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“Often he took Gimli with him when he went abroad in the land, and the others wondered at this change.”
-The Fellowship of the Ring, “The Mirror of Galadriel”
Gimli feels out of place in Lothlórien, his heavy bootfalls sinking into the soft springy moss. It is not unpleasant, not truly, but he longs for the solidity of stone beneath his feet- until he thinks of Khazad-dûm, of shadow and flame and death, and settles on gratitude for the safety of the trees, even as he mislikes how they tower over him. The beauty of this land is not the beauty of gold and gemstones, to which he is accustomed- malleable, shapeable, to be held and kept and admired. It is a fey beauty- untamed, untouchable, as unsettling as the strange visions he had seen in the Lady's eyes. It is a land of contradictions, wonder and peril woven together, bleeding confusion into him in turn- or perhaps it is simply the turmoil of Gimli’s own thoughts, with no distraction to silence them as he trudges through the trees alone.
Legolas walks so easily here, as lightly over leaf as he does over snow. Gimli hardly knows when he stopped hating him. Maybe he never had. It is easy to hate an idea, a character in an old story passed from parent to child. It is much harder to hate someone always by your side, bickering with less and less bite, who fights stoutly by day and hums softly late at night, lulling the others to sleep in the wilderness when he himself need not rest. The elf had spoken harshly to him at the Council, but it has become clear that he is not cruel without cause- and had Gimli not said worse to him that day? It brings him a twinge of shame to think of it now, and he finds himself torn between stubbornly clinging to his resentment and wishing to better know the side of the elf that the rest of their companions seem to love so well already. It has hardly mattered in the days since their arrival, as Legolas has spent much of his time among his fellow tree-dwellers, and Gimli has seen little of him. He wonders if the elf has been glad to be rid of him.
But now Gimli finds him sitting alone beneath a tree, deeper in the forest than any other of their company has dared to go- curled small, long legs bent close to his chest. The forest floor beneath him stretches like a blanket of green and gold, the colors of his tunic and his spun-silk hair blending in like a picture painted with one brush. His face is unreadable- or perhaps Gimli simply has not yet learned to read it- but it softens when he looks up to see who has joined him, and he pats the ground beside him in invitation.
Gimli only hesitates for a moment before accepting, grunting at the lingering soreness in his legs as he sits.
“You look well at home here,” he says. It comes out stiff, gruffer than he means it to, but Legolas smiles faintly and shakes his head.
“Not all is as it appears,” he murmurs. “It is true that the Galadhrim are more my kin than the elves of Rivendell, and I have long dreamed to see this place, but…it is still strange, to me.”
It is much how Gimli feels, though he had not expected an elf to share those sentiments. But he snorts, keeping his tone light and patting the sturdy trunk at his back, “And what do the trees say to that? It would be unwise to give them insult when they have offered us shelter.”
Legolas’ smile turns enigmatic, and he laughs softly. “They do not speak in words. Not here.”
Gimli does not care to contemplate what that means, nor where it is they might speak thus. He hopes never to find out.
Before he has a chance to say as much aloud, Legolas speaks again. “Much of the Woodland Realm has fallen into darkness and danger, but even the parts that have not bear little resemblance to this.” His lips quirk with a hint of mischief. “If I said that all caves were alike to my eyes, surely you would object? The same is true of the forests of the world.”
That much, at least, Gimli knows. “My father has told me of your forest.” He speaks carefully, meaning it to sound neutral, but Glóin had never had anything kind to say of Mirkwood, and the implication must be obvious, because Legolas shoots him a sidelong glance.
“Our fathers are not here,” he sighs. “We need not carry their grudges on this journey with us.”
Gimli takes a moment to process that. Maybe the first sundering of their fellowship changed something in the elf, as it has in all of them. Or perhaps he has felt the same as Gimli, finding it more and more difficult to loathe someone with whom you share common cause. Either way, it is an offering of peace- a clean slate between them- and one Gimli is glad to accept.
“Aye,” he murmurs, “I suppose you are right.”
A silence falls between them for a time- not quite comfortable, perhaps, but not awkward either. The elf is the first to break it.
“Do you see these flowers?” he asks, skimming his fingers over the ground to reveal bursts of white half-hidden in the leafy brush. They are plain things beside the resplendent golden elanor, but Legolas looks at them fondly. “They are gwaeloth, they grow in Eryn Galen as well. Never this early, but perhaps by the will of the Lady it is always spring here.” He runs the pad of his thumb over one of the delicate petals, never quite plucking it from the ground. “They are resilient. The shadow that has spread through our lands has not yet managed to snuff them out.” He smiles again, but it is small, subdued. “I am happy to see them.”
It is then that Gimli understands what he has been trying to say, what he has been seeking out here alone- a little bit of home in an unfamiliar land, however simple. It brings an odd twinge of warmth to his chest, in a way the elf’s presence never has before. He reaches into his tunic, drawing forth a chunk of rock, pearly black on top and rough on the edges, like a thousand paper-thin sheets of glass pressed together and then broken apart.
Legolas cocks his head slightly, blinking at Gimli with owlish fascination. It is a familiar gaze by now, but subtly shifted. Legolas no longer seems to be looking at him as an oddity, as he had their first few weeks of travel in each other's grudging company, but as something worthy of curiosity. “This will be a long journey indeed if you fill your pockets with stones, Master Dwarf,” he says, bemused. “Surely we will need no such treasures.”
Gimli chuckles at that, shaking his head. “It is no treasure- at least, it is of no value to anyone else. Nor will it last to the end of the journey.” He works the nail of his thumb into the side of it, flaking away one thin layer with practiced ease. He hands it to Legolas, watching as the elf holds it toward the patchy sunlight, marveling at its translucency. “It is a common thing found in all mountains, we often give it as a toy to children whose natural desire is to break things, to occupy their hands.” He laughs again, self-deprecating under the elf’s quiet gaze. “I suppose it will surprise you little to learn that I was such a child. My mother despaired of me, but my father only said that I must be meant to be a warrior like him rather than a craftsman.”
Legolas laughs in return at that, as light as his footsteps. “He guessed well,” he says, but it sounds appreciative rather than insulting.
“I found it the first night in Moria,” Gimli continues quietly. He had once been bothered by the disparaging name, but no longer. “It was a comfort to me there, to hold something that had calmed me so often when I was young.”
His words hang in the still, tranquil air, thoughts of such horrors feeling impossibly far away and abstract among such beauty. This is the only place the creeping darkness has not touched. Perhaps that is why it feels so surreal to them- they have learned to live with the darkness, elf and dwarf alike.
Legolas shudders at the mere mention of Moria, and Gimli does not begrudge him that. “I wish never to see or think of that place again, though I think it will be long before the memory of it leaves me.” He pauses as Gimli slips the comforting weight of the stone back into his pocket, then adds softly, “But I am sorry for what befell your people there.”
It is another strange thing this day, for an elf to comfort a dwarf in his grief, and even more to sound as though he means it. Gimli blinks away the sudden sting of tears, shaking his head to clear them, before he answers.
“We had not heard from Balin in many years. Too many, but I held out hope.” He sighs heavily. “It was foolish of me.”
It is difficult to admit aloud, and he expects Legolas to agree- to seize the easy opportunity to chastise him for putting them all in danger, losing Gandalf. He could argue that it was not ultimately his decision to take that path, or that there was no better option- and perhaps there was not, but that does not lift the heaviness of guilt and regret from his shoulders.
But Legolas says none of this- only shakes his head, eyes trained on the trees ahead, as though he is seeing far beyond them. “Hope is never foolish,” he murmurs. He doesn't sound quite like he believes it, and Gimli wonders if he is still thinking of Moria, or of the tenuous hope to which they all cling with every step closer to Mordor.
In that quiet moment, the uneasy footing between them steadies. Perhaps the elf is young by the measure of his people, perhaps not- Gimli does not know- but they are the same in this, both thrust into a quest that feels far too big for them to fully understand. Homesick and heartsick, weary already even though they have so, so far still to go, and the fates of all they love resting upon their shoulders. Yet go on they must, side by side, and Gimli suddenly resolves that if this is to be so, there should be no more discord between them- at least none that begins with him. He gets to his feet and, steeling his courage, holds out a hand to the elf.
“Will you tell me of Mir- of the Woodland Realm?” he asks. “I wish to hear of it from one who loves it better than my father did.”
Legolas pauses in surprise for a moment before accepting the gesture, allowing the dwarf to pull him easily to his feet. He smiles, wider and truer this time, and some small, unbidden part of Gimli’s mind thinks ahh, here is another fair treasure I have never seen before. “If you will tell me of your home as well,” he replies, gesturing toward the path ahead.
Gimli nods, and finds himself smiling back.
“Aye, a fair exchange.”