A gust of unexpected wind carrying a grim hiss shudders forth from the ominous cave, spooking the two steeds that Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli had taken to confront the Dead Men of Dunharrow. Legolas futilely lunges at the running horses, but they're already out of reach. Upon the sudden switch of position, however, something thumps against his back. He reaches behind his head to feel for the odd obstruction but his fingers get caught prematurely.

"Wait… What is this?" Legolas's fingers rove over the foreign design in his hair. An amorphous bulge trails between his shoulder blades, too bulky to be a braid. The feeling of something soft, like flower petals, only increases his confusion.

"Oh," sounds the quiet voice of an otherwise fierce dwarf. Legolas turns to regard Gimli, whose abnormally flushed face contrasts his red beard. His brow is creased and his eyes stare downward at his booted feet. Through his initial confusion, Legolas faintly registers that Gimli is embarrassed. "You don't like it," the dwarf says to the ground.

"No, I… What is it, exactly? He asks carefully.

"Well, occasionally before battle I get a bit… a bit jittery. So I have to concentrate on something and after riding behind you on the back of your horse for so long and gazing upon your silky blonde locks… I've never braided elf hair, and it looked so fine, and I still had a pocket full of blossoms from that stream we stopped at. I thought it would look nice, and I thought that maybe you'd like it," Gimli admits brusquely. He nervously glances up at Legolas, whose look of understanding belies his despair that Gimli had messed with his hair.

"I see. Gimli, you have my gratitude for this deed. I would very much like to see it for myself." Gimli's face breaks into a wild beam, eyes shining with pride. He eagerly draws his axe and holds it patiently behind Legolas's head. Upon peering into his own dagger at the reflection of his hair, Legolas's jaw drops.

"Oh, my," he whispers. His typically flowing tresses have been twisted and knotted into a complicated braid that Legolas does not recognize. Tufts of it are matted and stick out of the design gracelessly, webby-looking. Worse are the violet flowers jutting from the braid at odd intervals, stiffly catching the last desolate light of Harrowdale. The bumpy thicket of hair is tied off messily.

A shift of his dagger reveals Gimli's eyes, bright with mirth and anticipation, and it is with a bout of dread that Legolas accepts his sentencing—he will be enduring this hairdo for a while.

"It is quite lovely, my friend," he mutters, offering a smile to enforce his act. Gimli places his sword back in its scabbard and blushes once more, waving his hand dismissively.

"You really like it? Well, I suppose I won't mind doing it for you again." Legolas expertly suppresses a shiver and nods encouragingly.

"Definitely. If we walk away from this," he says, diverting the conversation to their imminent mission. Aragorn hides a smirk behind an unrestrained sheet of his own wild hair, but the look he gives Legolas is mocking enough.

"Don't fret, Aragorn! I will have to braid man hair, as well!"

That effectively douses Aragorn's humor.

-Those kind enough to have reviewed my other stories harbor my eternal gratitude. Many thanks.