evandar

Title: An Impossible Gap, Bridged
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: G
Pairing: Legolas/Gimli
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: He had watched them together so many times that he found it hard to recall the day when they stopped being separate entities and became instead so entwined in his mind that he expected always to find them together - Aragorn was beginning to suspect his friends were keeping things from him.
Author's Notes: This was written for jcrycolr3wradc as part of the Ardour in August challenge.

The air was shockingly cold against his skin after the heat and smoke of the hall of Edoras, and it made the mead he had consumed swim in his blood. But outside was where he would find his comrades, if the words of the horsemen were reliable, so he shook his head to clear it – though it made his vision swim – and rallied himself. It wouldn’t do for the King of Gondor to show how drunk he was, even if those around him were too inebriated themselves to notice.

It was a clear night. In the light of the stars and the moon, he could see the plains of Rohan stretching out beneath the golden hall all the way to the shadowed edge of Fangorn. Legolas and Gimli had just returned from their venture through that wood, though they had precious little to say of it. Much like, he realised, they had said precious little after Legolas had accompanied Gimli down into the glittering caves of which he was now lord.

Oh, they made noises about crystals and leaves and rocks and trees, but nothing save the vaguest descriptions ever passed their lips. Aragorn was beginning to suspect his friends were keeping things from him.

He followed the wall of Eomer’s hall around, until he spotted the radiant elf-light shining from Legolas’ skin as he sat on the rampart, Gimli’s squat form a dark and constant presence by his side. The breeze carried the light sound of Legolas’ laughter and the scent of pipe smoke, and Aragorn leaned against the wall to watch them as they spoke.

It was not an invasion, he told himself, though it felt like one. Many times had he stood and watched his friends together. He had watched them as they went from wary strangers in Rivendell, sniping about quests long-passed even then, to close confidents in Loth Lorien when long walks beneath silver trees had managed to bridge a seemingly impossible gap. He had seen an Elf shatter the gruff reserve of a Dwarf, and a Dwarf navigate the fey, mercurial temperament of a Mirkwood prince with an ease that put even Aragorn to shame.

He had watched them together so many times that he found it hard to recall the day when they stopped being separate entities and became instead so entwined in his mind that he expected always to find them together. And perhaps they would be, in his life time at least.

He pushed away from the wall, wavered a little on his feet, and moved to join them. Legolas smiled up at him when he approached, and Aragorn settled himself next to him on the rampart.

“Eomer’s mead is as potent as always, I see,” Gimli said. There was laughter in his voice, and Aragorn lifted his head, trying to appear more dignified than he felt, until laughter broke free from his lips and he shook his head instead.

“What is tonight but a celebration?” he asked. “Though I would note that you, Master Dwarf, have not yet challenged your Elf to another contest.”

Legolas laughed, and Gimli grumbled half-heartedly into his beard, and Aragorn blinked when what he had just said registered in his mind. Gimli’s Elf?

“Aye, well, I learned that lesson,” Gimli commented a little louder. “And my loss is fully understandable, having now seen the court of the Elvenking, so I’m accepting it gracefully.”

Legolas’ laughter, if anything, grew louder, but he laid his hand on Gimli’s shoulder in a comforting gesture that Aragorn couldn’t tear his eyes away from. Legolas’ fingers, strong and nimble and shimmering with ethereal light, seemed to rest so easily there. It was a familiar gesture, one he’d seen a hundred times since Loth Lorien, and yet something tonight – the mead in his blood, perhaps – made it stand out far more than it ever had before.

“As gracefully as ever a loss to an Elf could be accepted,” Legolas teased once his laughter had faded.

“Aye, well,” Gimli murmured, and turned his gaze once more to the plain.

But though the conversation died, Legolas’ hand did not move, and he remained far closer to Gimli than was strictly proper. Proper. That was it. Now that courtly gossip was inflicted on him on a daily basis, Aragorn had been forced to note such things. The way the lords and ladies who surrounded him acted and interacted, and had one of his friends been a maid, and had they both have been of the race of Men, then he would have said they were well on their way to announcing a betrothal. As it was, he was no stranger to the idea of two of two of the same sex finding love and companionship with one another – he had seen much in his long years – but an Elf and a Dwarf? Together in such a way?

It would be hypocritical of him of him if he objected when his Elven Queen was waiting for him in the White City, he knew that, but it did not stop fear from entering his heart. Legolas loved too many mortals, connected to the Fellowship as he was, and to love one so deeply – particularly the one mortal of their number from whom he was furthest removed on so many levels. No friendship he had heard of between their peoples had ever ended in anything except tragedy, but there they were.

He watched them for a moment longer, trying to find in them anything other than quiet contentment and failing.

“You look grave, my friend,” Legolas said quietly.

His radiance made his expression easy to see. While there were some Elves whose faces seemed to be carved from stone, Legolas had always been easy to read. He was calm, somewhat defiant, as if he knew what thoughts had been in Aragorn’s mind.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I simply noticed something I should have seen long ago.” He glanced towards Gimli, and was not surprised to see the glitter of his dark eyes turned towards him. “Was it Helm’s Deep where you realised the nature of your regard for each other?”

He remembered seeing the fear in Legolas’ eyes when Gimli went missing during the battle. Though the discovery of Aglarond may have been a happy one for the Dwarf, it had been a painful moment for his friends, and Aragorn remembered wondering even then about the strength of emotion Legolas showed first at Gimli’s absence and then at his return. At the time he had put it down to their budding camaraderie and the desperation of their situation, but he could not help but wonder if that had been the start of it.

“Aye,” Gimli confirmed. “That was the start of it.”

“Our hearts had been growing ever closer since Loth Lorien,” Legolas added. “We knew not how to tell you. It is…unusual.”

“So unusual I knew not how to see it, despite watching it grow and blossom before my eyes,” Aragorn replied. He studied them again, carving the image of them together forever into his memory. “You are happy?” he asked.

It was a question to which he already knew the answer. He could see it in the way Legolas’ hand still rested on Gimli’s shoulder; in the way Gimli leaned ever so slightly into his side; in the way that, odd though they were, they had completed each other in his heart and mind before he had even known the truth of it.

“Yes,” they said as one, and laughed together.

He wanted to ask more. He wanted to know how Legolas could resign himself to the inevitable loss of his lover; if they had told their kin and those of their peoples who were due to follow them south and settle in their lands; if love was stronger than sea-longing. There were so many things he wanted to ask, but he held his tongue and leaned back on his hands.

“I am glad for you,” he said.

What questions he had could wait until a later time. The night was one for celebration, after all.