me when Legolas is ready to have his injuries seen to.”
“It will not be long,” says Gimli absently, but he does not look at Aragorn as he departs. His eyes are sweeping up and down Legolas’s body – the blood staining his hair and skin and clothing, most of which cannot be his own; the bruises on his face and arms –
The almost forced gentleness of his hands where they clasp Gimli’s once more, as though he is restraining himself from holding on even tighter.
“Legolas,” he says, and stops. There is so much he wants to say – how and why and I am sorry and thank you – questions and concern and gratitude and a little fear all tangled within his mind – but if even he is so bewildered, what must Legolas himself be feeling? And in the end, what comes out is, “Are you all right?”
Legolas takes a startled breath – and finally his gaze snaps back around to fix on Gimli once more. And when their eyes meet, something softens in Legolas’s own – some of that haunted look draining away at last.
“Yes,” Legolas says, his voice cracking, his eyes bright. “Now that I know you are well” – he cradles Gimli’s hand between his own, those hands that dealt so much death only hours ago now so tender – “I have never been better.”
Legolas does not consent to be seen to until Gimli has drifted off to sleep.
A wholesome sleep this time, Aragorn assures him, voice tight with impatience – a healing rest rather than the uncertain chasm of unconsciousness. He will wake soon enough and heal the better for this sleep, and will Legolas please leave his side and let Aragorn tend to his own wounds?
“There is hardly anything to be tended,” Legolas protests. Yes, his face aches a bit, and perhaps a sword or two caught him a glancing slash, but those have long since closed on their own, and there is nothing that can be done for the tooth. He hardly feels the pain, anyway. In comparison with Gimli’s wounds –
“A bath, at least,” Aragorn insists. “Lest you frighten all my healers away with your bloodstained braids, and rouse Gimli from his needed rest with your rankness.”
There is much Legolas could say in response to that about Aragorn himself after several days on the road, but Aragorn gives him a glare that reminds Legolas that his very presence in this city is a result of his friend’s goodwill, and perhaps he ought to stop testing the limits of that patience. So he merely sighs and follows Aragorn out of the room.
A tub has been laid for him already – “several hours ago,” says Aragorn meaningfully, “so it will be cold now.” His tone warns Legolas not to ask for it to be heated up – as though Legolas cares anything for the temperature of his bathwater. As though there are not far greater trials to be endured.
And then Aragorn leaves the room and Legolas is left alone with the tub – and with his thoughts.
It is the moment he has been dreading – the moment he has managed to avoid all afternoon – but now there is no urgency any longer, no escape from the quiet and the memories that lurk there. The surface of the water in the tub is so calm and still; its peace seems to mock the storm raging in his heart, and he glares at it as he begins to strip away his armor.
His shoulders sting as he peels away his blood-soaked clothing – most of it not his own, no, but ah that twinge of reluctance as cloth separates from skin reveals the places where blades made it past his armor. None of them were poisoned – they would have seen the signs long before – but reluctantly he admits to himself that Aragorn is right that he ought to clean them.
Naked at last, he sinks into the water with a hiss, and as it engulfs his body, so too does the memory.
He is fighting, listening to Gimli’s battle-laugh as he takes down foe after foe, knowing that this small band of raiders they have found is no match for them – and then – a noise from the side; he whips his head around to see another party looming over them, fifteen more at least, they were not expecting to see them, and Gimli’s back is to them – Gimli does not see –
He begins to scrub ferociously at his arms, ignoring the chafe of his skin and the occasional shock of pain when he hits a scabbed-over slice. If he moves fast enough, he will not have to relive it – all this afternoon he has managed to hold it at bay, ever since he first dropped to his knees to feel Gimli’s pulse beating; then he was able to distract himself in the urgency of getting him to safety, fussing over the healers’ treatment, arguing with Aragorn – he does not have to remember the moment –
The club comes down on Gimli’s head, crumpling his helm on impact, and Gimli drops to the ground.
A violent, almost howling sob rises up in his chest; with a grunt, he strangles it in his throat. His face crumples with the effort of it and oh – now he feels it, the throb of his heartbeat in the bones beneath tender skin; in a moment his entire face flares into a single swollen mass of agony in the way he has not felt it all afternoon.
The pain is duller, strangely, in the place he was hit – in that single split second when he watched Gimli fall, watched fifteen orcs converge on his motionless body, that moment when he could not react, could not avoid the edge of the shield that struck across his unprotected face –
He hardly registered then what had hit him, or that he had been struck physically at all – it was as nothing in comparison to the blow to his heart, to his spirit – he remembers the shock of the impact more than the pain, the cracking sound, the metallic taste of his own blood – remembers stumbling back a step and spitting a furious mouthful, remembers looking at the array of foes and the only clear thought of you will all die –
He takes up his scrubbing again, his hair this time – watching the water stain red, then black as he yanks his fingers through his stiffened braids, lathers soap frantically between his hands, as though the motion will allow him to outrun the memories. The sight of his own hands blurs before his eyes, but the images of Gimli’s fallen form remain agonizingly clear. The only difference is that now he can feel every wound, every bruise; the urgency rises up in him again, the pain linked to the fear – he needs to finish; he needs to leave; he needs to get back to his husband.
Washing his face is the worst – he can hardly bear to touch it, and yet the anxiety pounds in his blood, keeping him from moving gently. His lip splits open again as he rinses it, grimy water mingling with fresh blood, but he lacks the patience to staunch it. He sloshes at last out of the tub, groping for the towel Aragorn left him and leaving streaks of red on the white linen.
He will apologize later.
Clothing has been laid out as well – a loose white gown akin to the one Gimli has been dressed in, doubtless Aragorn’s idea of a pointed reminder that he should be in a bed of his own. But Gimli’s room will do well enough for him. Barely dry, his hair dripping down his back and soaking into the thin fabric, Legolas rushes back down the hall to Gimli’s bedside.
Gimli is still there. Still sleeping – his face peaceful in rest, free for a time from the pain of his injuries – though the shallowness of his breathing reveals that his broken ribs still trouble him.
But he is breathing – his chest moving up and down noticeably, his mouth slightly open. Sleeping, not unconscious. Healing sleep, as Aragorn promised.
Legolas swallows hard, trying his best to ignore the strange new feeling of the gap in his teeth, and pulls his chair closer to the bed. He does not want to disturb Gimli but this at least he will dare – he lifts one of the dwarf’s hands carefully from the blankets and enfolds it between his own, the better to let Gimli’s pulse lull him into his own rest.
He ought to take true-sleep after such an effort in battle, but he settles in for reverie instead. The pain has settled in enough that he fears to move his face, and this is the only way he can be sure to keep completely still – and anyway, if he closes his eyes, he worries he might not be able to open them again come morning.
He drifts in fitful dreams of tides of blood, and when he wakes his eyes have swollen to slits anyway.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes,” Gimli lies.
He keeps his face as straight as he possibly can, but still Legolas jumps up, hands fluttering uselessly over the arms of Gimli’s chair. “I am sorry,” he says. “I wish I could” –
“No, no,” says Gimli hurriedly, “it is nothing.” The discomfort is only slightly worse in this wheelchair than in bed, and it is more than balanced out by the ability to sit up, tray balanced across his lap, and feed himself. It is only – he loathes this confinement, this weakness, and loathes even more the anxious flicker in Legolas’s eyes and his movements every time Gimli’s body betrays any of his pain.
Legolas settles back down on his own seat, but only on the edge – his body is still held taut as a drawn bowstring, his fingers tightening and relaxing on the arms of his chair – as though ready to spring upright at the first sign Gimli needs anything from him.
He has been like this for two days, ever since Gimli first woke in the Houses of Healing – anxious, on edge, tense like a hunting cat. If he had a tail, surely it would be lashing – indeed, Gimli is surprised sometimes that his nose does not twitch as though sniffing the air for some threat. Or perhaps it does, and it is merely overshadowed by the purple swelling in the rest of his face, the gashed lips twice their usual size.
He eats nothing, even as Gimli fumbles with his own modest midday meal – only watches the door as though a foe waits on the other side of it. Gimli cannot tell if his eyes are narrowed in suspicion or swollen half-shut, but either way he wishes he could do something to ease it.
The food sits heavy in his stomach, still uneasy after the blow to his head, and Gimli moves to set the tray to the side – unable to restrain a gasp as the motion jostles his broken ribs.
In a flash, Legolas is at his side, relieving him of the weight of the tray. “Are you finished?” he says, his hands fussing with the blankets spread over Gimli’s chair, then darting up to touch his brow very gently. “How do you feel?”
“I am fine,” says Gimli, sighing and sitting back. It is still an effort even to eat, but he does not want Legolas to know that. Worse than his own discomfort is knowing how badly it affects his husband, who is even now carefully arranging his tray on a side table in more of those swift, jerky motions. “Come here?”
Legolas flits back to his side, slowing down as soon as he is close enough to Gimli to jostle him. Gimli tilts his head up and Legolas leans down, understanding what he wishes.
The movement is one they have carefully choreographed over the last two days, after they learned that any attempt at a casual peck on Legolas’s part resulted in the reopening of his split lips, and that there is only one spot on his face safe for the touch of Gimli’s. Gimli tilts his head up as far as he can and Legolas cranes his own neck down and to the side, just enough for Gimli to place a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose.
It makes Legolas smile every time, and now is no exception – but the smile is weak and the edge behind his eyes does not leave, the pain and fear and watchfulness. Even now, his half-smile fades after a short moment and he returns to fussing with the tray.
Well. There is nothing else for it. Gimli may have little range of motion, but he has been contemplating this for some time – and clearly, Legolas needs it as much or more than he does. “Legolas,” he says. “Come back, if you would.”
Legolas jerks upright. “Is there something you need?” he asks, his eyes far wilder than the situation warrants.
“Yes,” says Gimli, “and I think you need it, too.” He looks up and around the room, wondering how long it might be before Aragorn or another healer comes to check on him. “On second thought, perhaps you should close the door first.”
“But what if” – Legolas begins, but Gimli cuts him off.
“I will not break apart in the few moments the healers cannot see into my room.” It is a struggle to keep his voice calm, but he knows that lashing out will not ease Legolas’s tension. Indeed, what he has in mind is his last resort. “Please, come.”
As Legolas crosses the room, footsteps light on the stone floor, Gimli takes as deep a breath as he can, settling himself firmly in his chair. He does not know exactly how they will accomplish this, but it seems more necessary with each moment – he must only ensure that no sudden movement will cause him pain during the process and thus render all his effort for naught. When Legolas stands before him, Gimli pats the arms of his chair. “Climb up.”
Legolas hesitates. “Gimli,” he says, making no move to obey. “We should not risk” –
“If you balance on the arms, you will not touch me at all.” In truth, Gimli is not certain of this himself, but his desire is stronger than caution. “And as I have said, we both need this.” He rests a hand on Legolas’s forearm, feels the taut muscle of the tendon through the fabric of his clothing. “You have been so tense these last days, my love,” he says softly. “Let me help you relax.”
“There, there.”
Gimli’s whisper is distant, as though separated from Legolas by a great waterfall – or perhaps that is merely the rushing of blood in his ears, the unstoppable torrent of his tears. His arms shake where he braces them over the back of Gimli’s chair; his legs tremble from the effort of holding him perched over Gimli’s body – but it is all he can do to retain that balance. His body is weak now, from pleasure and emotion, as though the unstoppable motion of Gimli’s hand was wringing him dry.
“Hush,” Gimli is murmuring, and more soothing nonsense after that. His one hand still rests on Legolas’s inner thigh, but the other has moved to his lower back, rubbing slow and gentle circles as if to calm him. But it is too late for that: he is overcome, sent over the edge in more ways than one.
He weeps as quietly as he can, moves as little as possible, acutely aware that the least motion could send Gimli’s chair careening across the room – he tried to protest, at first, that this was not worth the risk of aggravating Gimli’s injuries. But that thought only makes it worse; he can no more stop the shuddering of his tears than he could have held back his climax once Gimli had taken him in hand. Some other power has him in its grasp now, the power he has fought to hold off for days – the overpowering grief and fear that he has held in check since he first carried Gimli’s unconscious body back to Minas Tirith – even the relief he could not dare to let overcome him once it became clear the dwarf would recover. Now it descends upon him with all the force of a tidal wave, and it is all he can do to brace himself upright as it sweeps through him, leaving him nothing but trembling wreckage behind.
Some interminable time later, the tears finally slow; the sobs slacken, then release him at last, and he can only clutch the chair, brace himself up, quivering with the relief of it.
“There,” says Gimli again, softly. “Is that better?”
Legolas inhales shakily, exhales with one last hiccuping sob. Nods, almost in surprise, his hair sticking to his damp, swollen cheeks with the motion. Though his arms and legs still tremble with the effort to balance, that is the only effort left – he no longer feels that he is walking on delicate scaffolding inside his own mind, trying to avoid any false step, lest it all crumble beneath him. He is all wreckage inside, yes, but – wreckage can be rebuilt.
“Yes,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and stuffed. “Yes, thank you.”
Gimli’s hand moves to his hip, squeezes reassuringly. “Good,” he says. “Come here?”
Legolas is already perched over him, of course, but he knows what that means. Sniffing and blinking sore eyes, he uncurls at last from his hunch above Gimli, leans carefully down once more to let Gimli plant a kiss right where his nose meets his undamaged cheek.
Gimli’s mustache tickles, and despite himself Legolas smiles at the feeling. The hand on his hip squeezes again, and when he meets Gimli’s gaze, the dwarf’s eyes crinkle in approval.
“That,” he says, with a smile of his own. “That is what I was missing.”
For the first time in days, Legolas’s smile widens. He feels it broadening from something small and sad into something real, something heartfelt – and he feels his lower lip split open again at the motion.
He does not care.