Bearded

Chapter 10

At my request, Gimli brought into our room a small bowl of fragrant oil. Over the sheets I spread the rough canvas I used to sleep on when the ground was wet outdoors. The mountain had a complicated system whereby every two days dirty laundry was collected and then returned the next day, clean and pressed, but all the same, I did not wish to stain the sheets with oil. "They are already stained, love," Gimli said, and I felt the blush creeping up my neck, my face, even to my ear tips.

Gimli then made a happy rumbling sound, like a boulder rolling down a hill as he laughed, then he lay on his stomach as I warmed some of the oil in my hands. He sighed with relief as I pressed into muscles tense from a day of diplomatic engagements. "Thank you, Legolas," he sighed, as I worked and kneaded.

"Thank, you," I murmured as I cast my gaze over his broad back and stout thighs. By the time I massaged his legs he was asleep. I felt my mouth form a moue of disappointment. I put the oil away, and stripped off my clothes. I hesitated, then blew out the lamp and curled down to lay beside him and pulled the covers over us.

Hours later, I slipped out of reverie to find his hand seeking mine. Helpless, I grasped it. Then I reached out and took him into my arms. I drew him close until his head rested on my shoulder with my cheek pressed against his beard. I loved the feel of it scratching against me and reassuring me of his presence.

He shifted in the bed trying to get comfortable. "Ghivashel," I whispered. I knew I could still not make it sound as gravelly as it should. Unwinding his body, Gimli adjusted himself. He placed his hand on my shoulder and I could not help shivering at the touch and the reassurance it gave me.

In this total dark, I was sometimes more than a little frightened. Under the stone, Gimli seemed to feel cocooned, embraced by the earth. I felt as if I were about to be crushed.

****

He murmured words of love into my shoulder. Some which I knew and some which I did not.

I lay with Gimli holding onto me. We lay now with his hand resting heavily on my shoulder and my back pressed to his chest, his arm covering mine and holding it against him and we now lay sated. I pressed him close.

"Melleth nin," he said, his voice soft and gravelly.

The last thing I knew was the brush of his beard on my back as I fell not into reverie but true sleep.

I took a slow deep breath afraid to move lest I wake him. Many had been the nights on our travels when I had longed, but with a seemingly futile longing, to wake like this. With him holding me, his body pressed to mine. I did not want this moment to end. Eventually Gimli turned over of his own accord. I brushed my hand gently over his waist and rested my cheek on his tangled hair and delighted in the rise and fall of his chest. He did not stir again at my touch and I had known he would not, as he was not in the light slumber of the battlefield but in the restful repose of one who knows he is safe in his own home. I breathed in deeply, inhaling the warm, stony scent of him and cherishing it in memory. I gently touched my forehead to his then carefully climbed out of the low bed and pulled on my tunic and trews.

On the first day, Gimli had insisted that a lamp remained lit at all hours in the common areas for my sake. Gloin had grumbled about wasting lamp fuel and muttering that he didn't shit diamonds to pay for that. He had ignored Gimli's response that his share of the dragon's hoard made him one of the richest dwarves in Erebor and that they could afford to keep the lights on. Gimli himself had placed a gold coin on the table then Gloin had stormed off.

It was still in the early hours of the morning. I lit the fire quietly and sat in the living room. I held in my hands Gimli's double-headed battle axe. I held it almost tenderly, my fingers tracing over the runes of protection. I recalled that the first thing I had actually liked about Gimli was his skill with the axe. I had never thought it could be something elegant; 'the dance of the axe' he called it.

With a finely woven cloth I was working the head of Gimli's axe to a bright shine and it looked like the surface of a still clear lake on a bright day. Points of light danced as they reflected the flames. I worked on the underside, then the top. With my breath I blew on the mirrored surface and then continued in polishing, as if it were a meditation. Methodically and with unvarying speed I polished.

Mili stood watching from the door of the chamber she shared with Gloin. She shifted on her feet and Legolas started at the sound, looking almost guilty.

"He has granted me leave."

"Did you know that it is a rare honour to be granted leave to touch another's weapon unsheathed? Often even family or spouses are not given the privilege."

Legolas answered truthfully. "In the first instance I knew it not. For my people it is the same as with Dwarrow. Other than the weapons-smith, my unsheathed weapon has been handled by none but Gimli. Many months into our journeying together Gimli began to hand me his weapon. I thought Dwarrow were perhaps Mannish in this, but in time I saw that he allowed only my hands to touch the blades. That is not speaking of the many Orcs who felt the blade's touch as the last thing they experienced on Arda." At this Legolas gave a grim smile. He continued. "When I asked of him why he would allow my hands to touch it but not those of his brothers in arms he gave no answer."

Legolas thought of his white knives and bow of the Galadhrim. They had been confiscated after his arrival in Erebor. "Sorely does it grieve me to have my arms in the custody of your Battle Chief, but I will abide by the laws of your people."

Mili said nothing as she slipped back into her room.

888

That evening, Gloin broke the silence.

"Why does he have sticks in his hair?"

After three days, these were the first words Gloin had directly addressed to Legolas. His wife drew a sharp intake of breath. Gimli put his book down slowly and looked between his father and his One. They were all sitting in chairs beside the fire, official engagements over for the day. Legolas looked so awkward trying to fit into the Dwarf-sized chair.

For a few more beats the silence continued.

Legolas spoke in measured tones. "When my grandsire, king Oropher was killed while fighting, my father was crowned on the battlefield. My grandsire's mithril crown was lost with him in the Dead Marshes. Father was crowned with a wreath of leaves, and since that day has not worn a crown of precious metals or gems, though he favours silver, true silver and white gems for other adornments. The crowns he wears change throughout the seasons. Sometimes spring blossoms, sometimes autumn reds," He glanced at Gimli's beard as he said this, with a tiny smile. He continued without a pause. "Sometimes summer greenery. The twigs you speak of would have been his winter-crown. Even though they just look like twigs, he wears them instead of evergreens, because he says there is beauty in everything. In the twigs is the promise of new life at the turn of the seasons."

The silence came back down around them but was lighter, somehow.