Author's note: This is the sequel to "At Sea in the Middle of Ithilien," which is told from OC Ithildim's perspective. This story is from Gimli's perspective, and will be relatively short. "At Sea" will likely end up being three parts, as it just really did not make sense with flow to do anything else in Ithildim's story, and Legolas' story simply does not belong in Gimli's. Reading "At Sea" first is highly recommended.

For questions about my OCs, please ask, or find them in my other stories. Yes, Ithildim is Legolas' romantic partner in this story; no, I don't want to hear how you feel about slash. Just pretend they're friends if you still want to read it. Please do consider reviewing, though—it really makes a difference when an author is in a dryspell!

No beta; all mistakes are mine.

STRANGE COMFORTS

Somewhere in Gondor, inland
Fourth Age 30

I have been having a hard time with Legolas recently. We have been spending time together this past week or so—here, there, and everywhere—and his behavior has become unpredictable. Tonight, for example, he sits beside the fire in silence, alternating between whittling a stick and massaging his forearm with his fingertips. Usually, he at least whistles or hums while doing such quotidian things, but today he is quiet, when I would expect him to be buzzing. He has not even said a thing about the foul-smelling coffee Aragorn now insists I brew for him. I have been very loud in doing so, and he has not looked up.

Since we have found him, he has been doing things like apologizing too much, or not apologizing at all. He collects eggs for our breakfast at night, but then forgets I am there and eats them all before I wake; he sets out again as soon as I sit up and returns with two more, cooking and serving them without a word. Furthermore, he has been singing in his mother's tongue under his breath, which is not unusual in itself, but he does not seem to realize he is doing it, and he stares at me sometimes when I make jokes in Westron, as if he does not quite know what I mean.

He has taken to cuffing me on the head instead of answering my questions, but then rambling poetically about how appreciative he is of my friendship in the same minute.

And, though he was rather impressively bad-off when first we found him, he does not complain of pain, although I do see him digging at his hip periodically. I know he is taking the herbs Aragorn prescribed, because I check his medicine pouch daily, and they are gone, as I would hope and expect. I do not talk to him about it, because he is an adult and can take care of himself—now, at least—and I know I would scoff if he counted my doses after an illness.

So, yes, I have been having a hard time with Legolas recently, but not because his actions currently are wildly different from what they were before. No, in fact, they are nearly the same. However, they do not match. The same situations do not elicit the same reactions: the usual jokes are met with silence instead of gaity and expression; the evenings are not filled with song and stories, but instead one-person tasks and tunes underbreath; those moments in which we both used to know had no need for words are gone—he chatters through these now, as if nervous, or as if he cannot stop himself at all.

And he writes letters daily. He worries, and he writes, but he does not send them.

You see, when he returned, Ithildim did not take him back.

And while Legolas and I have been friends for decades and I have become very accustomed to the peculiarties of elves—and the strangeness of his folks in particular— a broken-hearted woodelf, with the Sealonging, who has determinedly rooted himself in his folk and his friends and Middle-earth?

Well, nothing in our friendship entirely prepared me for this. I rather liked it better when his cheek burned, or when he would become misty-eyed over blossoms in Spring at the edge of his forest.

It is like he is relearning who he is. Every day he looks exhausted, and yet also, every day, he looks better. To me, it is exhausting, too.

I have finished preparing the coffee and strain it into a tall cup for him. I pour myself a splash as I have noticed it makes him less resentful if I at least sip, as well, and then I add a spoon of honey from a tin into his before pushing it toward him, and tapping the ground near his foot.

However, he has apparently finished whittling for the night for he is already paying me mind, staring at me—and now glancing at the steaming cup—twirling the pointed stick between his fingers. The small knife he uses for carving lays flat on the cloak upon which he sits, and he is whistling air through his teeth as he considers me, so that he sounds like a bad door in a windstorm. It is, frankly, obnoxious.

I raise my eyebrows at him, and he suddenly stops moving, but then jumps to his feet and shrugs. He tucks the sharpened stick behind his ear as if it were a pen.

"Would you eat fish tonight, Gimli, were I to catch it?"

He is standing there with his head cocked and his hair frizzy about his face, and the fire makes his eyes look darker and more tired than even they are.

I take a moment to shake off my previous thoughts and make myself feel present, and then I manage a laugh, and I tease him: "We are near but a small creek—where precisely do you expect to fish?"

He looks at me almost incredulously, and he does not answer.

I stare at him and he stares also at me. After a minute of silence, though, I blink, which breaks our gaze, and then he genuinely laughs. I jump so hard in surprise that I nearly upset my own cup.

"Oh, Gimli," he says, and he scratches at the back of his head and grasps both hands behind his neck before turning away. "I have gotten very good at fishing."

He begins to walk away so, quickly, I pick up my mug and call out his name. He turns back around, takes note of the coffee in my hands, and stoops to pick up his own before waving a hand over his shoulder as he turns away again.

"Thank you, Gimli," he calls, and then, quickly darkened by the shadows, he has disappeared.

Now, I do imagine he has gotten very good at fishing. He was gone for a very long time, after all, and he still will not tell me what happened.

From very far away I hear the sound of him clearing his throat and spitting—he cannot stand the coffee.

Anyway, I do not expect him back tonight. I am sure, instead, that we will have fish for breakfast.

So, for now, I go to sleep.