Chapter Text
“You must put it on, elf. I’ll not take you any further without it.”
Legolas drew himself up to his full height and fixed the dwarf with a piercing stare. “You said nothing about this when we set out.”
Gimli sighed, and waved the offending implement more insistently. “Because I thought it was obvious, even to an inbul-hibir fundhamâd-ublag.”
Legolas scowled, and Gimli practically smirked at his fuming. He had picked up a bit of Khuzdul (mostly the swears, courtesy of his friend), and he didn’t think Gimli was referring to his hearing with the phrase “sharp-eared.” “I did not wear one in Moria.”
“Nay, for that was Dwarven architecture—far less likely to crumble on your golden head than a little-explored cavern. And more to the point, I barely knew you then. It didn’t matter much to me whether a falling rock dashed out what little brains you have.”
Legolas narrowed his eyes, the corner of his lip twitching up. Somewhere among the insults was Gimli admitting how much he cared for his friend. And this… instrument was his way of showing it.
Legolas let out a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. I will put on the helmet.”
“That’s a good laddie. Let’s get it secured—bend over, will ya?” Legolas did as he was asked, feeling his ears twitch uncomfortably as Gimli fitted the overlarge helmet onto his head. He shivered at the feeling of his friend tightening a worn leather strap under his chin, strong knuckles brushing against the soft skin of his neck, and almost chased after the touch when Gimli pulled away. These last few weeks together, as they settled into a time of peace and looked toward the future, had brought his burgeoning feelings for his dear friend to a swell almost too great to ignore.
But ignore he would, at least for the time being. Too great was the risk to their friendship, and it may be that these feelings would pass—though the idea filled him with sorrow.
Left with just the weight of the helmet, Legolas tested the fit. It felt heavy and unnatural, and he didn’t care for how it dulled his hearing and cut off his vision at the sides.
Gimli, of course, wore a helm of impeccable craftsmanship—much like his traditional helmet in decoration, but with a smoother top that would presumably distribute the impact of any fallen debris. He had described it as an heirloom from his great-grandfather, and its glints of gold and bronze brought out the fire of his beard quite handsomely.
Legolas, apparently, had been gifted the family’s spare helmet for visitors. Unwanted ones, by the looks of it.
“You are playing a joke on me,” Legolas muttered flatly.
Gimli’s face grew dour. “Spelunking safety is no joke, elf. You would do well to remember that.” With that declaration, he took Legolas by the shoulders, smashed their helmeted heads together, and turned on his heel to stride purposefully toward the Glittering Caves.
Legolas stood stunned for a moment, waiting for the metallic ringing in his ears to cease, before galloping quickly after the dwarf.
He had to crouch as they entered the mouth of the cavern, and go on crouching for a long while, as the ceiling remained low and variable. He followed close at the heels of his friend, trusting the dwarf’s judgement when he would hold out an arm, sniff the air, and briskly redirect them down another winding path.
After a half-hour or so, Legolas was beginning to wonder if Gimli had perhaps exaggerated the beauty of the caverns, or his experience of them as a place of refuge had brightened them in his memory. Here and there was a jut of quartz or a faint sparkle of long-crushed precious metals in the sand below their feet, but nothing that he thought could inspire a soul to poetry. Perhaps there was a beauty in it, though—a dwarven kind of beauty. Though Gimli would chide him, Legolas knew the loveliness that lay in a single flower. He could allow his friend the same indulgence and would say nothing ill against this place.
“I think ‘tis just up ahead,” Gimli said abruptly, breaking their companionable silence, and began to jog forward. Curious, Legolas followed behind, and as they emerged into a large open chamber, the very breath was stolen from his throat.
Jewels covered every surface of the palatial cavern, sparkling like a starry firmament above and around them. Though Legolas could not see the sky, pinpricks of light seemed to find their way inside, touching and refracting across thousands of prisms to cast dazzling rainbows through the air. He held out a hand, watching color play across his pale skin in a way that seemed to bring out details he had never noticed before.
Gimli stood proudly, the handle of his large mining hammer planted in the ground like a walking staff, and surveyed the room with familiar affection, like a traveler returning home from a wearying journey. “Well, elf? Did I exaggerate?”
Mutely, Legolas shook his head. He took careful steps forward, lifting his head toward the high ceiling and spinning slowly. His sharp eyesight was a blessing and a curse, for he found himself enthralled by the finest details in each stone, struggling to take in the whole while his attention was captivated by each minute part.
“Truly, it is remarkable,” he managed in a hushed voice. “Yet I find I cannot compose a remark worthy of its beauty.”
Gimli laughed—a subdued sound, as if he, too, felt the cavern too sacred a place in which to raise one’s voice. “An elf, at a loss for words? I feared you might break into song.”
Legolas felt the corner of his mouth twitch up. “Music would carry most sweetly in this place. But I have not the voice suitable for these halls. Maglor himself would have struggled to compose a melody worthy of them.”
Gimli huffed. “Dinnae about that. I rather like your singing.”
Legolas felt his face grow warm. His ears, he knew, were flushed pink, and for the first time he was grateful for the cover provided by the helmet. Softly, almost in a whisper, he began to sing—an old elvish tune about a poet who drew beauty from the darkness. It was a simple refrain, one with a wandering story and a repetitive chorus, but it drew a contented sigh from Gimli.
“Come, my friend. There is more to see. Only—do not stop singing. You decorate these halls quite nicely with your voice.”
He held out a hand—rough, large, and strewn with dirt—and Legolas took it gladly. Gimli led him through winding halls, guiding him to the promised mirrored pools and pillared courts. The variety of color and formation confounded the mind, too great to take in, and after a time Legolas felt his vision shudder and cloud as if rejecting the onslaught of beauty.
He blinked, shaking his head, but his vision continued to protest. As Gimli led him further, the passages became narrower, the ceilings lower, with jewels and stone seeming to hang from above on fragile spires no stronger than a hair. He struggled to keep up his song, seemingly unable to draw enough air, and eventually fell into silence, all his efforts focused on drawing deep breaths that nevertheless failed to fill his lungs.
Was there a sickness here, some spell lurking that had evaded Gimli’s notice? Or worse, bewitched him?
No, it could not be so. Legolas did not possess the skill of Mithrandir, but he knew enough to feel an enchantment. He had felt one for long years consuming his home of Mirkwood. There was nothing so ominous here. So why did the ceiling loom above like a dragon ready to dive down and consume him?
“Crouch down, elf. There is a narrow pass here, and a grand hall beyond, fit for a king.” With a brief glance behind and an eager smile, Gimli pushed forward, sidling into a passage that barely fit his armor.
Legolas drew fast, shallow breaths, the pass before him seeming to shrink smaller and smaller the closer he drew. He knelt, his hands pressed to cool stone and his helmet bumping occasionally against the low roof as he plodded forward. His pulse pounded in his ears, and a creeping sense of dread wrapped around him.
The edges of his vision darkened, but he could just make out Gimli’s form, moving farther and farther away. He tried to call out, but his voice betrayed him, managing nothing but a ragged hiss of breath. He needed air, the sun, the open sky! The caverns were a tomb, a trap that would close him in, steal the breath from his lungs, crush him under a mountain of stone…
“Legolas?” A voice, somewhere. His friend. He could not see him.
A hand on his shoulder, firm and familiar. “You look peaked. Are you well, laddie?” Mutely, Legolas shook his head. “What’s wrong?”
Legolas blinked, the dim form of his companion coming into view. He struggled to speak but couldn’t find his voice. He touched his throat, miming a fist clenched around it, and Gimli looked dour. “Fear not, I’ll get you into the fresh air. You’ll have your leaves and birdsong and will be fit as a fiddle, mark me. Up you get, now, just a bit further. There’s an exit along here.”
Legolas barely managed to stand on trembling legs. He was utterly lost, the world spinning around him, but Gimli’s hand grasped his firmly, tugging him along. He followed blindly, listening to the echoing sound of his heavy footsteps and Gimli’s soft reassurances. “Not far now, Legolas. You’re perfectly safe. I’ll let no harm come to you.” Through dread and fear, his voice was a beacon.
He felt the soft brush of wind against his cheek—gentle, almost imperceptible, but carrying with it the scent of trees and sky. There was a light ahead, Gimli was pulling him toward it, and it gave him a spark of resolve. He reached for it, only to be held back by a pair of strong arms.
“Just a moment. It’s not yet wide enough, I need to clear a path. Step back, sit down, and breathe.” Gimli commanded. Legolas did as he was told, and watched as Gimli hefted the hammer into his grasp. Strong arms pulled back before swinging the hammer in a broad arc, striking at the narrow egress with a force that shook the walls. Large chunks of rock fell away, letting in more light and blessed air. Legolas watched, his head still spinning, and marveled at the strength of his dwarf. He imagined those strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close, pinning him down…
Yanking him to his feet, apparently. “Come now, Legolas. Just through here, that’s it.” He stumbled, squeezing through the gap Gimli had cleared, and in the next step felt his feet alight onto soft earth.
He gasped, galloping forward recklessly into the open air. He yanked the helmet off, tossing it carelessly aside as he took great, heaving breaths. His legs were still unsteady, his head swimming with the sudden change, and he fell to his knees, gasping.
An arm wrapped around his shoulder. Automatically, Legolas slumped over, leaning against the sure, steady weight of his friend. Safe. He was safe, he could breathe again.
“Are you feeling any better?” Gimli asked softly, his voice heavy with concern.
Still panting, Legolas nodded. “Immensely.”
“Do you know what it was?”
Legolas frowned, shaking his head, and trying to clear the lingering fog. “No. It was the strangest thing. I felt no magic, and yet the walls seemed to close in on me.”
“Agrud mamahkhêjul,” Gimli said solemnly. “It happens to some dwarves—a fear of being enclosed.” Legolas blinked. A fear? Was that all it had been? He was no elfling, cowering at shadows in the dark. How could something so irrational bring him to his knees?
“I suppose it’s rather natural for an elf to take ill in tight spaces under the earth,” Gimli continued. “I am sorry, my dear friend, to have cause you such distress.” He bowed his head, looking remorseful.
Legolas felt his stomach tighten with embarrassment. “No, it is I who should apologize. I have ruined our peaceful journey with my foolishness. I’ve made you shatter a part of your glittering caves.”
Gimli scoffed. “Pssh. Dead rock broken away. A small price for the greater reward of seeing you smile again.” And Legolas did, a grin that only his dwarf seemed to elicit from him. “As for our journey? I don’t think you or I are built for ‘peaceful.’ We are adventurous folk, and where it does not find us, we will make it!” He laughed heartily, and after a moment, Legolas joined him, feeling the last oppressive weight lift from his chest.
He took Gimli’s hand, feeling the firm strength of it under his touch. “Thank you, mellon-nin. For lending me your strength. For guiding me to the light.” He was feeling bolder, now, and perhaps still a bit lightheaded and carefree, and drew Gimli’s knuckles to his lips.
Gimli’s mouth parted, a soft breath falling from him as his eyes flickered to Legolas’s lips. He grasped the elf’s hand tightly, pulling him close, and kissed him fiercely.
Once more, Legolas was robbed of breath. But this time, it was delightful.
He laughed, wrapping his fingers in that lovely, soft beard, and pulled Gimli close once more, feeling the whiskers tickling his cheek as their lips parted against each other’s. They tumbled to the soft earth, the grass light and springy underneath them, and held each other close. Legolas did not know why he had waited so long, why he had convinced himself Gimli couldn’t love an elf as Legolas loved him. He should never have doubted his dwarf.
As their fervor slowed to a lazy exploration, Gimli pulled back with a sigh. “Damned, stone-headed dwarf,” he muttered to himself. Legolas raised an eyebrow, and Gimli groaned. “To think, all these hard months, and I could have been kissing you the entire time? What pleasures I have missed! I could have used such tenderness after the Battle of Pelennor! Or Helm’s Deep—oh, to have recovered with a fine, lovely elf in my bedroll!”
Legolas laughed, swatting at him. “Presumptuous of you! I am no passing fancy, dwarf. I require more courting still. And the act you speak of… to an elf, it is akin to a wedding.”
Legolas expected Gimli to balk at that, as he did at so many of their cultural differences, but the dwarf just raised an eyebrow, looking intrigued. “Is that so? I suppose I had better brush up on the customs of elvish courtship. And you, pretty one, had best start penning a letter to my father stating your intentions. I am not so easily won myself.” His eyes twinkled, the fine wrinkles of his grin creasing his cheeks and forehead, and Legolas felt like the world was finally right-side up again.