Chapter Text
year eleven
The winter that introduces the year 120 is mild, but Legolas spends it in Aglarond rather than traveling to Ithilien after the New Year. The ride would be no hardship on him, beyond the danger of tumbling from his horse if a sea-spell took him, but Gimli cannot ride any longer, and now he cannot bear to leave his companion behind. They intend to go in the spring, once it has thawed enough for the caravans to come down through the mountains. But the first day that the rill of Aglarond swells with the melting snows, a letter arrives by messenger, addressed to both the Lord of the Glittering Caves and the Prince of the Woodland Realm.
The words are King Elessar’s, but they come scrawled in a different hand, excepting the signature at the bottom. The script above is smoother, the lines firmer, and Legolas recognizes it well.
Their friend’s tone is light, but the words are not so: the time of his choice approaches. He would have them near. Legolas can well imagine Eldarion, pain in his gentle face, writing as neatly as he can as his father dictates these words to him.
“We’ll go, then,” Gimli says, as if there is no more to the decision than that.
---
They cannot leave at once. After all, aged or not, Gimli is still the Lord of the Glittering Caves, and as much time as he has spent away, he has not appointed a true heir. Instead, he has entrusted his responsibilities to a different young Dwarf each time he departs, fond of giving each the opportunity to lead. But despite his calm, Gimli understands that this is not simply another journey.
“You will make the necessary arrangements for our travel,” he tells Legolas, and then retreats to his study for two days, only allowing entrance when young Bastur comes with food. In the end he names Andvari his successor, a Dwarf only two-and-ninety who Legolas has always thought much like Gimli himself: more keen to wander than to stay in the deeps, tending to love that which is different rather than jealously hoard sameness for himself. He will protect the Caves, but will not tie himself to them. He will be an excellent ruler, although none can be so good as Gimli, who found them, who of all Dwarves was the first to love them.
Their means of travel south arrives a few days after that. Their passage has been paid to join a long caravan full with goods but near-empty of travelers. It is still too early in the season for any but the traders and those with dire errands, so there is little talk. Legolas and Gimli keep to their own space, and when they break their silence they do not speak of what approaches. Instead they talk of travels past, and often they grow silent again when their stories touch on a name of one lost to them: Haldir. Théoden King. Frodo. Or more recently: Faramir. Dwalin. Meriadoc and Peregrin.
At night, they lie near one another, but they both shiver.
---
The caravan reaches the gates of Minas Tirith just past midnight, but instead of the Guardsmen they expect, Legolas and Gimili are met by a tall figure in all gray, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders and his eyes alight while the rest of his face is grim.
“Thank you for coming,” Eldarion says. His voice is gentle. Legolas takes his things in one hand, and Gimli’s in another, and they leave the caravan to the Guardsmen and begin up the street.
“How is he?” Gimli asks.
“Yet strong,” Eldarion answers. “My sisters plead for him to stay, but he will not hear of it.” He smiles faintly. “And I would not spend my last days with him so. But I have long prepared for this: we have spoken of it for many years. I do not feel ready, but I know that I must be.”
Legolas sets a hand on his shoulder and then finds that he does not know what he means to say. “We are with you,” he says, and finds it not wholly the sentiment he wanted, but Eldarion seems to accept it nonetheless.
Matching Gimli’s slow pace, they travel up and up. They have rarely been within the King’s private chambers, preferring to meet in one of the other dozens of rooms to which he exercises a right: the great hall, or his study, or the library. They pass all of these, Eldarion leading them, and it is well past one by the time they reach the carven door: the home of the king.
“We need not wake him tonight,” Legolas says.
“He does not sleep any longer,” Eldarion answers, and pushes the door gently open.
“Ada,” he calls within, and a slim figure turns from the window. The King’s lined face lights when his gaze reaches Legolas and Gimli, and wordless, he crosses the room with strong strides and pulls them into his arms: first Gimli, and then Legolas. Legolas closes his eyes and although the gesture is foreign to him, lets his own arms wrap around his friend, and he feels the narrowness of him, the angles where excess flesh has fallen away, but the strong-beating heart beneath.
“Mellon nín,” Aragorn whispers, and Legolas’s grip tightens.
When they pull away, the King kneels to speak to Gimli, and Legolas surveys him carefully. There is something strange in him, in his essence: a sort of glow, a radiance. The choice has been made. There is no return. There is only time.
That night they stay up talking: Gimli falls asleep on a velvety chaise soon after they arrive, but Aragorn and Eldarion and Legolas sit cross-legged on the floor, knee to knee, and speak of Gondor and the seasons and Elboron’s betrothal to his Swan-Lady love and the sons and daughters of Eldarion’s sisters, who are growing quickly.
The dawn comes, with a chirping of birds, and they take in the sunrise on the balcony, watching it burn away the soft mist of the Fields, and Legolas does not say, Think what we could have done with another century at our disposal. He sees where he could have planted trees, and where the gardens should be, and the beginnings of vines growing on the buildings that he will never see cover the walls as they should. He sees the rough cuts of stone that Gimli’s men could replace with smoothness, the winding roads that could be curved slightly to connect to one another, creating smart pathways for those on foot, even if the horses could not pass.
It is over, he thinks. There will be no more work. In Valinor the trees will be ancient and thoughtful. The walls, where walls stand, will be smooth and adorned with perfect ornamentation. All will be life, and there will be no need of our skills, or the sharpness of our wits, and we will be lost in a paradise we did not build ourselves. And for the first time since hearing the gulls cry, he understands again the urge to stay behind.
“Legolas,” Eldarion says softly, his voice breaking through a reverie, and Legolas finds he is alone on the balcony, the midmorning sun beating down on him. The prince standing in the room behind him, parting the curtains as a summons: come back.
He ducks his head to come back within the shaded room, his eyes adjusting quickly. Gimli is still asleep on the chaise, and there is no sign of Aragorn. “My mind was wandering,” he says. “Where has your father gone?”
“To find Mother,” Eldarion says. “And something to break our fast. You have doubtless eaten little of real substance since leaving Aglarond.”
“Ah, Gimli packed us enough for a fine long journey,” Legolas answers, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “He does not approve of lembas and dried fruits. But he will never turn down a good breakfast, or any sort of food. Some days I am surprised he has not taken on the Hobbits’ custom of eating seven meals a day.”
Eldarion laughs, and claps a hand on Legolas’s shoulder. “In truth, I am gladder to see you than I can say,” he says. “I think you are one of a very few who understand me in this time. Even my mother and sisters do not feel as I do. But I can see them in your face, these same emotions. Grief to lose him. Understanding of his path, and his choice. The need to cherish these moments and days. And joy for him: for it is time he goes to seek the rest and peace that he deserves.”
“Yes,” Legolas says. “Gimli feels the same, although he will not say any of it. That is his way. And it is different for you, of course. When he passes, you begin a new life.”
“And you do not?” Eldarion asks. “You brought the designs with you: I saw. And we received word of the naming of the new Lord of Aglarond. I know you, Legolas. Though you are ancient and wise, though I cannot know all of you, I know well enough. You intend to sail once he has gone.”
“I cannot say,” Legolas answers, but his heart pounds in his chest, and the sharp-eared Man can hear it. “I made promises both to your father and my companion that I would not leave these shores while they abide.”
Eldarion’s look is full of pity. “Legolas, surely you have not grown so blind that you cannot see the truth. Gimli is fading: he has been for years, but I have never seen him like this. He is barely a wisp. He will not long outlive my father.” And what he is saying is, The choice may be taken from you, if you do not act swiftly.
“Your father cannot linger much more,” Legolas answers. “A span of days; no more. Gimli will not see the New Year come again, but he is not so weak as that.”
As if in answer, Gimli shudders convulsively in his sleep, drawing both of their gazes. Legolas bows his head.
“I know,” he says finally, under the weight of Eldarion’s sorrow. “But first your father’s time must come. Until then I must not think of what next.”
Eldarion clasps his forearms and meets his eyes. “When the time comes,” he says, “I will aid you in whatever way I can.”
“You will be new-crowned, with your family to care for,” Legolas answers.
“A family I have chosen,” Eldarion answers firmly, and almost Legolas could cry aloud from this. He suppress the swell of emotion in his chest. A family I have chosen. Has Aragorn spoken to his son of the politics of Eryn Lasgalen? Does Eldarion know of Legolas’s brothers, of the things they have done? The kinship he offers so easily cannot replace what Legolas has lost, but he finds he can accept it still.
---
Over several quiet days, it becomes clear that the Lady Arwen has improved. Perhaps, like Legolas, she holds herself tight-wound in the present time and place, unwilling to miss even a moment. Regardless, she does not suffer from any of her fits. She holds the hands of her children, Eldarion especially, and touches their cheeks tenderly. She smiles and laughs with her grandchildren when they join the gatherings. She tends to her husband with unending care, sometimes removing him from their company and sitting by the fountain with his head in her lap, singing to him.
One night while Aragorn watches the young ones at play in the courtyard, Arwen comes to Legolas.
“My Lady,” he says. “It has been our privilege to be with you in this time. I know the hour grows near. I would have you tell me, how long should we stay?”
“Of course you shall be with us until his end, and beyond,” she answers, sitting beside him on a squat stone wall running along a raised garden bed. “And you have my great thanks, for this and every other moment you have spent near to him. Yours has been one of the great friendships of his life; your love one of the greatest gifts he has ever been given. And so it is also a gift to me.” And she turns and embraces him.
Elves do not partake in this kind of physical intimacy, and although it is not uncomfortable, it is unexpected. Legolas feels his breath come in sharply, but he wraps his arms around the queen and holds her for a long moment. There is a certain comfort in this, an intimacy both beautiful and delicate.
“I have envied it at times,” she says, and withdraws. “The love you share. But I do not envy you now the parting before you: the second loss.” Her eyes flicker to Gimli, who is sitting asprawl in a comfortable fabric chair across the courtyard, his eyes wandering. “Unless you choose differently,” she says.
“It is his choice to make,” Legolas says.
“He has already made it,” she answers. “But it is you who must do the asking.” And she stands and crosses back to Aragorn, her hands finding his shoulders, her long hair tumbling across the back of his seat.
Legolas looks to Gimli again and finds his friend looking back, sharp-eyed once again. There is no need, yet, to ask.
The truth is, he is not certain if he has the courage, the daring. Ask Gimli to give up his chance to see his family, his maker? To reunite with his people again? And in exchange, only a hope, an insurmountable risk. Aragorn was right, years ago when he had begged Legolas to promise not to try. They cannot know what will happen. But the Sea comes to him more and more. He will not be able to wait much longer.
And the truth is, now that he has seen it in the Mirror of Galadriel—seen Gimli beside him on his ship in the mist—he cannot deny the joy, the palpable relief, that had woken in him with that image. He knows that he does not wish to sail alone.
---
A week after Legolas and Gimli arrive in the City, they find themselves sitting at dinner with the King and Queen, Eldarion, the Princesses and their spouses, the Steward newly returned from Dol Amroth, and a handful of friends—a Healer who has tended Aragorn with humor and a sharp tongue for several years, the two Guardsmen who had become his household guard after foiling an assassination attempt three decades before, a beloved councilor who looks older than the wizened King himself.
“My dear ones,” Aragorn says after the meal has been cleared from the table, “I have chosen. Tomorrow, at dusk, I will walk the Silent Street. I would have you walk with me.”
All present hold a silence after this, and in the moment of reverence a sort of lightness steals into the room. The candles burn a little higher. Legolas feels himself breathe easily at once, and things seem to shine. Aragorn’s eyes meet his, and the King smiles.
“Of course, Your Grace,” says Elboron, his hand having gently found Eldarion’s shoulder. “It will be our honor.”
“Every step,” Legolas says. “If it is your will, I shall be with you until your last breath in this world.”
The others do not speak for a moment. Then Aurëlissë, elder of the King’s twin daughters, asks, “Your Grace, what of the children?” Her son Elenethon is the current heir in line to ascend the throne after Eldarion, and Legolas has seen him in the courtyard and the gardens. He is a serious boy of fifteen with his grandfather’s sharp gray eyes and his grandmother’s light feet. Two days before, Legolas had watched from afar as he had spoken to the king on his own, looking more man than boy with his back straight and his words unmuddied by emotion. The remainder of the time, his gentle attention to his siblings and cousins has allowed his mother and her sisters more time with the king, in these past days and many more before.
“They will see us off down the street,” Aragorn says. “I have spoken to the elder ones. They do not wish to come if their brothers and sisters do not, and the Silent Street is not a place for those as young as Tarannon and Elírë.” The youngest grandchildren, at six and three years of age.
Aurëlissë begins to cry softly, but she says no more. Eldarion stands, jarring Elboron’s hand from his shoulder and then grasping it apologetically, and moves to kneel beside his younger sister, who buries her face in his tunic.
“Just as you wish, Father,” he says quietly.
“Your grief should be short,” Aragorn says, “for I have lived a long life, and you would not wish me torn from you instead, ruined by age. And so I do not ask you not to cry: but I do ask that you remember this. I leave you now of my own will, and I leave you that which we have built together. Our kingdom, our family, and our peace. By each of these gifts will you remember me.” His eyes move around the table once more. “Now let us take our rest. For me, I will try one last time to dream. Come find me on the morrow, if you will, or else meet me at the entrance to the Street an hour before dusk.”
He stands, and takes the hand of his queen, and kisses it tenderly before them all. Then with their fingers entwined they walk from the hall together.
Once he is gone, scarcely a moment passes before tears are falling down the faces of the other Men present, even light-hearted Elboron and the dignified old councilor. Eldarion’s sisters join him at Aurëlissë’s side: the younger twin Altáriel also in tears; Estaranel, the eldest, passing out comfort with a touch of her palm; the youngest-born Arvanessë dry-eyed but moving to them slowly as if she has shouldered a burden. And Legolas stands, and helps Gimli to his feet, and leaves the hall. This is for Men to share.
---
Gimli speaks little that night, but just before he drifts to sleep, he grasps at Legolas’s hand. “Stay near me tonight,” he says. “I could not bear to wake alone.”
So Legolas sits and watches his friend slumber, and bundles more blankets over him when he shivers. He looks at Gimli’s wide, messy braids, at the many lines around his eyes, at his hands which have lost so much of their strength he can barely cut his meat. Eldarion is right, of course. Gimli is near to his end. Two-hundred fifty is considered very old for a Dwarf, and Gimli is approaching his two-hundred sixty-first birthday.
And so what is right for him to do? If he chooses to sail alone, he will not have long to wait. Gimli will not have to see him go Sea-mad. It will not come to that.
If he asks Gimli to join him, and Gimli agrees, then he must begin building at once.
But what if he should ask, and Gimli should refuse? He has always spoken of it lightly, as if in jest, and it is possible that what he has said is true: he simply could not bear to be left behind. If given the choice between dying in Middle-Earth with Legolas at his side, or sailing and taking all the risks therein, what sane Dwarf would choose the risk?
No sane Dwarf, he answers himself. For Gimli surely does not fit such a description. And he feels again the strange lightness that he had felt in the Hall after Aragorn’s announcement, and he is filled with such love for his gwador, his khâzash, the strange cenedril o immo—he reaches under the blankets and grasps Gimli’s hand, and he does not wake, but his hand tightens and he grips back.
---
When it is all over, the passing ceremonies and the coronation and the singing, and the crown is upon Eldarion’s head, thousands of the Men of the City process to honor their new High King. When Legolas steps up the dais and kneels before him, Eldarion offers a hand, and when Legolas is standing again he envelops Legolas’s hands in his own. “Kinsman,” he says softly, “that which you need, you shall have. Tell me: shall I design you a ship manned by one, or two?”
“Make it for one, if you will, Your Grace,” Legolas says, and it is not until he is already stepping down so the next can come forth that he sees the shock in the King’s eyes and realizes how he has taken that answer.
Later, hours later, when the procession has ended and feasting has finished, the King Eldarion approaches him again. “Some days ago I would have felt this too forward, but I am emboldened,” he says to Legolas, his voice rushed and quiet. “I do not know if it is he who has made the choice, or you, but if it is you, I beg you reconsider. I believe that he wishes to go with you, at whatever cost, and such a love should not be thrown away for anything.” His cheeks are pink, and as he finishes speaking he turns away, his piece said, but Legolas grabs his arm.
“Eldarion,” he says, “you misunderstood, and I am gravely sorry. I do not know if I will sail alone: I have not yet asked, although I am resolved to do so. But regardless, I shall need to work the ship alone. Gimli has not the strength.”
Eldarion looks at him a moment with wide eyes, and then turns his face away. When he looks back, his eyes shine with tears. “My friend,” he says, “never have I been so glad to learn I have erred. This is a great time of renewal, but even in the midst of all else, I feel that nothing could cause me more joy than this news.”
“It is not assured yet,” Legolas says, “but your gladness lightens my heart again. Long live the King! And as the Dwarves of fond of saying: may your beard grow ever longer.”
Eldarion strokes his bare chin ruefully, then smiles and places his palm on Legolas’s cheek. “I will have you a draft of your gray ship by the week’s end,” he says gently. “It will give me something to do, when the nights grow long.”
“Should you need company, you may call on me,” Legolas says, and the King’s face grows pink again, but he bows his head and turns away.
“I will remember that,” he says.
---
The sketches and pictures Eldarion delivers are so breathtaking that Legolas feels a sharp pain in his chest when he looks on them. For a few days he hides them from Gimli, shakes his head a fraction when the King’s eyes question him. But Gimli has been the dearest of brothers to him for half his mortal-short life, and he senses what has happened.
“Show them to me,” he says gruffly one evening as they drink together: a fine red wine for Legolas, left to him from Aragorn’s private stores, and a mellow-pale ale for Gimli, brought down from the Lonely Mountain.
With no need for pretense, Legolas crosses to the desk and draws the wide rolls of parchment from the drawer beneath, then sits on the end of Gimli’s bed and spreads out the drafts them on the coverlet between them.
Gimli traces his fingers lightly over the designs. “I need not ask if you have forgotten your promise,” he says, “for I know you have not. But my own time is short, and I have not enough of it to partake in this dance any longer. Legolas, what do you mean to do? Are we bound for the Harbors to build? And when shall we leave, if so?”
“I know not,” Legolas says, “but perhaps I have wronged you, for you may not know the choice is in your hands. Gimli, I will do as you will: I can wait until your ending to build; my need is not so great. We can return to your ancient home, if you have kin you would see before your passing. If you wish to spend your last days upon Middle-Earth, I will do what is within my power to make those days your brightest. But we have not spoken in seriousness of the other choice. If you wish it, you may sail with me.”
Gimli’s eyes stay on the ship, his fingers on its bow. Legolas feels a burst of desperation.
“Will you?” he asks. “Will you join me for the waters, and sail with me to Valinor? You need not answer me at once, of course. Aragorn doubted my sanity at such a suggestion: you have not the tokens that the others have, nor did you bear the Ring, so I cannot be sure what would become of us. But if you wish to face it, then I would have you at my side.”
“At your side,” Gimli murmurs, and for a moment Legolas fears he is too late: that Gimli’s age has taken his sharp wit, and that he has not heard, or at least not understood. But when his friend looks up from the parchment, there’s a smile on his face: fierce and wild, like the days of old. The smile he’d always worn just before he swung his axe at an orc, before loosing a battle-cry or a wordless roar, before shouting his number as a taunt. “Well, when shall we begin? I’ve been sitting still for too many years. Even when I was a young thing, I never liked to turn down an adventure, and now is not the time to start.”
----
When the ship is near-ready, Legolas takes it into his own hands. Gimli watches from the shore, settled on a rough cut of rock, as Legolas flies across the deck. He hoists the sails one evening when the wind is dead, checking and rechecking the ropes for security. He sings. He sets up comforts: a bunk and hammock belowdecks, a seat notched into the wood at the rear of the main deck. Abovedecks, the base of the mast is ringed with a platform that will serve as a table, on fair days; there are trays below for the fouler days, though Legolas knows he himself will be staying above at all times.
This is the peril of being the last. Surely Círdan had always been sure to have another able body aboard, another pair of sure hands. Or perhaps he had not needed to sail as others did, when he ferried to Valinor and back. Perhaps at some point magic alone bore them away. Or perhaps some strength gave the Shipwright no need of sleep.
When the time approaches, Legolas finds himself torn between setting out and sailing at all speed—and tarrying a few days more. For the first, the reason is clear: Gimli has come to sleep more hours each day, and although he does not complain, Legolas has noticed he ails in other ways. In the last week alone, his eyes have seemed to grow rheumy, and his limp more pronounced. One hip seems all but immobile with age, and the other moves but only with pain.
For the other, though: after all these years of the Longing, how can there be any part of him still that resists? But he finds there is some part. Even standing on the deck of his fine gray ship, the sails puddled on the deck but ready to be hoisted, the hold filled with water and provisions of the sort Gimli approves, he finds for the first time in decades an ache instead for the forests of his birth. He has not sent word to his brothers of his departure, for though they might pretend, he knows they will care little. Aragorn is gone. The stewardship of the Caves is passed to Andvari; care of Ithilien to Elboron. There is naught any longer to hold him here.
And yet.
Is it fear that holds him here? Of what may await? Of what may not? There is little saying what may happen on the way, and even if they reach the shores, even Gandalf had not spoken with any clarity of what became of mortals in that far realm. If their age slowed, or stopped, or if they simply found themselves at peace, with no lengthening of life.
Legolas disembarks, down the wooden gangway, and claps a hand on Gimli’s shoulder. Gimli opens his eyes. “It is ready,” Legolas says. “I defer to you: shall we go at once, or is there more you wish to do, or see, or taste?”
“So much more,” Gimli says, “but I will content myself with a few things.” He looks around. “It’s near dark? What say we leave the day after tomorrow, at dawn?”
Legolas’s heart seizes with that strange longing again. He nods, but cannot smile. Gimli slides to his feet and begins to amble down the pathway toward their inn. “Come, Master Elf,” he calls behind him, “take a drink with me, and then we will sleep.”
----
Legolas wakes trembling, and turns in the bath of moonlight from their open window to watch Gimli’s slow breaths, and after a moment realizes the Dwarf is not sleeping.
“Is there still moonlight in this Valinor of yours?” he asks.
“Aye,” Legolas answers, and Gimli turns in his bed so that they are facing one another, although both wrapped in covers and dappled in shadow and moon. “Our elders tell that the Sun and Moon came from Valinor. First, the world was lit by two great Lamps, but the Enemy broke them out of the sky, causing such destruction as we today cannot imagine. The Valar went to Valinor, and sang into existence the Two Trees of light in place of the Lamps, but after a long Time these too the Enemy destroyed. But swiftly came Yavanna, she who is the wife of Aulë, who you know as Mahal. Also came Nienna, she who was the teacher of Olórin, who we knew as Gandalf. And they saved from the ruined Trees one flower, and one fruit, and these became the Moon and Sun.”
“That’s a pretty thought,” Gimli says.
“The petal and the fruit?”
“That too,” he answers. “But I meant the singing, and shaping, and going on even when the Enemy throws you into darkness.” He turns onto his back once more, and after a moment Legolas does the same. Some time later, long after he had assumed Gimli was asleep again, Legolas hears him speak once more. “The making,” he whispers.
----
The afternoon that follows, Legolas is sitting at the desk in the back room of the inn, the very room in which he and Eldarion had drafted and debated shipbuilding some years before. He is writing a letter.
It is difficult to know what to say to a man who is your admirer, your friend, and your realm’s King wrapped up in one, but Legolas finds words. He talks about the Men of stories and the Men of the real world, of Aragorn’s legacy and of his pride in his son. On the bottom of the page, he sketches the ship: the wide, smooth lines, the intricate details that only an Elf’s careful hand could capture without a special nib.
Before he has put down the ink to sign it, he hears gentle footsteps, and then slow, even breathing just outside the door. A Man’s breathing—but not the compact innkeeper, nor the servant who has more than once brought drinks.
“Come,” Legolas says, turning, and it is Eldarion himself who enters. “Your Grace,” he says, rising from his seat, “I had not thought to see you so far from the capitol.” I had not thought to see you ever again, he does not say, and his heart seems to swell in his chest, a sensation he has read about in the books of Men but cannot remember ever feeling himself. They had said goodbye in Minas Tirith, some weeks ago, but it had been a messy goodbye, full of broken-off sentences and glances that spoke of words unsaid.
“Elboron is managing affairs while I’m away,” Eldarion says. He hesitates. “Mother has gone. Once she left, I…things seemed to come into focus once more. I spent some time wishing that I had sent you off properly, and then I realized that I am King now, and that might mean occasionally doing as I wish.”
“I should hope so, Your Grace.”
“And it seems I decided just in time,” Eldarion says, his face a mingling of feelings: sorrow on his brow, a smile on his lips. “I met Gimli without. He says you will set sail in the morning.”
“We had just decided as much,” Legolas says. “I was writing to you.” He gestures helplessly at the desk behind him. Eldarion smiles more widely, his eyes kindly and so like his father’s, and nods.
“I am glad to have come in time,” he says, and draws a hollow tube from his belt. Several rolls of parchment have been carefully tucked inside. “These are for you,” he says, “for when you arrive there—to remember us. No, do not open it yet. Wait until you’ve left my shores, at the least. Until you miss them. Although I do not mean—I should say, I know you will not regret this choice. Long have I known that, for you made it before I was born.”
“I may yet,” Legolas answers. “If Gimli is not admitted.”
“The Lock-Bearer?” Eldarion says, as if amused. “One of the Nine Walkers? Perish the thought, mellon nín. It is a foolish fear.”
“Your father did not think so.”
“My father is the one who caused you to think so, if I am not much mistaken. You were quite confident of his admission, when first you spoke of it to him.” Eldarion grows somber again. “He has told me much, this past year. Some, perhaps, that he should not have done, for it was not his to tell.”
“Then let us walk out a while and speak of these things.”
They are more than a mile beyond the outskirts of Pelargir before Legolas can bring himself to speak. “He spoke to you—of me,” he says.
“He did.” Eldarion hesitates. “He said we were like to one another, and that he wished for me whatever life I wished for myself. Whether it be like yours, to live with loving companions but without family of my own, or to make my family as I wish, or to find another way. And there were so many things I wished to ask him, but I knew I ought to be asking you.”
“You should ask now,” Legolas says.
“I am not certain I have any need to any longer,” Eldarion answers. “But if you would speak, I would hear you.”
So Legolas speaks. He has tales from the Three Hunters, tales from the battlefields, tales from deep underground and from nearing death and from the messages from his brothers, telling him their father has died. But these are not the tales he tells.
He tells a story of a tired perch on a talan high above the forest floor. A golden head and eyes turning from wariness to warmth. A proud voice. An old duty. A golden helmet and a steady hand. And he does not speak to this young King of what came after: the bloodshed and horror, with no time for grief. And he does not demand: Find it. He does not say: I have lived a good life, but you could live a better, if you allow yourself. Because that is not what he needs, not what either of them need.
Now is the time for beginnings.
----
In the end, there is no one waiting on the shore when Legolas and Gimli push out. The sun rises swiftly, and Gimli moves with renewed vigor on the decks. He pours fresh water into silver cups and sits at Legolas’s side, drinking together and tying slow but sure knots into the rigging, and that late afternoon their vessel slides out to the sea.
And he does not stand at the stern and look back as the clouds sweep a curtain across the land behind them. Neither of them see the moment when it happens. They are talking together, Gimli’s hand set on Legolas’s, their voices just loud enough to be heard above the roaring rageless waters.
“I have tried not to imagine,” Legolas says, “for I have always known that the moment would truly come, and I could not bear to be disappointed in the slightest.”
“But do you think they will know?” Gimli asks. “Or will we be taking them by surprise? I don’t mind if they aren’t waiting for us, I promise you that.”
“Uin ista—I think it will be down to the Wise Ones. Gandalf, Galadriel, Elrond, Círdan. Anyone with foresight might see us at a distance, but they may not tell the others.” He is silent a moment. “We will be the first in years, unless I am much mistaken.”
“Galadriel,” Gimli murmurs, and touches his hand to his waist-pouch, where for many years he had kept the three strands. “Ought I have brought them?” he asks, suddenly anxious. “She may be offended.”
“You told her then and there that they would be an heirloom of your House,” Legolas reminds him.
“Aye, but I have none,” Gimli says gruffly. “Perhaps I should have kept them. Given them back to her, as a gift. Or brought them as an offering.”
“She gave them to you,” Legolas answers, “and that was no small gesture. Gimli, mellon nín, you were not the first to ask, but you were the first to receive. Do not take that lightly.”
“You know,” Gimli says, “you have always promised to tell me that story, and you have always delayed. I think I am due.”
So Legolas speaks of Fëanor. At first, he speaks only of the man, the legend, the deeds. Proud and renowned. Craftsman. Warrior. Prince. His love of his family, and the rift that grew there after his dealings with Melkor. And the Silmarils! Made of a substance he had created, burning with the Light of Valinor, but tainted. The fall of the Two Trees, and Fëanor’s pride: he would not give back the Light of his jewels to restore the Trees, and they were stolen by Melkor, who he named Morgoth, the Enemy.
This story he tells for the rest of the day, never speaking of Galadriel, for so long that Gimli seems to have given up the point, for he is much engrossed. But just before he retires for the night, he stretches and then points a finger at Legolas. “Do not think I have forgotten,” he says. “If this is merely your trick to tell me more of your stories, and the tale of Galadriel a separate matter, I promise I will return it in kind with wearying Dwarvish myth.”
“If you find it wearying, you have only to say,” Legolas says, unable to hide his smile.
“Bah,” says Gimli. “Be ready to go on when I bring up your breakfast, will you? I cannot wait much longer while you chase the point in circles.” And he trudges belowdecks. Legolas’s Elf-ears hear the slosh of water, and Gimli reemerges for a moment: he has brought up a cup and a cake of lembas, handing them off wordlessly, almost shyly. Then he disappears below again, and there is the sound of his boots being dropped at his bedside, and his soft groan as he settles into bed, and then the long quiet of night.
It is not truly quiet, of course. There are night-birds above, and the sails ripple, and the waters rail against the hull, and the new wood creaks gently. But these are the sounds about which he has dreamt, and for which he has felt the Longing, for more than a century. They are like silence: a constant background, like the hum of echoes in the caves or the whisper of wind through leaves in the forest.
----
Legolas finishes the story of Fëanor just before noon. It is well that Gimli had decided to retire the night before, for the story was too dark to be told except in the brightest sunlight. The Oath. The thrice-battled Teleri. The exile, and the fires: shadow and flame, they were called, but Gimli recognized that name for what it truly represented, growling as Legolas described them.
And when Legolas has subsided into silence, Gimli pounds a fist on the wooden table between them. “But what of the Lady?!” he demands. “This was a tale indeed, but not the one I was promised! Not the one that was due to me!”
“I have not finished,” Legolas says. “I merely wished for you to understand about whom I spoke, before I told the part of the tale that concerns you.”
“A mighty chase indeed,” Gimli grumbles.
“You will understand, if you can pause for long enough to allow me to finish,” Legolas says. “I do not speak of this idly. Not without reason have I skirted away from telling this story for so long, because it seems to me that perhaps it should not be mine to tell. And yet I find that I agree with you: you are owed this. So it is, then, my place to deliver.”
“Speak, then.”
“Thousands of years before you, Fëanor asked,” Legolas says. “Three times he asked, Gimli. Three times begged Galadriel, his kin, for a tress. It is said that the light of her hair was the inspiration for the Silmarils, that the light of the Trees was captured first in her hair and thus gave Fëanor the idea that it might be captured elsewhere.”
“This does not surprise me,” Gimli says. “Why do you speak as though this should be some revelation to me? I knew I could not have been the first to see her for what she was, the first to see the stars in her hair…” He trails off, and after a moment looks sharply at Legolas.
“She refused, Gimli. Three times she refused. Because, it is said, she has the gift to see into the heart of those to whom she speaks. And she saw that he was prideful, and she deemed him unworthy. Fëanor of the Silmarils. And later, many would say, she was proven right. But remember then that he was a prince, a craftsman, beloved of many. To refuse him was all but unheard-of, but refuse him she did.” He pauses and looks at his hands, for suddenly he cannot look on Gimli’s face any longer, so brimming with feeling. But he continues. He must.
“But for you. For you, she unbraided her hair, and withdrew her own knife, and cut away three strands. Three. And blessed you with craftsmanship: a craftsman in place of Fëanor who fell to his own pride: over you gold shall have no dominion, she said. She named you worthy where he was not, in front of all her folk. And be certain: all of them knew. And not least of them, I. That was the moment of my certainty of you: I had chosen you, and taken you out into the woods with me, and we had spoken privately already, and exchanged words and secrets. We were friends. But when she laid those strands in your glove—it was then that I knew I wished to be more. To be your brother. Your gwador. In your tongue, I think, khâzash.”
“Khâzash,” Gimli agrees, and when Legolas looks back up, he finds tears running down that worn, beloved face. “Ins Mahal taglibi luknu. Ins Mahal taglibi luknu, hikhthuzul. Khâzashê hikhthuzul. Ah, I am sorry. This is too much.”
“Then I should be the sorry one.”
“No—no—this is joy; do not mistake me. But I am overwhelmed.”
“You truly love her,” Legolas says gently.
“Like nothing else in the world,” Gimli answers, and for once his voice is clear and unashamed, no gruffness, no turning his face away. “I can scarcely explain it: but it is the love of a pure creature. When I saw her—when I truly saw her, in all herself, in her white raiment and her sad face, when she spoke the words of my people and looked on my grief—it was as if all the rest of the world had been a lie. There was nothing but her.” His voice breaks. “And it hurt me, Legolas, my Legolas. I took a dreadful wound, not only at the parting but at the meeting, because I knew at once that I would live my life as not a meagre shred of that goodness. I knew that I was small. I knew that my craft was dull—that nothing I could create would ever—”
“No!” Legolas cries. “Brother, do you not see? Have you not heard my story? She looked at you and saw something kindred—Gimli, she as well as named you her own kin. More kindred than Prince Fëanor of the Silmarils, brother of her father, who opposed the Enemy to his face. More kindred than Frodo, to whom she gave the light but nothing of herself. More kindred than Sam with his growing things, or Aragorn who she deemed worthy of her granddaughter’s life. Do you not see?”
“I do,” Gimli says, almost a gasp. “And if we should make it through the fog, now I can think of greeting her. I have always pushed it away, Legolas, when it has come to my mind before, for it seemed presumptuous to think the Lady might open her doors to me. But still I came aboard with you—does this tell you of my love for you? I did not let myself hope that there was more in store for me. I thought I should be content no matter what, even if I should die at your side in the mists. And still I hold to that, but now you have kindled hope in me, and I scarce know what to do with it.” Indeed, his hands are trembling, and Legolas lays one of his own atop them.
“With all speed, then,” Legolas says, and stands to adjust the sails. Somewhere there, to the West, he can feel the pull of Valinor.
----
On the seventh day, the gray ship slides into the mists.
It is like entering a stormcloud. The air grows thick and damp around them, and all darkens to a dusky gray. The sails are battered forward and back, and Legolas’s skin ripples with a sensation that is neither warmth nor chill. They are here—the in-between place, the farthest any mortal can go. Save a special few.
Gimli comes up from belowdecks: Legolas hears the stomp of his boots but cannot see him until he is mere feet away. “Well, you did warn me,” the Dwarf says, his voice cheery, “but I have to say, I didna quite believe you until this very moment.”
“I am not certain I myself understood,” Legolas answers.
“And now we wait?”
“No different than before.”
“Looks a fair sight different to me, lad.”
Legolas laughs, and finds that it is not forced: whatever strangeness has passed over him is not Shadow, and not even doubt. “Stay above with me a time, if you will,” he says.
“Aye, even had you not asked,” Gimli says, “else I’d feel alone here. It’s quiet, Legolas.” And now it seems strange that Legolas had not noticed himself. The wind and waves and slap of sails continue, but the cries of the gulls have stopped. Not even far-away can they be heard: they are gone.
But these are not gone: the tugging sensation in his chest, like a string reeling him in to Valinor. The mist of neither warmth nor coolness, damp on his skin. The swell of love in his chest for his companion, who settles into his recessed seat and pulls a green apple from a pocket of his vest, polishing it between both hands.
Their third day in the mists, Legolas feels a shiver pass down his body. “I felt it too,” Gimli murmurs a moment later. “Like someone was watching us. Not a nice someone, although not bad, exactly.”
Their fifth day in the mists, he begins to doubt. It had been one of the fates Aragorn had feared for them: to wander endlessly in the mist, turned away but not struck down, too far to go back, not sure if the shore was still ahead. Perhaps the feeling of being watched had been the eyes of the Valar, or the shore-guards or whoever held the responsibility for bringing the ships over the borders. Perhaps they had looked, and not liked what they had seen, and retreated without words.
Their sixth day, the fresh fruits have begun to rot, and it seems like a sign: a beginning of an end. Legolas tries to hide his unease, and seems to succeed, even when Gimli throws the last of his apples overboard—the last color left in their gray world. “I hope there’s something out that can take nourishment from them,” he says musingly. He is still a brightness, still unafraid and hopeful. And the rope is still there, the tugging, so perhaps Gimli is not wrong still to hope.
The ninth day, early in the morning when Gimli is still abed, the ship begins to gather speed. A high wind? A vortex in the sea ahead, pulling them in? There is no telling. He adjusts the angle of the sails, turns the rudder hard, but there is no change. Yes, they are being pulled, and suddenly the rope-feeling in his chest is taut to its fraying point. He abandons the rudder wheel, moving toward the bow, in the direction of the tug.
The waves are terrible, spray reaching him even in the center of the deck. The sails are whipped forward, moaning objections, and the wood creaks as if ancient instead of new. There is nothing to be seen except the gray, but Legolas is fixed, unable to stop looking forwards.
Then there is motion from the corner of his eye. Gimli steps up beside him, placing himself at Legolas’s left side with his back straighter than it has been in years, his eyes flinty and shining. Legolas stares at him: this Lord of Dwarves, almost a stranger as he stands there straight and tall and ready for whatever is beyond.
Legolas finds his courage. He reaches down and grasps for Gimli’s hand, and Gimli returns a squeeze, holding him tight, and the rope in Legolas’s chest snaps.
Suddenly the gray fog about them is silver and shimmering. Suddenly the water is a deep blue. And the winds touch the fog, and a ray of light shines through the heaviness, and the mists burn away.
fin.
----
Translations:
Gwador: sworn brother; Sindarin
Khâzash: brother; Khuzdul
Cenedril o immo: mirror of [him/my]self; Sindarin
Mellon nín: my friend; Sindarin
Uin ista: I do not have [the] knowledge; Sindarin
“Khâzash. Ins Mahal taglibi luknu. Ins Mahal taglibi luknu, hikhthuzul. Khâzashê hikhthuzul.”: Brother. It is so. It has always been so. [Literally: As Mahal would speak. As Mahal would speak, always.] Always my brother. (Khuzdul)