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The woods of Mirkwood, or Eryn Lasgalen, as the Elves now called it, were notoriously unfriendly to those who walked with heavy boots. Gimli, son of Glóin, was well aware of this history. He had grown up on the stories of his father being bundled into a sack and tossed into a damp cell by "twig-eating, wine-sipping tree-shaggers."
Now, decades later, history decided to repeat itself with a vengeance.
Gimli had only stepped away from Legolas for five minutes to inspect a particularly interesting vein of quartz near a stream. In those five minutes, a dozen Elven scouts had dropped from the canopy like spiders. Before Gimli could even reach for his axe, he was bound, blindfolded, and marched through the twisting paths of the forest.
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Gimli sat on the cold stone floor of the Elven dungeons, huffing into his beard. He wasn't particularly scared; he was mostly annoyed that he was missing dinner.
"I’ve been in better holes than this!" Gimli shouted at the bars. "My father told me you lot were rude, but this is a new low! I am an emissary of the Lonely Mountain! I am a member of the Fellowship! I have been to Lotherin, and I tell you, your masonry is abysmal!"
The sound of light, rhythmic footsteps approached. A red-haired Elf, clad in the leather armor of the Guard, stepped into the torchlight. She looked down at Gimli with a mixture of professional coldness and a strange, flickering spark of memory.
"You have a great deal to say for a prisoner," Tauriel said, her voice like silk over stone. "You were found wandering near the inner borders. In these times, we take no chances with strangers."
"Strangers?!" Gimli roared. "I was with an Elf! A tall, blonde, remarkably annoying Elf who likely hasn't noticed I’m gone because he’s too busy talking to the trees!"
Tauriel tilted her head. Before she could respond, a voice echoed from the upper stairwell, a voice that was loud, melodic, and currently singing a bawdy Dwarven drinking song at the top of its lungs.
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Legolas burst into the dungeon level, and Tauriel froze.
This was not the Prince she remembered. The Legolas she knew was a silent, brooding shadow of a man, perfectly groomed, emotionally distant, and perpetually draped in the somber greens and browns of the forest.
The Elf standing before her now was wearing a tunic of vibrant blue and gold. His hair, once a waterfall of pristine silk, was a chaotic masterpiece of braids, iron Dwarven beads, bits of twine, and even a few stray leaves and a dried wildflower tucked behind his ear. He looked... messy. He looked happy.
He didn't walk; he bounded.
"Gimli!" Legolas cried, spotting the cell. "There you are! I turned around to tell you about a very polite oak tree, and you had vanished! I thought perhaps a particularly large squirrel had carried you off!"
"It wasn't a squirrel, you golden-haired lounge-about!" Gimli grumbled, standing up and shaking his fists at the bars. "It was your kin! They’ve put me in the same cell they put my father in! It even smells the same, like lavender and arrogance!"
Legolas laughed, a bright, booming sound that Tauriel had never heard in all her centuries of knowing him. He reached through the bars and ruffled Gimli’s hair, an act of physical affection that made Tauriel’s eyes nearly pop out of her head.
"Legolas?" Tauriel whispered, stepping into the light.
Legolas turned, his eyes widening. "Tauriel! My dear friend!"
To her absolute shock, Legolas didn't give the formal Elven bow. He lunged forward and pulled her into a crushing, rib-cracking hug, the kind of hug one might expect from a Man like Aragorn.
"You... you hug now?" she gasped, breathless.
"I’ve spent a great deal of time with Men and Dwarves," Legolas said, beaming. "They are very tactile. It grows on one. Now, Tauriel, be a dear and open this cell. You’ve captured my soon-to-be husband."
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The silence that followed was so profound that you could hear the moss growing on the walls.
Tauriel stared at Legolas. Then she looked at the stout, grumbling Dwarf in the cell. Then back to the Prince.
Suddenly, she began to laugh. It started as a titter, then grew into a full-bellied, hysterical gale of mirth. She leaned against the cell bars, clutching her stomach, her red hair shaking.
"Husband?" she choked out between gasps. "A Dwarf? You?"
Legolas crossed his arms, looking slightly miffed. "I fail to see the humor. Gimli is a catch. He is excellent at embroidery, and he can headbutt an Orc into a coma."
"It’s just—" Tauriel wiped a tear from her eye. "During the quest for Erebor... when I fell for Kíli... you were so grumpy! You looked at me as if I had suggested marrying a mountain troll! You spent weeks sulking and glaring at his picture in the locket!"
"I was not sulking," Legolas sniffed. "I was... protective. I thought he was taking my only friend away from me. I was jealous of the time, not the romance."
"And now?" Tauriel gestured wildly at Gimli. "Now you have a Dwarf who is... well, significantly more 'Dwarf' than Kíli ever was! He’s twice as wide and four times as hairy!"
"He is exactly the right amount of Dwarf," Legolas said firmly. "And if you don't release him, I shall be forced to tell my father that you are obstructing royal business."
Tauriel’s laughter died down into a smirk. "Oh, I’m not just releasing him. I’m taking you both to the King. I wouldn't miss this for all the starlight in the world."
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Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, sat upon his throne of carved oak. He was as pristine as ever, every hair in place, his crown of autumn leaves sitting perfectly straight.
He looked down as Tauriel led the two travelers in. He blinked, his ageless face twitching as he took in his son’s appearance.
"Legolas," Thranduil said, his voice a cool breeze. "I see you have... returned. And you appear to have been dragged through a hedge backward. By a very enthusiastic pony."
"Hello, Adar," Legolas said, giving a messy, joyful bow. "Actually, Gimli does the braids. He says Elven hair is too slippery for proper Dwarven knots, so he uses twine to keep the beads in place."
Thranduil’s gaze drifted to Gimli. "The son of Glóin. I recognize the nose. And the lack of manners. Why is he here, Legolas?"
"He is here because we are traveling to the caves of Aglarond," Legolas explained. "And because he is my betrothed. I wanted him to see my home before we settle in the South."
Thranduil didn't move. He didn't blink. He simply stared. "Betrothed."
"Aye," Gimli grunted, crossing his arms. "The lad won't leave me alone. I try to have a nice, quiet mining session, and he starts reciting poetry about my beard. It was easier to just say yes."
"You... a Dwarf..." Thranduil trailed off, looking at Tauriel for help. She was busy biting her lip to keep from laughing again.
"It seems, my Lord," Tauriel said, "that your son has a type."
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"Wait," Thranduil said, his voice gaining a sharp edge. "You say you have been traveling. Where? I have had no word from you since you left for the Council of Elrond."
"Oh, we went to Moria," Legolas said airily. "Then Lothlórien. Then we fought a bit at Amon Hen. Then we chased a pack of Uruk-hai across Rohan for three days without sleep, Gimli was very brave, though he complained about his breathing the whole time."
"I am 'natural sprinter'!" Gimli interjected. "Very dangerous over short distances! Not long ones!”
"Then we fought at Helm’s Deep," Legolas continued, counting on his fingers. "Then we went through the Paths of the Dead-"
"The Paths of the Dead?" Thranduil stood up, his regal mask finally shattering. "You took my son into the dwelling of the Oathbreakers?!"
"He took me!" Gimli shouted. "I was the one who was terrified! He was walking through the ghosts like he was in a meadow!"
"And then the Pelennor Fields," Legolas added. "And finally, the Black Gate of Mordor. It was quite a busy few months."
Thranduil sank back into his throne, looking profoundly overwhelmed. "You joined a suicide mission to destroy the One Ring... and you didn't tell me?"
"I thought the letter might get lost," Legolas said with a shrug. "The Orcs were very thick in the East."
Tauriel stepped forward, her eyes wide. "The Black Gate? You stood before the eye of Sauron himself?"
"We did," Legolas said, his voice softening. He looked at Gimli, and the love in his eyes was so bright it made Thranduil wince. "And I would not have made it back if not for this Dwarf. He saved my life more times than I can count. He even shared his cloak with me when the mountain winds were too cold."
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As the evening progressed, the halls of Mirkwood were treated to a spectacle they would never forget. The Elven guards watched as the Prince and the Dwarf sat at the royal table, bickering like an old married couple.
"Legolas, stop feeding that leaf-stuff to me," Gimli muttered, pushing a plate of greens away. "I am a Dwarf. I need meat. Something that had a pulse and a mother."
"It’s good for you, Gimli! It keeps your skin from looking like a dried turnip," Legolas teased, reaching over to adjust a bead in Gimli’s beard.
"My skin is rugged! It’s 'stony'!" Gimli retorted. He looked at Thranduil, who was nursing a very large goblet of wine. "Your son is a menace, Your Majesty. He spends all morning singing to the birds and all night making sure my boots are polished. I don't know how you put up with him for three thousand years."
Thranduil looked at his son, the messy hair, the bright clothes, the easy laughter. He looked at the Dwarf who held his son’s hand with such gruff tenderness.
"I didn't," Thranduil sighed. "He was never this loud. Or this... colorful."
"That’s because he didn't have me to brighten him up!" Gimli laughed, slapping Legolas on the back so hard the Elf nearly fell into his wine.
Tauriel sat nearby, watching them. She saw the way Legolas looked at the world now, not as a place to be endured, but as a place to be loved. The "emo" Prince was gone, replaced by a soul that had been cracked open by the friendship of the Fellowship and the love of a stubborn son of the Mountain.
"You really love him," she whispered to Legolas when Gimli was busy arguing with a cook about the proper way to roast a pig.
"With every breath," Legolas replied, his gaze never leaving Gimli. "He is the earth beneath my feet and the fire in my hearth. I know my father finds it... difficult. But I would choose a thousand years in a Dwarven mine with him over an eternity of silence in these woods."
Thranduil stood up, smoothing his robes. He looked at Gimli. "Master Dwarf. It seems my son has made his choice. If you are to be his husband, you should know that our wine is strong and our winters are long."
"I survived Mordor, Kingy," Gimli grinned, raising his mug. "I think I can survive your cellar."
Thranduil winced at the nickname 'Kingy,' but he didn't protest. He simply raised his own glass in a silent, baffled toast to the future.
The Prince of Mirkwood had come home, but he had brought the chaos of the world with him. And as Legolas and Gimli began a loud argument about who had the better kill-count at the Pelennor Fields, Tauriel realized that the forest had never felt more alive.
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Have some extra scene i thought of
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The morning sun filtered through the high, arched windows of the Woodland Realm, casting long rays across the polished stone floors. For Thranduil, King of the Mirkwood, the morning was usually a time of quiet reflection and impeccable grooming.
That peace was shattered by a thundering noise that sounded suspiciously like a frantic deer being chased by a very angry badger.
Thranduil and Tauriel were standing on the upper mezzanine, overlooking the residential gardens, when Legolas came sprinting around the corner. To their horror, the Prince of Mirkwood looked like he had spent the night wrestling a whirlwind.
His hair, usually a curtain of spun silk, was a matted, tangled catastrophe. Bird-nest knots had formed at the nape of his neck, and several dried twigs from the forest floor were stuck at jaunty angles near his ears. He was barefoot, wearing only his leggings, and he was laughing with a wild, unbridled glee that Thranduil found deeply disturbing.
"You’ll never catch me, Master Dwarf!" Legolas shouted, leaping over a decorative stone bench with the grace of a gazelle, albeit a very scruffy one. "The wind is my comb! The rain is my wash!"
"Get back here, you spindly, golden-maned menace!" a gruff voice roared from behind.
Gimli appeared, puffing and panting, clutching a heavy-duty Dwarven hairbrush in one hand and a pot of scented beard oil in the other. He was a sight to behold, primarily because he was wearing one of Legolas's spare silk tunics. On the Elf, it was a form-fitting garment; on the Dwarf, it was essentially a floor-length nightshirt that trailed behind him like a royal cape, the sleeves rolled up several times to expose his thick, muscular arms.
"I’ve seen better-groomed mountain goats than you!" Gimli bellowed, his boots thumping rhythmically on the marble. "You’re a Prince! Have you no shame?"
Legolas skidded to a halt near the fountain, just below where his father was standing. He looked up, spotted Thranduil, and gave a cheeky, lopsided grin.
"Good morning, Adar!" Legolas chirped, his hair flopping over his eyes in a chaotic clump.
Thranduil’s hand went instinctively to his own perfectly coiffed hair. He looked as though he were watching a slow-motion carriage crash. "Legolas. Your... your crown of leaves. Where is it? And why is your hair... doing that?"
"He hasn't touched a comb in three days!" Gimli caught up, grabbing the back of Legolas’s leggings to prevent another escape. "The moment we left Minas Tirith, he decided that 'nature would provide.' Nature has provided a bramble patch, and I won't have it!"
"It doesn't matter!" Legolas protested, trying to wiggle out of Gimli’s grip. "Aragorn didn't take care of his hair during the entire journey to the Black Gate! He looked like a wet dog for half the quest, and he’s the King of Gondor! If the King can be a mess, why should I spend four hours a day with a silver brush?"
Tauriel leaned over the railing, her jaw dropped. "Legolas, you used to spend more time on your braids than I did on my archery practice. You were the most fastidious Elf in the guard."
"That was before I realized that life is too short for perfection!" Legolas shouted back, though his voice was muffled as Gimli finally managed to tackle him to a nearby stone seat.
"Sit! Still!" Gimli commanded, pinning the Elf down with the sheer weight of his Dwarven stubbornness.
"Ouch! Gimli, that’s my scalp!"
"If you didn't want it pulled, you shouldn't have let a family of squirrels take up residence in your locks!" Gimli grumbled.
Thranduil and Tauriel watched, mesmerized, as the Dwarf began to wrestle with the knots. Gimli was surprisingly efficient, using his thick fingers to untangle the worst of the mats before attacking them with the brush. Despite his rough words, his movements were strangely tender, his hands steady as he worked through the golden mess.
Legolas eventually stopped struggling, slumping forward and resting his forehead against Gimli’s shoulder, which was covered in his own blue silk tunic. "It’s too much work, Gimli. We have caves to see. We have forests to walk."
"We’ll see them when you don't look like a bog-spirit," Gimli muttered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of silver beads. "And don't you dare mention the King of Gondor again. Arwen told me herself she spent the first three days of their marriage cutting the burrs out of his beard. It’s a disgrace to the crown."
Thranduil turned to Tauriel, his voice a low, horrified whisper. "My son is being groomed by a Dwarf in a nightshirt. And he is enjoying it."
"He’s happy, My Lord," Tauriel pointed out, though she was still trying to hide her smile. "Look at him. He’s actually relaxed."
Indeed, Legolas had closed his eyes, a soft, content hum vibrating in his chest as Gimli began to weave a complex series of braids, securing them with iron and silver beads. The chaotic mess was slowly being transformed into a structured, albeit much more rugged, Dwarven-influenced style.
After twenty minutes of intense labor, Gimli stood back, wiping sweat from his brow. Legolas’s hair was now a masterpiece of interwoven braids, tight and secure, with beads that jingled slightly when he moved.
"There," Gimli said, patting Legolas’s cheek with a calloused hand. "Now you look like someone who isn't a complete vagabond."
Legolas stood up, his posture shifting back to its natural, regal grace, though it was somewhat undermined by the smudge of dirt on his nose and the joy in his eyes. He looked up at his father. "Better, Adar?"
Thranduil looked at the iron beads, the twine, and the Dwarf wearing his son's clothes. He let out a long, slow breath, realizing that the "Emo Prince" he had raised had been replaced by something far more vibrant, loud, and undeniably loved.
"It is... an improvement," Thranduil admitted, his voice regaining its kingly poise. "Though, Master Gimli, I would appreciate it if you didn't deplete my son's entire wardrobe for your sleeping attire."
Gimli looked down at the silk tunic, then back at the King. "It’s soft, Kingy! And it’s the only thing that fits my shoulders! If you want me out of it, tell your weavers to start making things with a bit more girth!"
Legolas laughed, looping an arm around Gimli’s neck and pulling him close. "Come, husband-to-be! The trees are calling, and now that my hair is 'tame,' they might actually recognize me!"
As the two of them walked, one bounding, one stomping, toward the forest, Tauriel turned to the King. "I think the wedding is going to be very loud, My Lord."
"I think," Thranduil said, heading back toward his chambers to find a very strong bottle of wine, "that I am going to need more wine”