“Only one, and he is important to me.” Legolas does not shy from his father’s anger, his disappointment. “Gimli is his own man, Ada—just as I am mine.”
Thranduil’s expression is sharp, but there is a tenderness in his gaze that belies his anger, tells the woes of a father who wants the best for his son. “And you will not give up this...child you carry, despite the taint of its mixed heritage?”
Legolas firms his jaw. “Yes. And that child,” his tone is so unlike his father’s that he hopes his message is clear, “will be your grandchild.”
With a curt nod, Thranduil acquiesces to the truth of the matter. “When is your marriage?” he asks finally.
“Marriage?”
“Yes. It must be done swiftly, before evidence of your indiscretion is noticed. We may be able to pass off the marriage as something mildly respectable, like a bond made for the good of our people.” Thranduil eyes Legolas carefully. “I suppose this— this dwarf is at least of Durin’s blood.”
“Must you speak like my One and our heir are worse than orcs?”
Thranduil thins his lips into a line, but he does not respond.
~
It is arranged with quick finality and the gathering is observed with curiosity more than it is with blessings or approval.
No one speaks out against it openly, and so the ceremony is over without issue.
It is later, when the heir is revealed, that voices are raised. None have seen a mixing of the blood before and the idea of a child that is both elf and dwarf leaves all sides disturbed.
The elves have already decided to leave, intending to go west without any waste of time, so the child’s status as heir has little relevance to them, nor to the dwarves as their own throne is duly filled.
Legolas and Gimli love the child as deeply as they love one another.
When Thranduil discovered that his son was with child, he was elated. He had always wanted a grandchild to spoil and Thranduil cannot remember the last time he had seen an elf that had not yet reached maturity. He had been convinced that he never would.Then, he found out who had given Legolas the spark of life.Legolas’s One–and Thranduil had sat in his throne for days without talking to another soul when he learned this–was no other than a relation to the line of Durin. And not even an heir to the throne of Erebor.A dwarf of all creatures had mixed with his son. His line would go on, tainted forever by this blight.
And yet…his line would go on.
He takes solace in this, at least, until an old dwarf with a long white beard appears in his realm.They’ve met before, although Thranduil had never paid him much mind.Gloin glares up at him. “I’m none too happy about this,” he starts.Thranduil blinks, taken aback. “What do you have to be unhappy about?” He stalks away, forcing the dwarf to follow if he wishes to speak.“Gimli and,” he frowns, “Legolas.” He huffs, following Thranduil’s long, smooth strides with quick, short bursts. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s decent as far as elves go”–Thranduil shoots him a glare–“but Gimli should be with his own kind. I’m sure you agree.”Thranduil fiddles with some trinket, biding time. “They will be wed,” he says finally, daring Gloin to argue.Gloin blusters. “They haven’t–”Thranduil holds up a hand and leans down. “Perhaps you could not hear me.” He enunciates each word as he repeats, “They. Will. Be. Wed.”“And do they have a say?”Thranduil’s brows furrow. “Certainly not.”~Gimli rests his head on Legolas’s abdomen. He listens to the murmurs of life and humphs in satisfaction.“Strong,” he announces and Legolas laughs.“How else could she be?” he asks. “She is to be the daughter of Gimli, son of Gloin.”“Ah,” Gimli starts, “But she is the daughter of Legolas Thranduilion.” He raises an eyebrow. “What if she takes after your father?”“We must not wish it so,” Legolas says.Gimli chuckles.
fic request!!! omg so many fandoms, i'm so excited. Okay so could I please request a tolkien fic, gimli/legolas - when legolas first looks at gimli and finds him beautiful, and vice versa??
ohmygoooossshhhhh yes give me some lovely GimLas to make my heart SOAR
–
They set off towards Mordor when the sun is high and nearing it’s zenith. Legolas adored the sunlight, kept his chin tilted up to take in the warmth of it’s light on his skin, and spared few glances to his companions beyond those expected of him during conversation. Aragorn, as usual, was humming some old song when they paused to rest for the Halfling’s sakes.
A grunt drew his attention from the light filtering through the trees. He looked down, and down further, until he saw Gimli struggling with one of his boots.
“Master Dwarf, would you care for some help?” He asked, striving to be pleasant to his kin’s least favourite people.
Gimli huffed a laugh, not a friendly one, and shook his head. “No, Master Elf. I do not need help.”
Legolas left him to it. He watched silently as Gimli fiddled with the boot and finally removed it, tipping it upside down to rid it of a pesky stone. As he lifted the boot, the sun shone on his hair, making the red shine like rubies and gold. Legolas found himself staring.
Truly, this was a beauty among his people, yes? How could he not be? The shining hair, broad shoulders, powerful legs and striking features. Legolas was not a great beauty himself but Gimli; he was royalty. Legolas shifted closer and marveled at the light dancing in the strands of his companion’s hair. He ached to reach out and touch, to see if it was like the fire it resembled.
“I said I didn’t need help,” Gimli grunted, shoving his foot back into the boot. “Why are you so close?”
Legolas laughed to himself, straightening and looking back up to the treetops. “I was admiring the light upon your hair, Master Dwarf. Are your people made from the precious jewels and metals you so ardently collect?”
Gimli looked at him as though he had gone mad. “Made from them? Neigh, we are made from the stone of the Earth, not it’s precious creations;” the dwarf smiled then, the expression clear even under the expanse of his beard. Legolas grinned back. “Are you elves made from the trees and starlight you so ardently seek?”
The question made him pause; elves were of flesh and blood, as all creatures were, but to be compared to starlight was no mere passing compliment. A blush fell over his cheeks. “You honour me with such comparisons, but no… I am no creature of starlight, no radiance emits from me.”
“Truly?” Gimli gestured to Legolas’ own hair with a thick finger. “For if I am not mistaken, the light on your hair is just as bright as a star.”
The blush on his cheeks grew hotter, a shy smile forming on his lips at the words. For such an uncouth people, dwarves were so… eloquent with their compliments. He almost told Gimli so, but held back. It was a simple conversation between friends, not a wooing.
“Fear not, Legolas; you may see no radiance from yourself, but that does not mean it is not there. A diamond cannot attest to it’s own beauty, can it?” A solid hand squeezed his shoulder. He felt the warmth of Gimli’s hand through his tunic.
“I can find no fault with your logic,” he replied softly.
“Good, because there is none.”
The dwarf laughed and smacked his back lightly, standing to join the others of their Fellowship. Legolas sat for a moment more, contemplating how odd it was that his kin saw these people as somehow less poetic than themselves. Gimli was no songmaker, no, but his words were no less beautiful.
The first few attempts at boat building by Legolas we're complete disasters. Gigolas featuring capsizes and aquatic near death experiences brought on by elvish pride/unwillingness to ask for directions.
"It is ready!" Legolas announces proudly, standing in the middle of his boat. It does not wobble, so solid it is beneath his feet despite the way the wind picks up and the waves move about it.
He had carved it as if it were some deeply ingrained instinct and now he is happy to have it tethered at the docks, waiting for him and his beloved to go on one last journey together.
Gimli is eyeing the boat rather warily, however. “You’re certain?” he asks, and Legolas bristles at the dwarf’s skepticism.
"Yes," he assures, offering Gimli his hand so that his One may join him.
Gimli smirks, the crinkles around his mouth and eyes so much more defined than they had been a century ago. “Aye,” he says, as if agreeing. “Let us see.” He takes Legolas’s hand and gently places his foot in. Immediately, the boat begins to dip and Legolas has to shift his weight for balance before Gimli is backing away.
Legolas looks chagrined. “Oh.”
"Perfect for a dainty thing like yourself," Gimli says. "But you’re so light-footed, you could likely walk on water. What do you even need the boat for?"
Legolas smiles. “You are quite right, master dwarf, and I shall carry you atop my shoulders.” He steps off of his creation, leans down to press a kiss to Gimli’s lips.
"Perhaps a different wood," Gimli suggests, moving on. "And I’m not the smithy my kin could admire, but I reckon I could create a few lightweight pieces to secure the whole thing together. Make it sturdy enough for a dwarf."
"Metal?" Legolas asks, implying that Gimli has gone quite soft in the head indeed.
"Aye, and what were you thinking?”
Legolas sighs. The process is bittersweet as they prepare for their journey. Once they are across the sea, he does not know how long they will have.
Gimli seems to read his thoughts, and although he is old and grey, he sweeps Legolas off his feet—literally. He assesses Legolas’s weight. “Like a feather,” he insists.
"It is unfortunate you are of stone," Legolas teases back, his heart light for one moment more.
Gimli chuckles, carries Legolas all the way back to bed.
Legolas and Gimli's last moments, being ridiculously cavalier and light, exchanging jokes and laughs, even though the imminent end is hanging over their heads. Both are fighting off the guilt, Legolas for not being able to save Gimli by taking him to the undying lands, even though that promise was pretty thin to begin with, and Gimli for basically killing his love by his own death.
This is all I could manage because you’re the worst.
"You don’t have to wait on me hand and foot!" Gimli complains, loudly.
Legolas actually huffs. “And yet I do, Master Dwarf.”
Gimli stays sullen, but staring into his One’s eyes, it softens quickly and his lips quirk into a smile. The words he murmurs in Khuzdûl are faint, but he knows Legolas hears him anyway. He breaks off into a coughing fit and Legolas clutches his hand. “I am quite alright, Legolas,” Gimli says sternly, but there is pain behind his eyes.
"Of course," Legolas agrees, but his heart is shattering.
Gimli’s hand turns to squeeze Legolas’s. “Do not worry about me. You have eternity to go.”
They are silent and Legolas presses his forehead to Gimli’s, knows the very moment the dwarf’s spirit has left him. “Ai, what is eternity without you?”
