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The days following the victory in the war of the Ring was one of feasting and merriment beyond that Middle Earth had known for a long while. Every tavern in Gondor was filled at all hours of the day, and drinking songs rang through the walls of Minas Tirith late after the ale-keg had been dried out.
The Fellowship of the Ring often graced these parties, yet the most common sight for any regulars of the halls was but an elf and a dwarf, often unseparated from one another, their tankards empty no matter how many times they were refilled, weaving magnificent stories for those who had the ears to heed them. Indeed, Legolas Greenleaf and Gimli Son of Glóin enjoyed drinking their weight in ale and spinning pompous tales of their adventures while the night was young.
Only when most of the tavern-goers had retired to bed did Legolas and Gimli find themselves seated at a bench overlooking the walls of the city, the stars like a tapestry that glittered above them. It had been two weeks since Frodo and Sam had returned to Gondor from Mordor, and celebrations for the coronation of King Elessar were yet in the making.
Like mithril shining in the mines of Moria, had Gimli called the stars above their heads, and to that Legolas chuckled, for their visit to the mines were still fresh in his memory, its tattered states hardly deserving of its allusion with the stars. On the dwarf’s shoulder his head rested, barely weighing a thing, his golden locks draped like a waterfall down Gimli’s chest. “Gimli, mellon nin, ” he said. “Can you keep a secret?” His words were so soft that, were his lips not so close to Gimli’s ears, it would have been lost in the night.
“Legolas, I have fought by your side since the very day I met you. You should know by now, Master Elf, that you can always trust a dwarf!”
“What is it you wish to say?” Gimli prompted, his tone gentler now, when Legolas grew silent once more.
“Do you see, my friend, how closely the trees border the mountains?” With a hand, he gestured into the night. “Or how when leaves fall, they settle on stone? They call the flowers soft and comely, but the rock upon which it grows is gentle. Would you revel in the beauty of their togetherness? Do you see how they come together?” His eyes were dark, his elven whisper husky with urgency.
“Perhaps I might,” Gimli grunted, taking no notice of Legolas’ face. “For I have not known the beauty of the trees until… ‘til you came and said them to me.”
Legolas’ heart soared at his words, and for a moment he struggled to catch his breath.
“I have come to realise that I cannot love one without the other,” he said.
“Maybe so, Master Elf, but you talk of mountains and trees!”
“Gimli.” His voice pleaded silence, and the dwarf yielded. “ Mellon nin , in the same way, I cannot love myself if I cannot love you.”
The revelation hung like a shroud. With bated breath, Legolas waited, studying the face of his companion as Gimli came to realise the true weight of his words.
A thousand years were but a lifetime in Legolas’ eyes, yet every passing second felt an age. Time seemed to gnaw at him, corrode him, as a tree fell victim to termites. He would have himself pace, yet that would remove him from the bench. Tears sprang to his eyes. What would Gimli say? What would he have him say?
At last, Gimli spoke, his breath heavy. “You’ve had one too many ales, laddie.” He untangled himself from the elf and gave him a hearty pat on the head. “Perhaps it would do you good to sleep it off, amrâlimê. ” He backed away then, fleeing, almost, to his own quarters with nought another glance in Legolas’ direction.
Legolas watched in dismay as Gimli retired. His heart felt heavy, threatening to break were he to stand, or move, or speak. Would no one pity the Elf? The Elf who loved too fondly, yet was turned away from the doorstep of his One like a mewling kitten one cared not for. He buried his face -- now flushed -- in his hands. Perhaps he would do good to return to one of the halls to nurse his grievances.
There was no wound, yet it cut twice as deep as the blade of an Orc.
Among the sounds of Legolas’ sniffles, he heard Gimli’s voice in his head, speaking in the tongue most familiar to him: amrâlimê . It was a curious word, and it rolled off his own Elvish tongue unnaturally, though it had seemed to flow so smoothly for the dwarf.
Amrâlimê. Was it a blessing or a curse, bestowed upon him from Gimli, son of Glóin? In his mind, it did well to mean ‘fool’, for as soon as Gimli left Legolas had felt like one: a left-behind, tactless fool, no wiser than the impish elflings that pursued anything within reach. Yet this title, amrâlimê, was a gift to Legolas, perhaps the last he would receive from his friend Gimli, if they were never to speak again when the morning broke. Thus the word amrâlimê he held close to his heart, the title closer to him than any else he had been bestowed.
It rolled off his tongue in little rumbles and slurs as he made his way back to the chambers. If he was to forget the night, as he often did after one too many pints, then amrâlimê was something he wished would linger in his memory, for it was a gift precious to him. He recited it like a hymn, amrâlimê , as he marched down the long halls of Minas Tirith.
“A curious word you speak, Master Legolas, for it is one few elves speak, and even fewer understand.” Behind the perplexed elf stood Lord Elrond, clad in night-robes that shone under starlight, his hands folded behind his back. “Late is the hour which you choose to wander, son of Thranduil.”
“My lord,” Legolas bowed, hoping that he appeared sober enough. “If I meant offence then I did not know it, for it was said to me by my friend Gimli.” His voice stuck in his throat when he uttered his name, for even now it seemed more foreign and forbidden to him, and the grief now threatened to unearth itself.
Elrond’s eyes narrowed. “If what you say is true, then it is unusual that it should come from the mouth of a dwarf to you. For amrâlimê means ‘my beloved’ in Khudzul, the language of the dwarves, and is oft reserved for the one that is dearest to him, indeed, the one that his soul is bound to.
“I do not question your business with the dwarf, Legolas. Yet my mind tells me that there is something at play here. Perhaps I am wrong.” He turned to face an opening in the wall where the light of the night filtered into the hall, and from it gazed wistfully into the distance. “I shouldn’t bother you, Legolas. May you find rest this night.”
“If you will excuse me, my lord,” Legolas said, mustering every last ounce of dignity that remained in him. Down the long halls of Minas Tirith he flew, as if he was trying to outpace his heart, though at the time it would have been impossible. The sly thing! Legolas thought. He thought he would trick me; yet I know now that, if he meant it not in jest, he thought the same of me!
Finally, he reached Gimli’s quarters, the door held slightly ajar. A low beam of light flickered through the crack, pooling into the corridor. The dwarf was not yet asleep.
Before Legolas could think a second time, he had crept into his room, hidden among the shadows. There Gimli sat on his bed, wearing a sleeveless night tunic, clutching a book that he was only half-interested in, at best. The candle by his bed cast undulating lights on his muscled arms, the gemstones on his braided beard, and his creased face. Legolas’ breath quickened, yet Gimli took no notice of that.
Passion spurring his step, Legolas leapt three strokes forward and pounced upon him, flinging the book from his hands. He crouched over him, pinning his arms against the bed, such that their faces were but mere inches from each other.
“Hah! What is the meaning of this, Master Elf?” Gimli cried, writhing helplessly under his surprisingly firm hold. “Must I suffer your antics even at this hour of the day?”
“You thought! You thought I would not know the meaning of amrâlimê !” he cried, his voice rising in trembling glee.
In the glow of candlelight, Gimli’s face flushed red. “Well, it was foreign to you, laddie, I thought not --”
“So it is true then?” Legolas pressed. “You meant what you said? It is not in jest?”
“Nay, master Elf, what a dwarf says, a dwarf means. Now unhand me kindly, that I may hold you for myself!” Legolas removed his hands, and as he did so, Gimli took five of his cool fingers in his palm -- it was warm -- and brought them to his lips with a soft kiss. The other hand found its way to Legolas’ hip, with a gentle squeeze that made Legolas shudder.
“For days I have paced in this very room, wondering how to tell you, indeed, if it was worth telling you, if it would spoil the joy of Aragorn’s coronation. Even before the war was won I have felt this way, I have dreamed of a day when I may truly call you amrâlimê , my love, my One. To my fortune, it seems as though you have beat me to it! Impatient elf.” He chuckled, brushing a strand of Legolas’ hair away from his face. “You don’t suppose… well, you don’t reckon we could…”
Legolas understood, and dove to silence him with a kiss. How rich a kiss it was! Soft, yet full and heavy, the collision of two worlds as they were melded into one! Slowly Legolas sank, guided by Gimli’s hand, until he lay on top of his chest. When their tongues met Legolas murmured praises of his own, not caring that it was muffled, or that of which Gimli would not understand. “Ai, meleth nin, Gimli nin!”
As the kiss broke they stared into one another, seeking anxiously for regret, and found only love in their gaze. Legolas laughed, burying his face into Gimli’s chest, grabbing fistfuls of his tunic, whispering praises to the Valar, that fate would allow an elf and a dwarf to lie together, as one.
“Amrâlimê …” Gimli wrapped his arm around the elf, shaking like a leaf in the wind. He pressed a kiss to his hair, stroking through its locks with his deft fingers -- that of a tender craftsman. “Silly laddie.
“There is nothing in this world, no stone or cave, that I would love more than that of you, Legolas Greenleaf, elf of the Woodland Realm. Remember that for the sake of us both!”