This little scene was requested by a few of you back when I was writing the anniversary fics for Silence in the Song, and I finally got around to writing it. For once, no foreknowledge of any of my previous fics is required here, and so I present to you:

Legolas and Thranduil meet Gloin :)

~{O}~

The first time that Legolas meets my father, it is an absolute disaster.

The elf has told me before that he was not there during Gloin's imprisonment in their dungeons – he says that he was stationed in the south the whole of the time, and did not return until months after Thorin's party escaped with Bilbo – but this does not seem to matter to my father. Legolas looks very much like Thranduil, very much indeed, and so to Gloin they might as well be the same elf.

We are in Minas Tirith, here for young prince Eldarion's naming ceremony. The whole city is in celebration, the citadel is festooned with flowers and bunting, with bright colour everywhere. The palace itself heaving with harassed looking cooks and valets, and men who have lots to do and very little time in which to do it. It is noisy and cheerful, all a-bustle like I have never seen it before, and the air itself sings with excitement. I would expect nothing less from a city gone King-less for as long as these folk have; suddenly finding themselves with a spare is most certainly a thing to be celebrated.

The dwarves of Erebor have been here for days, but Legolas and I have arrived only hours ago and the King of Gondor – despite that he should be fairly giddy with happiness right now – is acting as though his city is about to fall into ruin all over again. There is a faint look of desperation in his eyes, a sheen of sweat upon his brow, because Thranduil will be here by tomorrow evening and this is not going to go well at all.

My father and I get along far better now that I am an adult. There have been many years – most of my years in fact – where we have barely spoken at all, despite living in the same Halls. He is grim and dour, abrupt, and although his heart remains an absolute mystery, he speaks his mind at every opportunity. I have brought significant honour to his name of recent years, and I think perhaps he is proud of me. He has certainly made far more effort since the end of the war, and I am not the same dwarf I once was. He is trying, it is not an easy thing for him, and so I am trying as well.

If I had thought on it a little more then I might have delayed their meeting, but I have spent so long with the elfling now that there are some things that I simply do not see any longer.

Legolas is in a stone city, trapped and cut off from his Song. He is surrounded by countless people; strangers, loud and bright and distracting and Legolas is a laegrim warrior. He is guided by his senses – so tangled up with the air and the sky and the wind that this is extremely unpleasant for him. He has such a look of wildness, of danger, that people are avoiding him without even consciously realising it. There is a wide berth around us that I have grown to expect and enjoy, because when Legolas is in one of his moods I never have to fight my way through a crowd.

He is still and tense, cold and frightening, and his eyes are like embers. The eldar certainly know how to make an impression.

It has been a long time since I have noticed such things, and so I think nothing of making introductions whilst he is this way. We fight our way to the top of the city, we find one of Aragorn's rooms – blessedly quiet – and then all goes badly.

Gloin is of fairly advanced years – it is something that I have come to realise of late. My boyhood memories are of a dwarf large and strong, with a magnificent beard full of braids and metal rings, and disapproving eyes of coal black. His shoulders once seemed big enough to carry mountains, his hands huge and calloused, and I recall a voice deep and booming – able to catch the attention of everyone in earshot, should he wish it.

Now he is smaller, or perhaps I am bigger. His beard is still thick – a thing to be proud of – but it is mostly grey now, and where he was once as hard as granite he now softens steadily, bit by bit, every year. His voice is still exactly the same, his eyes are still coal black, and when he sees Legolas he narrows them almost into slits.

He sees the agitation in the elf, he sees the similarity in countenance to the King who once buried him beneath a mountain, there to be forgotten. He sees the coldness and the distance, and he misinterprets it terribly. He thinks that Legolas is being aloof, proud… that he sees these dwarves as below his regard. He sees only a Prince, an elf, and a lifetime of ill feeling and dislike comes to the fore in an instant.

Gloin being Gloin he says so, and Legolas being Legolas he bites right back – seemingly civil but icy and cutting, the way that they can be sometimes. It escalates in moments – mostly my father – and by the time I am dragging the elfling out of the door by the jerkin, things have become vicious indeed. Legolas has barely responded after those first words, but with the mood that he is in right now I do not doubt for a moment that he is close to drawing his weapons.

I can hear my father shouting insults through the stout oak door three corridors down.

~{O}~

Aragorn hears of the altercation, and in honesty I had expected him to tell the elfling off. I have heard him do it before – it is not the first time that an adan who has not even reached his first century has reprimanded an elf born before this city was built – but Aragorn is terribly distracted.

Instead the dread in his eyes deepens, a wild look of panic settles about him and I actually feel quite sorry for the lad. Legolas sees it, softens and drops his head into his hands. He says in a voice thick with rancour that he will try harder, barely chokes the words out past his pride and dislike and anger, and I believe that for a moment I see a flicker of triumph in Aragorn's eyes.

Ai, if only I might learn how he does it!

~{O}~

We all avoid one another the next morning, because it is best that we do so.

I breakfast with my father, who is polite and cordial and acts as though last night is something that only I recall. He asks me of my heath, what I have been doing with my days, and I ask him the same questions: careful, guarded, dancing around what we truly mean to say. Neither of us mention the elves, nor the edain, nor anything even remotely likely to cause a fuss, and I wonder if this is how it is meant to be between fathers and sons

It is fine though, because we fill our conversation easily enough. It has not always been that way, not at all, and so it is good to spend the morning with Gloin. We talk a little, we are silent at times, and we say nothing of any importance at all.

~{O}~

In a desperate attempt at reparations, Aragorn calls us all to lunch in the afternoon.

It is a fine day – bright and clear, with a warm sun and a brisk breeze – and we sit outside in his gardens so that Legolas can breathe again. The difference in him is immediately apparent; he lounges quite comfortably upon soft grass on a lofty terrace, high above the world, and slowly – breath by breath – he becomes my elfling again. I think perhaps he is trying for the sake of Aragorn, because although my father is there Legolas is ignoring him quite thoroughly.

Arwen is there with little Eldarion – because beautiful elven Queens and happy babies have the power to diffuse any situation – and we all sit upon blankets with the sort of food that royalty are expected to eat. Everything is delicious, but I am used to unseasoned meat and forest fare, so tiny eggs and ridiculous pastries that flake apart and drift away in the breeze are frustrating me more than anything.

Gloin sits apart from us all; not so far as to be rude, but there is a very certain line between us. I find that I do not care, because I am well used to my father and I have missed my friends. I ignore the frigid air that has settled over toward the balcony, where he and his grumbling retinue have huddled and sit in near silence. They are all disapproving and hairy and stout, like grumpy boulders.

I see them differently these days – dwarves that I have known for my entire life but who are strangers to me now. I have become far too used to silence that changes swiftly into silliness, in speaking of friendship and showing the care that I have for my friends. I have shed the Gimli of old, and the Gimli that I am now is the best of all of my worlds, or at least the best that I can be. I am not a part of them any longer.

The terrace is large and prettily landscaped. I can see that it is not quite to Legolas' taste – it is not wild enough by any measure – but I imagine that most normal people find it quite lovely out here. It is late spring and so everything is fresh green, with a clamour of colour in every direction as each shrub and tree and plant bloom at once. The air is perfumed, despite the winds that these heights generate, and for a long time we simply fuss over the baby.

Eldarion is not quite of the age where he might walk, but he disagrees on this. He fusses terribly when put down or held, squirming and wriggling like a ferret, so he spends most of his time held upon his feet. His knees keep going from beneath him, he has no idea how his legs work yet, but instead he bounces about and smiles hugely and seems rather proud of himself overall.

Aragorn is different, now that he has relaxed a little. It is a side of him that I have not seen before and I find that it suits him quite well. He looks upon his son and his wife with a peace that is new to him, but that sits quite comfortably about his shoulders. We tease him on how portly he is becoming, although it is not true at all, and how foolish and moonstruck he looks, which is absolutely true.

Arwen is beautiful in her motherhood. She has never worn her hair bound and so it is a cascade of darkness, caught upon the wind and rather fetching against a plain dress of blue. Her skin is pale, flawless, and she has ever been beautiful, but I think perhaps her beauty is mostly in the warmth and the happiness that she exudes. She is not one for needless words, not one for gossip and chatter, and because I have become so used to the quietness of elves these days it sets me quite at my ease. We are all comfortable with one another, quite happy, and when the wind and the sun finally capture the elfling I forget entirely that my father is here.

Legolas is drawn out of his discomfort, he becomes the elfling I know far better. He pokes fun at me; his eyes as bright as the sky and his smile that same, familiar softness of a smile. He is caught upon the air, lit by the sun, as fine and fair as he ever is when Legolas is simply being Legolas. I reply, he laughs, and it rings out into the sapphire blue that surrounds us completely; an empty and endless nothing. When our banter becomes too heated the elf is onto his feet at the same time as I scramble to mine, and then he is chasing me but I am laughing too hard to run far.

I catch a glance at my father – I had forgotten that he was there – and I do not recognise the look upon his face; I have never seen it before. I disregard it, and I turn my attention back toward my friends. Gloin is my father, and I care for him in my own way, but he is also serious and disapproving. I have no place in my life for such things any longer.

~{O}~

When Thranduil arrives, Aragorn looks about ready to expire entirely on the spot.

It is all perhaps a trifle more formal than it need be, because Aragorn does not know the dwarves that I stand with, and so this feels like a performance for their sake. At any other time, Thranduil would be received in peace and calm somewhere quiet and tucked away, but instead we stand out in the air as dusk falls – lined up and serious – before the carven stone entrance to Aragorn's Halls. The flagstones are swept, the stonework fine, but Minas Tirith has never been a place of elaborate decoration. It is rather austere, if anything, and so there is not even anything nice to look upon whilst we wait.

I can hear birds singing their farewell to the day, the wind whistling past my ears, but other than that there is nothing, because no one is talking. I can feel Gloin's disapproval burning into my side where he stands, and I shift away as subtly as I can. I watch Legolas, who stands completely alone – an island amongst us all – and when Thranduil arrives, it is as though a storm has finally broken or the sun has finally risen.

Thranduil is tall and slender, but he has the air of something huge and frightening. He moves carefully, gracefully, as though every single movement that he makes has been thought out days in advance. He does not make any facial expressions if he can help it, and his eyes are those of a hawk; dispassionate, impenetrable, cold. He and his son look very, very alike, but they are as different as winter and summer.

He arrives with a retinue of his own, and I struggle to force down a grin. I recognise many of them, but there are two that have my heart hammering and dancing for joy in my chest: Almárean and Idhren, my good friends. Inseparable, always together, and always following after Legolas whenever the opportunity arises.

The elven King greets Aragorn and Arwen warmly – or as warmly as he can. I know Thranduil and so I recognise the flicker of genuine pleasure upon his face when he greets them, but to any other I would imagine that there is nothing at all upon that marble face. He is expressionless and cool, but all of that changes when he turns to his son.

Legolas is Thranduil's only child, and Legolas' mother died a very long time ago. They have protected their people, just the two of them, since the rising of Dol Guldur, and I do not think that I have ever before seen a bond such as the one that they share. It is difficult and painful and it breaks my heart some days, because the lives that they have lived have made it difficult for them to be simply father and son. They are Captain and King, they put on a show for the world, but Thranduil and Legolas care for one another deeply.

The Prince bows to the King, the King receives his fealty with a brief nod, and then the son looks up to the father with a broad grin. There is genuine pleasure there, real joy, and the father reaches out and brushes the slightest wisp of hair away from his child's face. That is all, and that is enough, and when Thranduil's face melts for just a moment into a ghost of a smile, it feels as though we should not be watching.

It is gone then, and Legolas is an archer once more and Thranduil a visiting King. The other elves cluster to their Prince's side, fall behind him and then into silence. At any other time they would be jostling one another, a jabbering of elvish in a jumble of dialects, but the tension on this roof terrace stops any frivolity at all. We are all putting on an act right now, and I feel the slightest flickering of resentment toward the dwarves that I stand with.

They are the strangers here, they are the ones causing all of this discomfort. Was I ever this way? I think perhaps I was, and I remember very vividly coming into Rivendell that first time. I am ashamed of it, I feel myself inch away from them again and I wonder whether my father notices.

Thranduil scans the group collected here, sees Gloin and the other dwarves and skips over them entirely until he sees me. He tilts his head like a bird, an assessing look to one who does not know him, but I have spent a lot of time with this intimidating elf over the last few years and I recognise the movement. He is pleased, and he comes over to me, his eyes glittering.

"Thranduil," I nod, and I cannot help my smile from forming. "It is good to see you."

I sense rather than see my father flinch. I do not know if it is because I have addressed a King so informally, or perhaps because I addressed him at all, or maybe it is because I am not throwing rocks at him but I do not care. Thranduil is my friend as well, and when he reaches his hand out I clasp it happily.

"Gimli," he murmurs, a slow blink in my direction. "You look well, we missed you both this spring."

"Ionwë did not say which spring," I remind him, and I think perhaps his mouth quirks for just a moment. I wonder exactly how many years we are going to get away with that.

"Indeed he did not," Thranduil retrieves his hand and although he is still speaking to me, he begins to eye my father. Gloin is glaring right back at him as though trying to extinguish his life with his very mind, and I glance for a moment toward the heavens for strength. It is a gesture I have picked up from Legolas and am trying very hard to break.

Thranduil moves away, his clothing a whisper against the stone. He inspects the dwarves until they begin to shift and mutter; either because of how unpleasant it is to be beneath the gaze of such a being as Thranduil, or because it is also terribly rude.

Elves do not consider prolonged eye contact as rudeness, it is something that I have never been able to make Legolas understand. I know full well that Thranduil understands, but whether he does it on purpose or does it because he does not care, he still looks at the dwarves until something feels ready to shatter. They are becoming angry, Aragorn is starting to fidget – unsure as to whether he should interject or not – and Legolas with his band of reprobate friends are watching intently, curious as to what is about to happen.

Gloin sticks his hand out, as though expecting it to get bitten off.

"Thranduil," he snaps out, and I know full well that he has dropped the title out of dwarvishness. "I hear your boy has saved my lad's life once or twice, and they seem quite intent on carrying on about the lands together. As ridiculous as it may be, we should at least not be enemies, if they can be friends."

Which is the one thing that could have happened – out of all the possible things – that I absolutely, most certainly did not see coming.

Thranduil blinks, surprised, and Aragorn reaches out and holds onto a balustrade for support. All of the tension is swept away on the breeze between one heartbeat and the next, and I hear Legolas choke out a quickly smothered laugh. I think perhaps it is the first time in centuries that Thranduil has been speechless.

~{O}~

It is very late, and I am very tired, but there are some things that are worth keeping away from my bed for.

I sit upon a balcony, right there upon the floor with my legs crossed before me and cold stone at my back. I watch the sky, because there is no sky better than the one seen from the very top of Mindolluin. I can feel the mountain beneath me, falling away forever into the heart of the world, and the Song of Mahal thrums deep in my chest; a huge and endless sound, comforting and familiar. Above me is Elbereth's mantle in all of its glory, with nothing to distract the eye at all, and although it has turned very cold I am quite happy here.

Inside is an odd group; men and elves and dwarves, all trying very hard to be as pleasant as possible to one another. It is stilted and awkward, but I had expected weapons to have been drawn long before now and so it is far better than bloodshed. No one is dead.

Legolas has impressed me by not fleeing into the night after five minutes of it, but Legolas is expected to be a prince right now, and I think perhaps his mind has left him for a while. He is perfunctory, careful, polite… everything that his father's tutors have spent the last few thousand years hammering into him. I find it all too easy to forget his age, because he is so childlike so much of the time, but I trust that the elfling can hold discourse and feign some manners when it is expected of him. Even so, he is a laegrim elf, and it is like watching a rabbit or a fox sit and pretend at civility. The image makes me smile to myself, and I take a deep breath of sharp air. I wonder how much longer I might be left in peace for.

As though summoned by the thought, the door opens and honey gold light spills across the stone. There is a rustle and a shifting and the door is closed again, and I do not look up because I know who it is.

Gloin settles next to me with a good deal of noise. His bones ache far more these days and I shall be helping him back up again, that is for certain. I offer him my pouch of pipe weed, and he takes it gratefully.

"It is the only escape I have from them, at times," I tell the stars, breathing out a lung of smoke. "They cannot abide the smell."

He grunts, and I get nothing from him for a while. He is enjoying the preparation; the smell of the weed, tamping it down into his pipe, lighting a tinder and pulling it deep. He draws the smoke appreciatively and lets it sail; out into the darkness, out toward the lights.

"You are different, lad," he tells me softly, and I finally look around at him. He is sat much like I am, and I can only see him in silhouette but his eyes glitter like coal in the darkness. I cannot read them. "You are quiet, you act like one of them."

I bristle instantly. I pull myself upright, I feel every ounce of annoyance and tension that I had managed to rid myself of suddenly reappear until my heart begins to beat all the faster. Gloin reaches out and rests one hand upon my arm, just for a moment.

"It is not entirely a bad thing, Gimli. I will never like them, never in my life will I understand why anyone would, but look at you: not a strand of grey in your beard yet, and you have the bearing of an elder."

"Aye, but not the wisdom," I snort, because I cannot help it, and my father smiles but it is only for a short time. I feel the smile drop away and I rub at my face wearily. "Legolas and I have been through much, father. More than I have ever told you, and his friends – my friends – they have been there as well. What happened with you and Thorin and the others, everything I have been told and taught… it is not what I have lived."

"I do not expect that you should live my life, Gimli," he says. "I have never been much of a father to you, but I wanted something different than the life you have lived. Your mother and I did not wish you to be a warrior, and I am glad that she never saw it, but she would be proud of the dwarf that you have become. I am proud of the dwarf that you have become."

I am astounded once again. I stare at him open mouthed, slack jawed, and if I do not blink soon then my eyes will dry out. It seems that I have done Gloin much disservice, because he is surprising me over and over again. He has made the first step toward peace with Thranduil, something I had never expected to see in any of my years, and now this?

He snorts and waves his hand at me, suddenly brusque and gruff voiced.

"Mahal's beard boy, do not weep! I say it because I mean it and you need say nothing else."

And I smile, on far more familiar ground now. He glances at me out of the corner of one eye and I see a glint there that is different; amusement perhaps? Warmth? I am unsure; I would not recognise it on his face in the daylight, I have no hope at all in the dark. Instead I fumble at my pouch of pipe weed and I grumble something into my beard, but nothing that makes any sense. We sit in silence for the rest of the evening, until I finally begin to feel pity for Legolas. We share adjoining rooms when we are here, and I am hopelessly lost within the citadel so I will need a guide. It is a perfect opportunity for him to leave.

I stand, I make as if to go but something stops me. My father looks suddenly very small… a ghost of what he was when I was a lad. He does not have a wife any longer, he has scant few friends, and his son would sooner spend time with elves than with him. He is old now, there are no battles left to fight and no armies left to marshal. His people flourish and his lands are well tended. What is left for him now, other than to try to make amends in the last of his years?

Suddenly his gesture with Thranduil makes far more sense, and I stop. He looks up at me expectantly, and do I see hope there? Do I see uncertainty? Probably not, more than likely it is just starlight against coal black eyes, but I wonder…

"It is good to see you, father," I tell him hesitantly, and the words feel clumsy and difficult. This is terribly awkward. "Perhaps I might find time to visit soon."

There is a moment where everything stops, and I have fought battles easier than this. Gloin is frozen, unsure, and I am all but dancing with discomfort. I suddenly understand Legolas all the better. If he feels this trapped and ready for flight as often as I think he does, then I have an apology to make for making him stay as often as I do.

Gloin smiles; a huge and bright thing that looks strange on his face. For a brief moment in time it feels as though he is a father and I am a son, and he is happy for us to spend time together. By Eru we have much time to make up for… we have lost so much of it.

"Aye," he nods, "I think that might be grand. And if you truly wish, and you cannot avoid it at all, and if you leave him outside, then you may even bring your elf."

END

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As always, I really hope you enjoyed this and I hope you have a great weekend.

MyselfOnly