Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins was no elf. But for a Hobbit who lived in a kingdom of dwarves he did display certain elvish qualities: his ears, tapered and pointed, attested to this, and his mastery of Sindarin was nothing short of flawless. But it was his absolutely meticulous, elf-like memory, rivalling the one of the millennial creatures and forged in the battles of family gossip back in Hobbiton, that made him very elvish, yes, but also a most effective and dedicated King's Consort. A good memory was of paramount importance when one is tasked with juggling the agricultural policies, the fights of the miners for the new excavations permits and the requests of the traders on supply chain.
Thorin was an exceptional, dedicated King, and Bilbo reminded him of it every day; but if the debacle with the Arkenstone had taught both of them anything, it was that Thorin needed help. The deal he had proposed to Bilbo when they had married, now twenty years ago, was that they would do it together – that is, reign over this unlucky, devastated kingdom as a couple – or they would not do it at all.
Indeed, as already said, a good memory was useful when one was King’s Consort and wedded to the most tempestuous dwarf to tread upon this good earth.
But Thorin’s bad temper and his tendency for romantic ultimatums aside, two decades had gracefully and happily unfurled their tapestries since Bilbo had made the decision to linger within the Lonely Mountain, where the echoes of the Battle of the Five Armies still resonated in every hewn stone and rugged crack, just as much as in his memory.
Standing now on the infamous battlements that almost killed him once, Bilbo touched the stone, smooth and perfect like anything that was dwarf-crafted, even now in the aftermaths of yet another war. He could vividly recall those very first frigid days of yore, when the frosty fingers of winter had touched the exposed nape of his neck, as Thorin had seized him and hung him from the battlements, ready to kill him. The memory of Thorin's beautiful blue eyes, glistening with tears yet seemingly devoid of life, was etched indelibly in his mind.
After the fierce battle against Azog’s orcs had been fought and after wresting the kingdom back from the clutches of adversity, Bilbo’s heart had remained tethered to the rugged embrace of the mountain ever since.
Of course, there had been a myriad of reasons for remaining, though the official records had painted quite the specific tale at the time. Through the deft whispers of the newly appointed spy-master Nori, the official narrative held that Bilbo had lingered primarily for his love of the mountain, a love kindled by his ardent desire to see Erebor restored, together with the pride of the dwarves. The love he held for Thorin Oakenshield was said to have flourished at a later date, a narrative skillfully constructed to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of dwarvish politics, sparing everyone from uncomfortable explanations of how their love had blossomed amid their perilous journey.
Sooner than expected, the Lonely Mountain had seen its first winter come and go under the newfound rule of King Thorin II, the Oakenshield, now also known as the Restorer. But when frostbite left, an unexpected visitor made his way back to their realm as soon as the first blossoms of spring appeared. It was Gandalf, the wise and wandering wizard who had played a pivotal role in the destiny of Bilbo and his companions.
Thorin had almost not opened the gates of the city to him.
Bilbo remembered very well the fight of that morning – their timid relationship had just gone through lying, betrayal, an attempted murder, a shattering war, a love confession on what they both thought to be a death bed, and the current desperate attempt of loving each other in the tumultuous, first six months of Thorin’s reign.
But it was at shutting out allies, friends, people that had bled for them, that Bilbo had to draw the line. And this applied to Gandalf, to Thranduil, to whoever came through that door offering counsel and peace – Bilbo would not have it. Thorin needed to learn diplomacy once and for all, and he would open those damn doors now!
“He never comes without reason, Bilbo. You know how meddling and scheming he can be, better than anyone else,” the King had grumbled, scratching lightly at this forehead right where the Raven Crown met his frowned brow. “And I don’t believe he is here for me either. What if…”
“What if what?” Bilbo had scoffed.
“What if he is here to take you away from me? You were perfectly at home even before, certain that you would spend your life in the Shire forever, and now look at you.”
Bilbo had felt a pang in the heart so strong that it had almost startled him. It wasn’t due to the meaning of the words per se, although this new Thorin, so vulnerable and soft when they were alone, was truly a marvel. It was more the fact that he now got to see his paranoia, his weaknesses, that shocked the hobbit to no end; seeing how Thorin felt safe enough here at Erebor, with him, to voice his fears… it made Bilbo achingly fall in love with him all over again.
“Thorin, that’s just absurd. Why would Gandalf want to whisk me away to another adventure? There is no other handsome, stubborn, crownless fool of a King that needs my help.”
Thorin had stared grumpily at him, deciding not to acknowledge his jabs for the sake of both their sanities. Good, Bilbo had thought, because that earned Thorin a kiss whose smack echoed in the still too empty King’s office. “I made my choice. I will stay here, in Erebor, with you. With my family, which is again you, those two lovely rascals you have for heirs and the Company. Plus,” and he had said that while sitting himself on one of Thorin’s knees, something that helped in winning practically every argument. “Now that winter is gone, your sister will be soon on her way from Ered Luin. She is meant to pass through the Shire to collect my things, remember? Once she is here, I will have everything I need to be happy – my books, my armchair, my silver spoons… and my future kingly husband.”
At that, Thorin had pressed his forehead against Bilbo’s. He was really worried, Bilbo remembered noticing, because in any other moment he would have immediately commented on how as the richest King of Middle Earth, he certainly could provide Bilbo with the best silver spoons possible… and yet he hadn’t. Instead, with a heavy voice, he had said, “Soon, my love. Soon. I promise we shall marry as soon as the first year of reign comes to an end. Everyone is already so used to having you around, to you being part of the leadership, and it will be easier to introduce you to court officially when things quiet down a little.”
“I know, Thorin. I know. I believe you and I can’t wait to marry you, dwarvish politics or not. I don’t care about the title, I only care about you.” He caressed his face, lightly scratching at his now not-so-short-anymore beard. “Now… will you please give the order and let Gandalf in? I bet he is fuming and we don’t need him to curse our mountain any further.”
He had been, as a matter of fact, fuming.
When the gates had finally opened, Gandalf had been welcomed by the cheerful glint of Balin’s eyes, the not-so-cheerful usual scowl of Dwalin and the sheepish smile of Bilbo, who had diplomatically explained the delay in welcoming him. “The gates have been newly rebuilt and the first winter has been particularly harsh for the new gears. It took some time to be able to open the doors, but here we are!”
Balin had crossed his arms, not sure if keeping Gandalf calm was worth an excuse that suggested dwarves didn’t know how to build gates to their own home. That was preposterous at best!
“Yes, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf had said, with his usual tone that meant nothing and everything at the same time. “Here we are. And much there is to discuss.”
Twenty years after, and meticulous memory aside, Bilbo still thought that conversation with Gandalf, and the shouting match with Thorin it generated, was one of the worst moments of his life.
With the last breeze of summer on his skin, Bilbo remembered well how the wizard had come with counsel, as always, and menacing updates. Apparently, even after killing Azog and expelling the Necromancer from Dol Guldur, the number of orcs across the lands had kept multiplying. But it was not only that. A shadow grew stronger and stronger on the world, the origin of which no one – not even the White Council – could pinpoint exactly.
Bilbo remembered clearly how Gandalf had described the shadow, as he had called it. The crippling fear that had taken hold of his heart at those words, the dark pit that had swallowed his stomach… and the voice. The voice of what he had later understood to be the ring had come straight to his head to whisper that there was nothing to worry about. That everything was going to be fine, that Thorin and the boys and all their friends were going to be alright if only Bilbo could take the ring and…
He had jumped from his seat, interrupting Thorin’s rant about meddling wizards who go find problems for sport.
“Bilbo?” Thorin had touched his arm, to steady him as much as to comfort him. “Bilbo, what’s wrong? Speak!” He was always rude and brass when he was scared, Bilbo knew that very well. He could read on Thorin’s face the burning love he had for his hobbit, he could see how he would murder each and every bad voice out of Bilbo’s head if only asked.
“There… there is something you should both know.”
***
It had been during that visit that Gandalf had learned – officially, that is, for he had already seen glimpses of it – of the ring Bilbo had discovered in the depths of the Misty Mountains. As they had sat in the dimly lit chambers where the King received guests, Bilbo had recounted the tale of how he had stumbled upon the ring and the eerie influence he could then feel crippling over him.
Gandalf's brows had furrowed, concern etched into his features. He had dared not touch the ring, for its malevolent power was evident. Bilbo, the brave and selfless Hobbit, had never seen Gandalf scared or worried like that before, and it was precisely that reticence in taking the ring that convinced him he needed to get rid of it.
Give it to Thorin, had whispered the voice in his head. He’s strong and brave and so selfless – he always protects everyone, but who is going to protect him? The ring could.
In that moment more than ever, Bilbo had wished to relinquish it to the wizard's care, a decision fueled by more than mere concern for the ring's dangerous allure. Gandalf’s visit had not been a short one, as he had decided to stay and help with the first steps of the reborn kingdom of Erebor.
Now that the truth was out, Bilbo took the time to perform some trials: he had stopped sleeping with the ring in the room, for he had noticed that even as it lay dormant in a drawer, the ring affected Thorin's dreams, causing him restless nights and occasionally visions. He had blamed the trauma of the many wars endured, but there was more to those night terrors.
Its presence had begun to torment Thorin during the day as well, worsening his already not so calm temper… so Bilbo had started leaving the ring in their chambers during meetings and dinners, which made Thorin smile more and, to the endless pleasure of Fíli and Kíli, also more silly.
There was quite literally nothing that Bilbo would not do to see Thorin smile more often. After all, it was precisely for this dwarf and his smile that he had crossed Middle Earth, fought goblins, orcs, wargs, spiders, imprisonment, a river, a whole dragon, a mysterious sickness of the mind and now the political schemes and games of exiled dwarves.
This ring had to go, even if the mere idea felt like ripping off a limb.
He had of course immediately confided in Gandalf, trusting the wizard to make the right decision regarding the ring's fate. Something had to be done – whatever this ring was, it was foul and it had to be sent away from Thorin right now.
“I agree, Bilbo. But I will require the counsel of wiser Lords than me to decide what to do with the ring. Until then, it has to be removed from Thorin’s presence if we do not want to risk him falling sick again, or for you to suffer uselessly.” He had said, leaning on his staff, thinking. “Although you seem to be immune to it. All your changes are connected to the experiences you have had and not to the influence of a jewel.”
“Yes, well… that’s to be expected, I suppose. You came to me almost two years ago to offer me a job as a burglar and I ended up betrothed to a king, of course I am changed!” He had pinched the bridge of his nose, not minding the amused huff of Gandalf. “So what do we do? Because this guilt for having brought something like this so close to Thorin is killing me, Gandalf. Please, I… I don’t want it anymore. Please. Set me free.”
The wizard’s eyes searched Bilbo’s face, the choice of words in his request not gone undetected. “I can’t take it with me. But I can escort you somewhere where we can go hide it until we decide what to do with it…”
And so twenty years ago, Bilbo had left the mountain briefly in what became the only separation from Thorin in two decades, to hand over the mysterious ring and later go hide it… in Bag End.
If you ignored the fight they had the day he had told Thorin about his upcoming detachment from the mountain, even if only temporary, it was really just quite convenient as a trip. Bilbo would go home, sort his properties and then catch a ride with Dís’ caravans back to Erebor. He would be home in the mountain by autumn.
Thorin was not happy about it, citing once again meddling wizards and broken promises and only gods knew what else, but then again he rarely was happy about anything… except when he had a hobbit in his arms and they were behind closed doors.
Two decades later now, Bilbo was once again drowning in guilt, there on the infamous battlements of Erebor, gazing out at the fields that stretched before the mountain's gates, and at the ground that was still pitch black for all the orcs’ blood that had been spilled. Erebor had stood firm during the War of the Ring, even when they had decided to let the enemy think the mountain harbored the One Ring. Even when he had seen his family taking arms again to face the same kind of evil that twenty years ago almost killed them all.
He had often wondered, in those months of waiting after hearing that Frodo, his baby cousin Frodo!, had become the ring-bearer, whether he could have made a different choice. Bitterness had taken root in Bilbo's heart nowadays. He could not help but harbor a sense of resentment towards Gandalf for assigning the task of ring-bearer to Frodo, for only a young Hobbit with pure-hearted qualities akin to Bilbo’s own could hope to bring the ring to Mordor, the wizard had said in the only letter on the matter more than one year ago.
The reason for this choice laid in the memory of that long-ago day when Bilbo willingly gave up the ring for love of Thorin. No one in existence had ever given up the kind of power the ring could grant and Gandalf had later claimed in that letter he had seen the same purity of spirit in Frodo.
The ring had remained hidden in the Shire for two decades, following Elrond's counsel, but to this day Bilbo could not shake the feeling that he should have been the one to bear it.
As he watched the sun set behind Raven Hill, Bilbo's thoughts drifted to the past, to the love he shared with Thorin and the trials they had endured together. Twenty years since he had briefly left the mountain, the thought of ever parting from Thorin again now seemed unfathomable.
And so, as the last rays of the setting sun bathed the mountain in a warm, golden light, Bilbo's heart fluttered like the one of a young hobbit when he heard some familiar steps behind himself.
“My love, do not go too close to the border. The structure might have been damaged in the fight.” Thorin still hated the battlements and very rarely stepped out there. Bad memories like the ones forged there were hard to forget.
“I am too short to fall off, as you very well know.”
“Trust me, you are not too short for anything,” he replied, coming closer to him to wrap an arm around him and press a cheek next to his temple. “I haven’t seen you all day. I missed you.”
Bilbo relaxed against him and sighed heavily. “I know, I am sorry, but with the cleaning up that we have to do every day… I just needed a breath of fresh air.”
“Yes… and I imagine you also needed a good viewing point to spot messengers with news,” he mused and gave Bilbo’s cheek the softest of kisses. “This guilt you feel, amrâlimê… you have to let it go.”
“Well, now that is just grand coming from you!” He escaped Thorin’s hug to put some distance between them. “How are you so calm? Yes, we won. Yes, allegedly the ring was destroyed. But did Frodo survive this burden that I gave him? Did he…”
“You did not give him anything, it was Gandalf that…”
“Thorin, it was me! I found the One Ring, I brought it back to light after 400 years!”
“Yes, and it was also you who crossed Middle Earth back again to go hide it and make sure that the free people earned more time. For almost three years, you carried with you a literal sentient object of evil, and you never faltered in your steps. Never. Bilbo, listen to me…”
“I am not in the mood for compliments.”
“Stop interrupting me. We are middle aged and too tired to act like brats!” And there he was, finally Bilbo had managed to light the spark in Thorin a little bit. He could use a good fight; a welcomed diversion from this remorse that was chewing him alive.
“Frodo is out there, perhaps irremediably traumatized by fighting Sauron’s in his head, perhaps even dead. Gimli, our friend’s only son, is out there facing literal legions of evil creatures in the best case scenario, and in the worst he is also dead. And them!” He pointed to the battlefields outside the gate. “All those dwarves and elves and men that died because… because… because of that stupid ring that I found…” He noticed the tears only after Thorin started drying them with his own lips and those soft kisses that always seemed to fix everything.
“Please… let me be for you what you have been for me all those years ago…”
“And what would that be?” He sniffed, finding himself in Thorin’s arms again.
“A saving grace, Bilbo. You are drowning in darkness – let me pull you out.”
***
The first news from Gondor arrived only at the end of what was later dubbed the Summer of Peace, almost three long months after the end of the War of the Ring.
It was a letter from Gimli, in a very thick envelope that had seen better days and was filled with pages and pages of tales.
Glóin was a sobbing mess from beginning to finish and he barely could go past the first few sentences, leaving to his wife Gimriz the responsibility of reading the letter out loud for the Company, reunited for the occasion.
It was a lovely letter, Bilbo thought, but then again Gimli was a poet if he had ever seen one – truly the sweetest dwarf in the entire mountain, but with a tongue as sharp as the axe he so masterfully wielded. He still remembered meeting him for the first time, red curly hair and cheeky smile to match the thousands of anecdotes of Glóin.
Gimli had always been a natural light in the dark. Even as a young dwarf of barely 100 years, he had always worried about others first and then about himself.
“… and so mother, father, please also inform the King, the Consort and the rest of the Company of the content of this letter. I am indeed healthy, no matter what darkness touched me in my travels, and I shall make my way back to the mountain soon, after the coronation and the wedding of my dear friend Aragorn, now also known as King Elessar Telcontar, and before the first snows start to settle.
I know what I have told you in this letter cannot possibly begin to describe what I have gone through in the past thirteen months, but I wished for you to at least have some vague recollection of the challenges that the Fellowship of the Ring faced, so that you may understand the bond that we have forged and what we all went through for the sake of this good earth. Let it be known that the Khazad was proudly represented and that we have helped shape the world for better.
Once again, please reassure Bilbo that Frodo and all the other hobbits are healthy and that they fair as well as it can be expected after our strange path. They will be heading back to the Shire soon, I think, and from there I know Frodo will reach out to Bilbo personally.
I am not sure how long it will take for this letter to reach you, but I should be home by late October, perhaps even by Durin’s day. But I should tell you that before finally putting an end to this trip, I promised my dear friend Legolas I would travel with him to the forest of Fangorn to admire its ancient greenery. It is hard to say no to him when he asks me anything, but I will tell you more about it when I am home. This letter would not do justice to certain matters.
For now, I bid you goodbye with all my love. I long for the day I will be personally able to welcome you all in the Fourth Age.
Your faithful son,
Gimli”
Gimli’s mother, Gimriz, looked at everyone in the room with shining eyes. “Well, he’s alive… and he should be here in a couple of months by now, this letter is dated June 11 and we are already in August.”
Sniffles and murmurs filled the room, as everyone was shocked by the tales that transpired from the letter: the broken doors of Moria, the darkness of Khazad-Dûm and of its Balrog, the Golden Woods of Lady Galadriel, the Nazguls, the Uruk-Hai armies, the Ents, the Wizards, the Hobbits, the Shieldmaidens, the Horse Lords, the Mûmakils and, of course, the Elves.
Or perhaps the Elf. For Gimli was travelling now back home with Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm, and even enjoying a stop or two with him along the way.
It was Thorin who broke the silence. “Glóin, Gimriz... my friends. Your son has done us proud and shall be named a Lord of Erebor upon his return. For now, rejoice in the peace that he is alive and that he is coming home. We shall think about the rest when he is safe here with us.” He stood and with him Dwalin and Balin moved as well. “It is with this new warmth in our heart that we shall continue our reconstruction works after the battle. There is much to be done still, and Gimli deserves to find a home worthy of the efforts he made to save it.”
Bilbo looked at him and smiled softly. He knew very well how worried for Gimli Thorin had been, knowing that he had selected him to go to a simple diplomatic mission in Rivendell… only to find out he unknowingly had sent him to war. There was nothing more he could add to another one of Thorin’s grand speeches, so Bilbo opted to go hug Glóin and Gimriz, because they seemed to need it. “Our Gimli is coming home. That is all that matters.”
***
The infamous Summer of Peace of Gondor had been more like a whole semester to be honest, since Frodo and Sam had ascended Sauron's Road and reached the Cracks of Doom in late March, and the One Ring had actually been destroyed in the early days of spring. Nothing could have been more apt, Gimli thought, as he sat in the balcony of his room in Minas Tirith, parchment, ink and envelopes spread over a small table in front of him.
He had moved the desk outside in late May to work on his projects and smoke the pipe he was not allowed to enjoy in closed doors due to a certain someone’s sensible nose. It was also a perfectly strategic view point of his daft elf’s working place, since he had been focusing for some days now on a specific patch of dead ground. Legolas spent his mornings quite literally singing to the ground, which was completely absurd to Gimli… until he saw him starting to sing to newly formed tiny green leaves.
He puffed a huge cloud of smoke and stopped watching Legolas. The distraction would not help, not when on this sunny day in June, he had finally chosen to write to his parents. He felt guilty for not having done so earlier, but ironically he had struggled to find the words, silver-tongued or not.
How could he start describing what they all went through? He would have to write a whole book, much like the one Bilbo still worked on after twenty years in Erebor, to touch on their many adventures; and then he would probably need to start a separate one to describe Legolas’ role in all of this.
For Legolas was the pivot of everything, was he not? Much like that specific hinge without which the gates of Erebor would not open, or like the silent foundations of a castle that prevented it from falling to pieces.
Oh, Legolas. Beautiful, perfect, shining Legolas. The mere thought of having to separate from him was inconceivable. Even now, in the mighty citadel of the White City, they had to share a room – for Gimli couldn't fall asleep without him, and it was sheer torment for Legolas to not be able to watch over him all night long.
And yet, they had to be only friends. For now. Forever, perhaps. They had to be, even though every day was getting harder and harder to avoid that discussion or calling each other with the endearments they deserved. They had more than once come too close to kissing or worse, but thankfully Gimli had willpower to spare for the both of them. He had to.
This fragile thing between them was too intense to touch, it was a paper castle meant to crumble at the minimum touch, and losing Legolas was a worse thought than not being able to shout he loved him to anyone who had ears. This whole venture required very careful treading and no rush decisions.
Suddenly, a voice came from the railing of the balcony on his left. “Gimli?”
The dwarf jumped in his seat, almost toppling the ink flask for the surprise. When he turned, there was his lovely elf, sat with one leg crossed over another on the top of the balcony’s railings – seemingly unaware of the deep plunge behind him. “Did you just climb the wall from the garden?”
“Well… yes. It was the fastest way to get to you,” he replied matter-of-factly, never moving his grey eyes from Gimli.
Mahal, how was one supposed not to fall in love with this damn elf at every turn?
“If I ever needed proof that you took one too many blows on your head during battle, Legolas…” he grumbled, welcoming the excuse of fumbling with his papers to escape that stare.
“Have you finally decided to write home?” he inquired, always too cunning for his own good, and jumped down on the floor to go put his hands on Gimli’s shoulders. He squeezed the muscles there and then let a hand wander over the dwarf’s chest, where his heart hammered.
Gimli hesitated for a moment, tense like the string of a fiddle, but then relaxed under Legolas’ hands, giving in to what he so desperately wanted anyway. “Yes. I want them to know some of the things we went through, and not only that I am alive.”
Legolas bent over to read, but everything was in Khuzdul and so impossible to decipher. “Why? Would it not be better to explain face to face?”
“Yes, it would. But a small summary, even if reductive, will help plant the seed of understanding in their minds. I expect to find well-formed roots when I come home asking for a Lordship to take over the Glittering Caves. It will be easier to then explain it is all because I want to live closer to an elf.”
Legolas circled him and set on the desk, always light as a feather and always adorably childish. He looked at Gimli like he was the first sun after a long winter. “You just made a plant metaphor.”
“I have, haven’t I… which is clearly a sign I have spent way too much time in your company.” He stood from the chair, stepping down with the help of one of the stools that accompanied every mannish chair in their room. A courtesy of Aragorn, one of many.
Legolas watched him with that soft, loving look he always had when they were alone. “Gimli, why can’t we…”
“Ach, Legolas, not this again!” He interrupted, knowing already what he was about to ask. He started to fill his pipe with nervous hands. He was smoking like Gandalf these days, so tense and worried he was.
“But why can’t we?”
“I never said we can’t. I said, not now. What happened to the perfect memory of elves?”
“I believe my memory is fully focused on remembering every single thing I love about you.”
The pipe slipped from his hands, falling with a clack on the white stones of the floor, with tobacco spilling all over the place. Gimli stared at it numbly.
It was Legolas’ nimble fingers that reached down to save the pipe and scoop some of the leaves in his palm. “Why are you always so surprised when I say that I love you? I know for a fact you do not think so little of yourself, Lockbearer. What are you afraid of? Is it your father?”
Gimli stared at Legolas with his dark eyes and for the first time in months he felt anger. The boiling, fiery temper he was known for in his youth threatened to come out. “I am not afraid for me.”
Legolas looked at him with such a puzzled expression that one might think Gimli was not speaking Westron.
“I am afraid for you. Of what your father may do to you and to everyone else who supports us should he find out that you want to bind yourself to a dwarf. I am afraid of what would happen to you when I will leave Middle Earth to join the Halls of my ancestors. I am terrified, Legolas, of the pain I will inflict you and your soft heart when I am wrinkly, old and with hair as white as the clouds above our heads, and you start regretting that…”
Honestly, Gimli had imagined their first kiss in many ways, most of them quite romantic, but he should have known that it would happen during a fight. Legolas was already kneeling on the floor to attend to his pipe and was at the perfect height to yank at his beard – the audacity of this lad! – and press his mouth to the surprisingly plump lips of Gimli.
They separated after a few seconds and the only thing stopping Gimli from punching Legolas for pulling his beard was the delicious scarlet clouds on his cheeks. No one knew better than Gimli how inexperienced with these things Legolas truly was. Killing an oliphaunt and a few hundred orcs came to him more naturally than flirting.
“Are you angry?” The elf asked, with a soft voice, big eyes and 2000-something years of never truly desiring someone else this fiercely.
Gimli did not reply to that question, mostly to keep him on his toes. It had the hoped effect, because Legolas started squirming, worried that he had really ruined this thing between them with his impatience. Then, and only then, Gimli gave in, took that lovely face in his huge hands and kissed him properly.
Gimli's lips met Legolas's with a fiery intensity that sent a thrill racing through both of them. His kiss was seasoned with a blend of experience and longing, like the finest aged wine, and Legolas could not help but yield to the passion that surged between them. The very first touch of their lips set their souls ablaze, but it was when their tongues met that the world around them faded into insignificance. Gimli's mouth was demanding, yet tender, as he explored the uncharted territory of Legolas's mouth, a realm of softness and warmth just like every other part of the elf. The heat of their connection was palpable and as the kiss deepened, Legolas's inexperience was replaced by his eternal impatience and growing desire. He met Gimli's ardor with equal fervor, pushed his tongue in the dwarf’s mouth, and started pulling at his blue tunic, ready to undress both of them right there on the balcony.
Gimli separated them right in that moment, because even his willpower had limits. He took hold of Legolas’ hands on his shoulders and squeezed them briefly, before pushing them away. He had to stop Legolas from getting him naked. “Ah, Legolas… You will drive me to madness…” He sighed and lowered his face to kiss his perfect, elvish hands. “Mahal made you to test the fortitude of my spirit.”
“Then Mahal should not have made you so easy to love,” replied the elf, with a shaky voice and two eyes that screamed lust.
“I will make sure to tell him you said that when I die.”
“Stop being morbid, Gimli!” Legolas scoffed, with a not very princely expression on his face. “I made my choice a long time ago – you think postponing will give me time to reconsider? That this talk of death will scare me off? I have heard the call of the Sea; I will not be able to enjoy life here on Middle Earth for long anyway. I might as well enjoy what time I have left kissing you…”
Gimli looked at him and stayed awfully quiet. So much so that Legolas felt the urge to fill the silence again. “But… but if you do not desire me physically, Gimli, I understand. Alas, I have no beard, I cannot give you heirs, I am too tall for you and many other things. But I beg of you, my friend, give us a chance and I shall be content to be by your side for the rest of your life, even without kisses. Or more,” and he blushed.
Finally, Gimli decided to rescue this daft Prince from his misery, and he started by caressing his hair. “Do you remember what the Lady said to me? Your hands shall flow with gold, and yet over you gold shall have no dominion…”
Legolas nodded, trying his hardest not to purr at the sensation of Gimli’s hands in his hair.
“Every day since that prophecy, I found myself looking at you, at your golden head, and thinking she must have been wrong. For who else other than my elf and his golden hair could have dominion over my heart?” He traced the line of his jaw with a finger, stopping by his lips, which promptly opened up as if ready to welcome the thumb. Oh, Mahal, this elf was worse than a tempting devil of Morgoth.
“I do not know what I have done to deserve the honor of having a jewel like you in my hands, Legolas. But this I swear to you – where you go, I will go. I will be brave for you; I will not give in to fear. I will ask King Thranduil your hand in marriage if you want me to, I will beg Thorin for the last pieces of mithril in Erebor’s treasury to forge something befitting of you. If you swear to me this is what you want, I will… I will love you, Legolas, under the sun, under the rocks, under the trees, wherever and whenever. And I will make the time you have left here with us mortals the best years of your life.”
The only answer he got was a handful of an elf hugging him so tight Gimli could barely breathe. Still on his knees, Legolas clung to him desperately, hiding that beautiful face of his in the dwarf’s neck. Gimli petted the golden hair tenderly, worrying about the future, how were they going to talk about this to their families, to their Kings, how were they going to juggle their projects in Aglarond and Ithilien, and…
“Gimli?” came the muffled voice of his sweet Prince.
“Yes, my love?”
“Stop overthinking. We faced Mordor, we can talk with our parents.”
***
The Summer of Peace turned out to be also a Summer of Love. Gimli had witnessed an impressive number of couples forming in Minas Tirith, with young love burgeoning in every corner, much like moss spreading over stone. The very peak of this season of love had of course been Aragorn and Arwen’s wedding. A spectacularly romantic ceremony that left Gimli crying like a baby when they exchanged vows. Maybe because it was personal or maybe because it was simply a joy seeing Aragorn finally happy. It felt so good to be able to watch Aragorn being a bit more carefree, and even dance at his own wedding, although objectively bad.
“My friend, for our sake and the one of this newly rebuilt world, I hope you will be a better King than you are a dancer,” said Gimli around his pint of ale, with the chaotic joy of a royal party all around him.
Aragorn barked a laugh and shook his head. “For yours and mine too, Gimli!”
Gimli drained his umpteenth ale and forgot about what other jest he wanted to throw at Aragorn when his eyes captured Legolas dancing with Arwen. He stared at the pair numbly, clouded by thoughts, until Aragorn punched his shoulder lightly.
“Gimli…”
“I know, I know. But look at them… look at him. He loves dancing so much. How am I supposed to do that with him?”
“As you have not failed to point out, I am terrible at dancing, my friend, so I cannot possibly give you advice on that,” he smiled. “But I would like to suggest another point of view, if I may… from one mortal to another.” He scooped a bit closer to him on the bench they were sat on. “I have no doubt that Legolas has considered all your differences and more… but have you thought that he might be alright with just dancing for you? You are his anchor to this mortal world he loves so much, Gimli, and I do not think that he would ask of you more than yourself.”
The dwarf turned to look at his friend. The Aragorn of these days could not be further away from the rugged Ranger he met more than one year ago, but when it was just him and the members of the Fellowship, one could still see glimpses of that kind hero who just wanted to do the right thing.
“I feel… a lack of control I have never felt before, Aragorn. I know what I have to do, but I feel so overwhelmed all the time. This is not how I was trained by my masters, this is not how I tackled all the battles that we faced, this is not… this is not who I am. This, this trembling dwarfling scared of his own shadow is not me!”
“Of course it is you! It is merely a new version of you, one that is in love and has now a lot to lose.” He smiled knowingly. “Do not let fear turn you aside from following the light unflinchingly. Be brave, my friend, and let yourself love and be loved. It will be worth it, I promise.” He squeezed his shoulder and stopped talking as soon as the sharp eyes of Legolas turned towards them.
Gimli wondered if he had heard their talk. He therefore chose to wink at him, knowing very well the effect it would have on his elf.
Right on cue, Legolas turned deliciously scarlet and focused back on Arwen, while Aragorn giggled like a boy. “It is too easy with him, sometimes,” Gimli said and exchanged a knowing look with his friend.
Aragorn shrugged. “I have heard talk around the city of people naming this season the Summer of Peace… but I dare think the Summer of Love would also be a great name for these moments we are sharing,” he grinned. “We are alive, Gimli. The world is breathing again and I can’t wait to enjoy what we fought so hard to protect… Gods, I can’t wait to come to your wedding!”
“Mine?! Ah, Aragorn… the wedding of a dwarf is truly a sight to behold, but I don’t know how much blessing I will receive from my kin to even hope to have one…” Gimli stared at his own hands around the empty pint. “I must confess to you, my friend, even though it shames me admitting it, that I could not care less of whatever blessing my King, my family, my friends have. I will work with whatever cards I am dealt if I get to see him dancing until my old eyes work.”
Aragorn smiled softly. “Good. Then you are halfway there already.”
***
Legolas had never slept much, certainly less than the average elf, to the great despair of his father Thranduil. Even when his mother had still been alive, he had rarely partaken in naps or those meditative moments meant to keep him quiet for longer than a few minutes.
How ironic was that now he could spend eight hours straight just being still and counting the breaths of Gimli while the dwarf slept in his arms. But to his surprise, every night he seemed to notice something new.
First of all, Gimli's beauty truly shone when he was lost in slumber. It was not that he lacked charm while awake; indeed, his allure was ever-present and there were very few sights more pleasant than his smile. Yet, something about the sight of him at rest had always stirred Legolas, and even now that they were together officially he could not avoid being captivated by the delicate way Gimli's eyelashes grazed his cheeks, longer than he had ever imagined them to be, or by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he breathed deeply in his peaceful sleep. It was a sweet display of vulnerability, a testament to the trust between them that warmed the elf’s heart.
Interestingly enough, Gimli barely snored now that he had a nice bed and time to rest properly. This made him realize that those very first few nights on the road, where Legolas wondered if he would ever stop to snore, had been more an exception than the rule. How funny.
The second thing he had noticed was that he barely moved at all – something probably learned in his youth while training as a warrior. This stillness held such contrast against Legolas’ own restless body: like water, he moved all the time, changing position on the bed to look over Gimli from different angles. Yet that never seemed to faze the dwarf, who slept soundly for hours on end. In fact, the only way he could wake up Gimli was by leaving the bed. That immediately made him open his eyes to go in search of his elf, as if afraid that he would leave for good.
The third, and probably most delicious characteristic, was that Gimli ran hot all the time. He did not mind blankets, but with the southern summer nights of Gondor now hotter and hotter, he avoided sheets and even less the cotton of his night tunics. It took some time to convince him that it was not a problem at all, but now Legolas could spend his nights listening to his breath and watching and caressing his dwarf’s muscles.
But inspired by Gimli’s fortitude in all things, Legolas was determined to resist any temptation. Even with the dim light of some candles they had left on cascading over Gimli's powerful shoulders and chest, highlighting the tattoos and the sculpting of the muscles, Legolas resisted, restraining his ardor with everything he had inside.
He honestly would have been content enough like this, but this traitorous, recently awoken body of his was making it difficult. It was clear to him that Gimli wished to wait to fully consume their bond, although it escaped to Legolas for how long and to what purpose. Yes, he had always been an impatient creature, but how was one supposed to resist certain intrusive thoughts when in the dimming light of candles Gimli’s nipple piercing shined like that?
That night Legolas felt particularly challenged, and so decided to leave their bed with every inch of his elvish light-featheriness. He had barely managed to touch the handle of the door when he heard Gimli stir and look for him on his left. “Legolas?”
“I am here… I did not mean to wake you up, I just needed some fresh air.”
That was the wrong thing to say, because Gimli sat in an instant, looking worried and so adorably mussed from sleep. “What is wrong, ghivashel? Is it the Sea?”
Legolas blinked a couple of times. It had been days since the last pang of sea-longing, to be honest. “No, meleth-nin, it is just that…” he sighed and then slowly made his way back to their bed. “I… I burn.”
“What? Are you sick? I did not think you could experience fever.” Gimli immediately touched his forehead and his neck, searching for sign of sickness, but his fingers only met cool and moonlight skin.
“No, I…” he bit his lip. “I burn for you, I am afraid. I want you too much and staring for so many hours as you sleep is not helping.”
Gimli’s hands on him twitched. “Oh, Legolas…”
“You said you wanted to wait and I shall respect that. I already forced your hand with the kisses and…”
“Elf, you could not force my hand at anything even if you actually tried to.” He caressed one of his pointy ears and Legolas shivered like a kitten. “I only wanted to wait because I was planning to have our first night together in Fangorn, under your trees. I thought it would put you more at ease.”
That, too, was the wrong thing to say, because Legolas pushed him back on the bed and straddled him in a second, looking like nothing less than the mighty elf warrior he was.
“How am I supposed to wait when you act like this, Gimli? When everything you do makes me love you even more? When every gesture, every thought that comes out of you is… is…” He never finished, for Gimli finally saw fit to switch their position, slam Legolas’ light weight on the bed and find a spot between his legs.
Not that Legolas was not aware of his strength, but he had never found himself on the receiving end of it. Completely dumbstruck for a few instants, he forced himself to act and he lifted a knee up to press into Gimli’s shoulder from behind. “You can do everything you want to me, meleth. We do not need the cover of the trees.”
Again, probably not the most calming words he could have uttered, because Gimli’s response to that was nothing short of a growl. He leaned down to the space he shared with his elf, lips so tortuously close but never touching. “Legolas, I am not made of stone, no matter what your folks say… you will break my resolve to be respectful if you keep saying these things to me.”
“Respectful?” Legolas’ voice was barely a rasp of words, but still clear enough to hear.
“Aye, respectful. Aragorn explained what making love to you would mean, hence the idea of waiting for Fangorn. I want to marry you the way you deserve to be married.”
“Here is another idea,” and Legolas could see Gimli’s dark eyes grow impossibly lustful. “You can marry me now… and every other night for the rest of our lives,” he said.
“Ah…” Gimli was briefly speechless, but even he had to admit that this constant game of waiting he kept inflicting on both of them was not helpful. “Let it not be known that I do not accept sound advice, then.”
He leaned along the length of Legolas’ body, pressing him down into the mattress as much as his height allowed. Legolas could rut against his leg if he shifted just slightly – and only Mahal knows Gimli was all but vibrating with need by now –, but by mutual understanding they were both content to simply hiss together at the heavy pleasure of being flush against one another. They had never come this far, or this close, to consummate. Frankly, Gimli could come so easily even like this, spill out in his night trousers, or perhaps all over Legolas, and the elf would probably even thank him for it, seeing how delirious with desire he seemed to be. Instead, he steadied himself with a kiss to Legolas, which only triggered more wet moans from the elf.
Now that they were both buzzing with it, the whole thing was running on the edge of a knife. Once again, Legolas found himself more courageous than ever, letting his own slim hands grip Gimli’s sculpted ass. He tightened his grip ever so slightly, making his silent request clear.
Years later, Legolas would still cite that night as the very instant in which he understood what power he truly held over Gimli. From that moment on, it became crystal clear that Gimli would never be able to say no to Legolas.
Smiling through the dizziness of his own ardor, Legolas observed his dwarf tackling the matter of their first time as meticulously as anything else he worked on. Gone in seconds were their clothes and a minute after Gimli had procured a flask of oil from the night drawer.
“So you were considering it too, Fangorn be damned…” Mocking Gimli was forever his favorite sport, after all, so he did not resist taunting him a bit. “Do you realize even you struggle to follow your own romantic standards?”
“Shut your mouth, elf, or I will shut it for you.”
Legolas' eyes were suddenly full of mischief. Unexpectedly, this did not feel like uncharted territory anymore, but another one of their competitions. He flipped them, changing their position once again and settling himself on Gimli’s lap.
“Ai, if only would I be that lucky to have something of yours in my mouth!” He provoked him and for the first time that night, he thought, he had finally said the right thing, because the immediate result was a slap on his ass that quieted Legolas and violently awoke his cock.
“Silence, let me focus. I do not want to hurt you.”
Oh, Legolas sure stayed quiet after that. Both due to the jolt of pleasure he had felt for the brief spanking and also because soon wet, large fingers started working him open.
He could tell oil was dripping on the covers of their bed, perhaps due to Gimli being over-cautious with the quantity, but after the second finger, Legolas found he was not capable of rational thinking anymore. He squeezed his eyes shut, allowing himself to enjoy the hot, tight press of the fingers inside of him.
It took some time for Gimli to feel satisfied of how prepared Legolas was, but after interminable minutes he aligned Legolas to him, letting himself be trapped in the cleft of the elf’s tight ass. Legolas panted and moaned, reopening his eyes to a spinning room.
“You wanted it, my love. Now it is yours. Take it. Take your pleasure, my Prince.”
Legolas lifted his hips immediately, letting the head of Gimli’s erection prod at his opening and beg entry, but between the slick and the sweat it slipped out too quickly.
“You put too much oil,” he complained, staring down at the dwarf deliciously sprawled on the bed under him.
“And how would you know?! I am the expert here.”
“So you say…” Legolas bit his lip, secretly hoping that… oh. Sure enough another soft slap hit him on the left glute. It was so easy to provoke Gimli, honestly.
“Hush now, and let me do it.”
Legolas was about to burst, not sure from which of the many overwhelming feelings, but then Gimli finally pushed inside him, into the squeezing, warm channel of his body, and the stars immediately aligned. Surely those obscene sounds that filled the room could not have come out of him? Yet the rhythmic squeaking of the bed went in tandem with Legolas’ voice and no one else’s. Not even Gimli’s, who was too mind-blown by the marvelous elf on his lap and too focused on not coming right there and then.
Unsurprisingly, they found their rhythm almost immediately, riding against each other with no hesitation.
“Are you close?” were the first and only words that Gimli managed to utter, too focused on coordinating bouncing Legolas on his cock and, again, not finishing as quickly as a lad at his first experience.
“Yes!” came the answer from Legolas. “Please, touch me… touch me, Gimli!”
The touch of his love’s hand was all he needed to come in thick, white ropes that dirtied Gimli’s chest and even his beard. The dwarf did not comment, nor complain, because the relief of being able to finally unload in the perfect, velvety warmth of his now husband’s ass was the only priority.
They came to a halt almost instantly after that and Legolas collapsed on his dwarf, not caring at all about the sticky mess he made of Gimli. “You were so good, husband… it was perfect,” he murmured against Gimli’s cheek.
Gimli sputtered, blushed, and also laughed out loud, almost all together. “Good. But it is easy to have mind-blowing sex, my love, when you have a marvel like you for partner.”
Legolas hummed content, suddenly so sleepy. Who could have imagined that the way to finally put him to rest was this?