Chapter Text
Midsummer, 110 of the Fourth Age
Gimli spends the whole summer of his two-hundred-fiftieth nameday in Aglarond. It's a rarity—usually by Midsummer's Eve Legolas has called on him for an errand, and more often than not that "errand" becomes an adventure, and he doesn't traipse back to his halls until the young twin mallorn trees flanking the gates are full gold.
The whole settlement celebrates—and for the whole summer, it seems. On Midsummer's eve itself, the King Elessar sends fireworks, and Dwarves and Men alike gather on the battlements of the Deep to watch them light the valley. Legolas does the lighting, scrambling and careful at once. Gandalf had taught him some little of the art, centuries before when he himself was something of a firecracker.
On his nameday proper, Gimli fills the Great Hall. They feast and drink ales and red wine, and when the festivities wane, the children of Aglarond begin to fight for Gimli's attention.
It has been a tradition for decades—ever since Legolas and Gimli had spent the better part of a year the Shire for Faramir Took's wedding. That had been almost seventy years before. Samwise had celebrated a birthday, and his guest-gift had been among the most thoughtful Gimli had ever received—perhaps even taking a second place to the three strands.
During their time at Bag End, Sam had noticed Gimli's attention to the New Tree: he wandered down to it in the mornings, ran his hands over it, sat in the shade beneath it and watched its shadows shift in the evenings. So on Sam's birthday, his guest-gift for Gimli had been two of its fine nuts, and a small leather sack containing a sample of soil. It was, he confessed, some of the last of the original soil that Galadriel had given him all those years before. When Gimli had returned to Aglarond, he'd planted the mallyrn, and with Legolas's careful tending they have grown into tall guards of the gates.
And ever since then, Gimli has taken up the Hobbitish habit of giving gifts on his nameday.
Most of the gifts go to the children, and none in Aglarond object to that. The Dwarflings' gifts are always carefully chosen, playing to their hobbies and encouraging them to hone their natural gifts. And he is skilled in such gift-giving. The Men who are now full-grown still remind him of what he gave them in such-and-such a year.
This year, he has had more time for the crafting. The smallest get toys: carefully carven knucklebones; shell games with real shells, intricate symbols carved into their pearly undersides; glass stars for decoration; sleek and slender iron hoops for rolling; tiny wooden birds with moving wings; little drums, or, for one small girl, a set of pipes made from true reeds. Older children get tools for their tradecrafts: child-sized picks and hammers accompanied by a strict warning not to use them without adult permission, perfect molds for soaps and candles, trowels for the ones who love the living things, and cunning leather pouches with many pockets for those with an interest in healing. And a scant few, mostly the children who are favorites of Legolas, noisily share their delight over a new book or quill-and-inkpot while the other Dwarflings wrinkle their noses in confusion.
The children spend some time examining one another's treasures, chattering in Khuzdul and smacking away uncareful hands.
"Umâmê," Gimli intones, "it is rude to speak the Tongue in the company of Prince Legolas."
Legolas, at his side, waves a dismissive hand. "I need not understand them," he says. "After all, if they wish to speak to me, they shall." And suddenly there is a clamor of attention for the elf, the children pulling themselves up off the floor and throwing them at his knees.
"When is your nameday, Legolas?" asks Markûn, one of the smallest Dwarves present. His hair is a dark wild mane about him, but in asking the question he has stilled, looking up.
"Elves do not celebrate our nameday, but instead the day of our conception," he explains. "Mine is in the early autumn, in the month we call Ivanneth. But I have lived many years—more than you can count, young ones—and often I celebrate with only a meditation."
Gimli roars with laughter. "How dull seems the life of an Elf, at times! And yet how bawdy. I never asked my mother after my conception day, so I cannot take on your celebration."
The children tire not long thereafter, and after they tumble off to bed the adults gather 'round, Dwarven and Rohirric both. They have grown close in community, and Gimli has watched with interest as the gap between their races slims. Still, he had been surprised six years before when he was asked to solemnize a marriage between a Dwarrowdam and a Man of Rohan. Adzik and Eadmer are near the front of the throng tonight, their fingers intertwined and their smiles luminous.
"My Lord, will you honor us with a story tonight?" Fjalar asks.
"That can be your gift to us," Haleth agrees.
"Bah," Gimli says, "but you've heard all the interesting ones! I have had enough birthdays already. I'm running out of stories."
"Then tell us of the last year," one of the young women suggests.
"Very well," Gimli says, his surliness gone in a moment, and he launches excitedly into telling of his last trip to the settlement at Moria.
Legolas finds his mind adrift, but when the candles begin to gutter, Gimli raises his voice for a powerful finish.
"As Dwarves, we are a people of stone, but do not let it be said that we cannot learn. King Durin is cautious, and he explores more than he mines, as we do here in Aglarond. We will not make the mistakes of our forebearers. We are building for the future: preserving our legacies, but tempering our haste with wisdom, our greed with craft, our ambition with love. And we are joining together with allies, instead of keeping our proud distance. Do not forget this when I am gone. This is who we are, who we have become, and who we must be henceforth."