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Fic - Blue - 1/1
Title: Blue
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: G
Genre: Fluff
Pairing: Very, very mild Legolas/Gimli
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The hobbits discuss the colour of Legolas' eyes. Only Gimli knows how wrong they are, and he's not telling.
AN: Written for this prompt on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hobbit_kink.
Also, I'm looking for a beta for mytolkienbigbang fic (also to be Legolas/Gimli thanks to RL) if there're any takers out there. You can find it summarised here.
It’s the hobbits that he hears arguing over it. Samwise insisting on grey, while Pippin swears on green. “Green like leaves,” he announces, full of ale and bluster. “Like his name. They have to be green, you see?”
It’s the kind of logic that only a drunken hobbit could make, and it doesn’t stand up at all to scrutiny. But it does tell Gimli the identity of their subject. He hears Frodo laugh at his cousin, and smiles to himself. He lingers long enough to hear Merry interrupt with a call of brown before making his way from the hall into the gardens for a smoke and a glance at the stars.
He didn’t star-gaze until he met the elf. He was a dwarf: such things were beyond his notice. In truth, he doesn’t much notice the stars even now. He pre-occupies himself with the way that Legolas shimmers gently beneath their pale light and the way that the elf smiles when he speaks of them – as if the stars themselves are his old friends. Such moments brought peace to him in Lorien, and courage in Helms Deep; now they bring peace again and a longing that can only be soothed by gentle kisses and sighs in the dark.
He finds Legolas perched on the garden wall overlooking the precipice that hangs over Minas Tirith. His long legs dangle over the side as if he’s oblivious to the danger of the fall. His head is tilted back, and in the light of stars and moon and palace lanterns he shines like silver fire.
Gimli joins him and lights his pipe and thinks on the strangeness of elves. He thinks of Queen Arwen and her kin, whose hair is best described as ‘twilight’ in all the songs about them even though that isn’t one colour but many all at once, ranging from black to violet through gold and brown and blue. He thinks of Lady Galadriel and her golden hair and her eyes like snow upon the mountain-top: blue and gold, pink and pale. Elves are the lauded firstborn and close to nature; they are part of nature, and like nature they are both unmoving and changeable and all too vibrant for mortal eyes.
Not that mortal eyes can’t try to define, as the hobbits’ argument has shown. They are all wrong about the colour of Legolas’ eyes, and yet all of them are right. Gimli has seen the sea more than once in his life: he has sailed to battle and visited the Grey Havens for trade in his youth. The sea is brown and grey and green; silver and indigo and black. Most of all, however, it is blue – the deep, rich, ever-changing blue of Legolas’ eyes .
“You’re smiling,” Legolas murmurs.
Gimli looks up to meet his gaze – currently the glimmering silver of ithildin as the moon first touches it; the light foam of crests upon the waves – and huffs. There would be no escaping the laughter if he told Legolas the direction of his thoughts, but that does not mean he cannot tell some of the truth.
“A remembered jest,” he says. “Our hobbit friends were squabbling again.”
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: G
Genre: Fluff
Pairing: Very, very mild Legolas/Gimli
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The hobbits discuss the colour of Legolas' eyes. Only Gimli knows how wrong they are, and he's not telling.
AN: Written for this prompt on
hobbit_kink.Also, I'm looking for a beta for my
tolkienbigbang fic (also to be Legolas/Gimli thanks to RL) if there're any takers out there. You can find it summarised here.It’s the hobbits that he hears arguing over it. Samwise insisting on grey, while Pippin swears on green. “Green like leaves,” he announces, full of ale and bluster. “Like his name. They have to be green, you see?”
It’s the kind of logic that only a drunken hobbit could make, and it doesn’t stand up at all to scrutiny. But it does tell Gimli the identity of their subject. He hears Frodo laugh at his cousin, and smiles to himself. He lingers long enough to hear Merry interrupt with a call of brown before making his way from the hall into the gardens for a smoke and a glance at the stars.
He didn’t star-gaze until he met the elf. He was a dwarf: such things were beyond his notice. In truth, he doesn’t much notice the stars even now. He pre-occupies himself with the way that Legolas shimmers gently beneath their pale light and the way that the elf smiles when he speaks of them – as if the stars themselves are his old friends. Such moments brought peace to him in Lorien, and courage in Helms Deep; now they bring peace again and a longing that can only be soothed by gentle kisses and sighs in the dark.
He finds Legolas perched on the garden wall overlooking the precipice that hangs over Minas Tirith. His long legs dangle over the side as if he’s oblivious to the danger of the fall. His head is tilted back, and in the light of stars and moon and palace lanterns he shines like silver fire.
Gimli joins him and lights his pipe and thinks on the strangeness of elves. He thinks of Queen Arwen and her kin, whose hair is best described as ‘twilight’ in all the songs about them even though that isn’t one colour but many all at once, ranging from black to violet through gold and brown and blue. He thinks of Lady Galadriel and her golden hair and her eyes like snow upon the mountain-top: blue and gold, pink and pale. Elves are the lauded firstborn and close to nature; they are part of nature, and like nature they are both unmoving and changeable and all too vibrant for mortal eyes.
Not that mortal eyes can’t try to define, as the hobbits’ argument has shown. They are all wrong about the colour of Legolas’ eyes, and yet all of them are right. Gimli has seen the sea more than once in his life: he has sailed to battle and visited the Grey Havens for trade in his youth. The sea is brown and grey and green; silver and indigo and black. Most of all, however, it is blue – the deep, rich, ever-changing blue of Legolas’ eyes .
“You’re smiling,” Legolas murmurs.
Gimli looks up to meet his gaze – currently the glimmering silver of ithildin as the moon first touches it; the light foam of crests upon the waves – and huffs. There would be no escaping the laughter if he told Legolas the direction of his thoughts, but that does not mean he cannot tell some of the truth.
“A remembered jest,” he says. “Our hobbit friends were squabbling again.”