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“Gimli, I know you love Legolas, but I didn’t realize how much.”
“Pippin, a dwarf can't bloody well give an inferior gift any more than a hobbit could! By rights, he should have received this from me long ago. Durin's balls, it's no secret that I love him more than I do any other!”
“Of course, of course. I – look at this, Gimli – I’m speechless! And nervous for you. What do you think he’ll say? What if he rejects it? Do you think he’ll reject it?”
“Master hobbit, at one time I might have thought so – that an elf wouldn't accept this from a dwarf - but not now. Mahal as my witness, I want his words to be that this gift, he will gladly receive. It's not as if I offer what you see to any and all that I meet!”
I do not mean to eavesdrop – but – their voices carry so far. They forget how well I hear, even after, what they would say, have been all of these years.
I tell myself no, it is not what I think. Surely I misunderstand. I steel myself, try to pretend I hear nothing.
Yet they talk, on and on, about this gift – and I cannot block my hearing. I should leave, but – my feet will not go.
And I hope – oh how I hope – that this gift will be what I dream of. What I have dreamt of since the days of the fellowship.
That Gimli will gift me the beads he crafted when he reached his majority, beads inscribed with the markings that signify One love.
Or a comb, forged for me by his hands. Surely it would be the finest comb an elf could ever receive.
Or – and I try not to let my mind think it, but, I cannot help it – both.
And much as I have been disappointed on every begetting day I have ever known – the reason, I know, that the hobbits celebrate my birthday, instead – I cannot stop myself from sending a prayer to Elbereth.
That she will grant my heart’s desire – that I am his heart’s desire.
This, I wish.
****
I return to my room in Bag End, and pull out the gifts for my birthday celebration this eve.
I look at the one I wrapped for Gimli – one of my quills that he much admires – and I make a decision. I take risks elsewhere – in battle, with befriending those who are not elves – why should this be different?
I may never win what my heart desires if I do not try, if I only wish. But,
What if I am wrong? My mind whispers this, over and over. Yet - I think again of battle, of leaving my home forest, of how life is much better for me now.
And - I think of how I watch as his mortal life passes me by.
And so I find my courage, as the others would say – and - I wrap my comb.
The package with the quill goes under the bed, and my new gift for Gimli goes on top of the pile of presents, ready for Pippin - as he insists - to carry to the party tree, the glorious mallorn that Sam planted after the war.
That Gimli will receive my comb - this, I wish.
****
Gimli is the last to visit me before Sam serves lunch. We follow the hobbits’ tradition here as in all else – any birthday gift I receive, I receive in private.
The gift he bears is taller than he is, wrapped in the riotously-coloured paper that the hobbits love crafting. Yet that isn’t what makes me smile, makes me shake my head – no, it is how I will never understand why this dwarf enjoys placing small gifts within huge packages.
I open it - slowly, for I am nervous, and my heart hammers more quickly than in any battle – and I wonder if he can see the slight tremble of my fingers.
For my part, I have never seen him smile so widely, nor so fondly, at me.
Finally his gift is almost opened – and I close my eyes. I rehearse, one final time, what I would say, how I would properly receive his comb or beads.
I think upon my relief, for finally I would speak of my love and adoration.
But – and I feel such a fool – my heart sinks. This gift was not so large as it had seemed when wrapped – but it is not sized so small as I hoped.
“It’s perfect,” I say, swallowing my disappointment as it echoes the bitter begetting days of times past. But, I tell myself, it is not the same. Gimli would not want me to feel such hurt – any hurt.
I do believe he loves me more than any other.
Just not in the way I want him to love me.
This gift, it is - without words. I have never seen such an exquisite bow.
I run my hand over its wood – and it is indeed very fine, even finer than the one Galadriel had gifted me.
Yet he can tell something is amiss – he furrows his eyebrows in the way I know so well.
I wear my best elven mask, for I would not hurt him either. Soon enough, I tell myself that he’s none the wiser.
And when Sam calls us for lunch, I tell Gimli that I will follow him after a moment. My shame and embarrassment fill me – and flow over. My courage flees, replaced by my pride.
And I exchange the wrapped comb for the wrapped quill I had placed under the bed.
To be refused - even gently - in front of others,
This, I do not wish.
****
I sit down, breathless. Hobbit dances are still strange to me, but – lively, fun – and I drink the rest of my mead.
Jealousy grows in me as I watch Gimli flirting with one of the dwarves that traveled with us – one that I know he has shared himself with, perhaps even here, on this trip to the Shire – even as I try to push my feelings away.
“Legolas!” Sam calls, and Pippin adds, “It’s time for your birthday cake!”
They pull me toward the table where my enormous cake sits – and I smile when I see the candles lit upon it.
“We’re sorry, Legolas,” Pippin says most seriously, as though he hasn't said this in past years, “but Sam couldn’t fit even a smidge of the number of candles we should have on there – you’re just so…” and he catches himself before he says old.
But I do not mind – even as the truth stands between me and the others gathered here. Soon they will all be gone, and these birthday parties will simply become a fond memory of times past.
I grow melancholy as I think of how those most dear to me will not be near me – and I wonder what will become of me.
But I shake off that truth – how can I not, when such joy surrounds me, for I must enjoy what I have, now, while I am able – just as I shook off the disappointment of what I had hoped for, but not received, from Gimli.
Or so I tell myself.
And, for now, it is enough, with the joyous round of the hobbits' Happy Birthday song ringing in my ears.
Then I blow out the candles - but not before Pippin yells, "make a wish!"
I wish - before I even think - of what I wish for every year. That - my heart will sing. This, I wish - even as another part of me - knows - that the truth has been laid before my eyes these many years, not just on this day.
Cake is passed round, and I wonder what trinket I’ll find baked within this year.
I cannot - no, I should not - have eager, false hope. Hope that this piece of cake holds a token forecasting Love.
I hear my King's voice in my mind, even as he knows nothing of this, telling me, harshly, that I must stop acting and thinking as an elfling.
There is a tap on my shoulder. It is Sam, reminding me that I need to hand out my gifts while the others eat - and the presents are hard to miss, for Pippin begins piling them in front of me, barely able to contain his excitement.
One by one the pile becomes smaller. But I pay little attention, for my heart aches as I see Gimli sitting with the dwarf he shares himself with – one of many, I think – and I grow to feel cynical, hardened.
It’s then that I slip, absorbed as I am in the battle within me – and I hand Gimli his gift. Pippin, most proud, tells me – to my horror – “It’s good that I looked in your wardrobe and under your bed to make sure I got them all, Legolas. Otherwise Gimli would’ve missed his present!”
I freeze – it’s too late to grab it back, but oh, how I want to – and Gimli is holding my comb in his hands.
He knows what the giving of a comb means to a Silvan.
I have never been so glad of my swift eyesight and even swifter feet as I am on this night. I elude him the rest of the evening – largely because of the dwarf who is – hanging – all over him. And it also helps that there are so many others who want to dance with him, and with me.
But at the end of the night, as I make my way out to the trees Sam planted those years ago, I misstep, lost in my thoughts, forgetting to place him. I feel him grab my arm, and I turn, retreating behind my elven mask,
“Bloody hell, Legolas,” he says roughly, “stop avoiding me! We need to talk of your gift to me!”
I’ve practiced what I’ll say here, too – and I feel bitter that these words are the ones I say, not the ones I had practiced earlier, the ones from my daydreams of love – “It was purely a mistake, Gimli.” I make my voice light, as though my words are made of air – and – I know he does not believe me.
“You accidentally wrapped your comb?” he says. He crosses his arms – and – prepares to face off, he would say – in a game of truths.
But I will not back down now – my words may seem silly – but - I will not tell him the truth. I will not be a fool. And so I travel down the path of my well-practiced – if unbelievable – lie. “Yes, I had thought I wrapped my flint-stone for you.”
We go back and forth like this – a battle of words, almost. He seeks to make me speak of the truth without saying as much – for he will not shame me outright, nor will he make feel I have lost all honor. Finally he gives up – and for the second time this day, I convince myself that he believes me, just enough.
He stomps back to Bag End – or, more likely, I think, to the bed of that dwarf – and I climb the tree I had been seeking.
And – part of me cannot help but curse my lack of courage, even as my heart aches.
It does not feel – good – that I have lied to the one who is my dearest friend. And it feels – worse – that I am not loved in the way I want to be.
But – I do not know how it can be any different.
This, I - I am unsure of what to wish.
****
We are on our way back to Ithilien and Aglarond, and have stopped for the night. He sits by the campfire, talking with his dwarves.
On the journey to the Shire I had wished – every night – that they had not come with us.
Now I am glad they did – for things have been so awkward between Gimli and I, if it were not for his dwarves, I – shudder to think what this return trip would be.
But – even so – I miss him. The chasm between us grows by the day – or so it feels to me – and I do not think I can bear it much longer.
I try to think of a way to make amends, to apologize – for ignoring him since the night of my birthday. But I do not think I can bring myself to tell him the truth.
Nor, I think, do I need to tell him, I have decided, for what good would that do?
I feel lost – and – if I lost his friendship – I - would not find myself, I might fade, this I know.
It was better, in some ways, before any cared for me – because then I did not open my heart. I am fragile, this I know – and I curse my weakness once more, even as I hear the voices of now-friends tell me it is not a weakness, but a sign of strength, that I survived in loneliness for so long.
I sit on a boulder – I take most of the watch, much as I do every night – and they think it is because I do not need much rest, but – truly – it is because I know that Gimli might – share himself – in the woods. And I must be as far away from that as possible.
And so when I hear his voice, I am taken off-guard. “Do you really think so little of me?” he grumbles, and I cannot tell if he is offended, or hurt, or worse.
“What do you mean?” I ask in turn, confused, not thinking – is it that I did not let him place a halter and reins on Arod today? Or that I did not let him hunt for our food, telling him I wanted to try my new bow? Or – my mind begins to whisper, that I have been ignoring him?
“Fuck, Legolas, don’t act like you don’t bloody well understand what I speak of,” he says, and – once again – I do not think, not as I should.
“I – I’m sorry – if you’d like to – ride with Arod’s reins – or hunt – or –" yet his glare stops me before I can speak of the distance between us. And he curses again.
I cannot bear it – his harshness cuts me deeper than my King’s ever did. I start to cry – me, cry, here of all places! – and I see him trying to reign his frustration in, even as I feel more ashamed than ever. Ashamed of my weakness, of my love for him, of my lie, of – myself.
I move to leave, to find a tree that will cradle me – I am but an elfling, I tell myself, and I feel even more shameful – but his hand grabs mine, and he pulls both of us to sit down.
“Legolas, I am your friend, am I not?” he says firmly, yet as gently as he can.
“Yes,” I answer, humiliated that he sees me like this.
“I am your dearest friend, am I not? And you are mine?”
“Yes,” I mumble, and try to look away, but his gentle fingertip on my chin forces me to meet his eyes.
“And as such, we should be able to tell one another anything, should we not?”
I cannot answer that, for surely I do not want to tell him everything.
He sighs, and closes his eyes, as though he is in pain. “I am sorry, Legolas,” he says.
“It is – fine,” I say, knowing he never intends to hurt me with words - or - otherwise.
“No, Legolas, not that, not my yelling at you. Well, yes that – but – I am sorry that I have been angry with you for not being honest, for I have not tried hard enough to speak to you of my own truths.”
“Oh?” I say, and – my heart begins to pound, a sliver of hope returns,
“Legolas,” he continues, “until you gave me your comb, I never thought of you as anything other than a friend. My dearest, most beloved friend.”
“Oh,” I say, and my heart sinks. I close my eyes, as I feel tears creep back into them – and for a moment I wonder if I have been afflicted with something that makes my emotions turn with the cycles of the moon.
“I wanted to speak of this when you gave me your comb. And we must talk of it now.”
“Talk of what, Gimli? You see me as a friend, nothing more!” and I wonder why he is rubbing this in my face, as Pippin would say – even as I know Sam would say it is best to talk through my feelings. But – I am so unused to it – no one in my forest ever did so with me.
“Legolas, surely you know that one can love another – and grow to love them as more?”
“Yes, Gimli, I do know that,” I mutter, my face flushing, for surely this is what occurred with me – why must he say this?
“Well, what I had wanted to speak of that night is this –" and I close my eyes, preparing for the worst,
"If you are willing, I would like to – to court you, in the manner of your people, and in the manner of mine – to see if my feelings might grow to be the same as yours.”
My eyes snap open - I expect him to be as though he is mocking me, for the habits of my mind will never leave me, growing as weeds for so many centuries in my King's forest. But, he is not, he would not.
Yet - I will not be pitied. My feelings of less-than, of insecurity, my pining for so long - it twists inside me, and I grow angry,
“I am not your -" and I think of words Sam has used, when he speaks of work in the Shire - "charitable project!”
“Legolas,” he says, and I glare at him even as I see that he – appreciates – my words, my irritation. "You bloody well know I have no interest in such a thing. Fuck, I'm not a hobbit!"
It breaks the tension, somehow - though, I do not entirely understand – and he looks closely at me before he speaks again,
“I can make no promises - my love may never bloom into that of One. If we try - it must you who decides. I would sooner cut my heart out with my axe than bring pain to yours. And - fuck, Legolas - I am sorry that I have done so already –“ and I know of at least a part of what he speaks, of his sharing himself during our times together, of his unending flirting with others – “But Legolas, no matter what you decide – no matter what happens – know that I cherish the gift of your heart with all that I am.”
Then he kisses my forehead – chastely – and draws me into his arms. I am so – tense – at first, but, I eventually – relax – and find comfort in this – friend of mine, who sees nothing shameful in what I feel for him, but, instead, is honored by it.
And later that night, as I listen to his soft snores, as I stare at the stars above - I ponder, I wonder. And as I think - even if his words were not what I wished – I feel at peace. It may be fleeting – but, for now it is there, even as it waxes and wanes.
And, perhaps, deciding upon this – whether I will be the first – the only, I know - that Gimli would court – it is not such a bad position to be in, not truly.
And so I sit, and think. My choice will not come quickly to me, of this I am certain. But, knowing it is mine to make, this frees me, somehow, even if slightly.
I know not what the future holds - yet, I know he will be part of it.
This, I can trust.
This - I do not need to wish.