Sooo... work was slow today, so I managed to whip up a new chapter... it's quite possibly the cheesiest piece I've ever written O.o

Anyway, hope you like it - sorry for making you wait (I fear that won't change for the time being :/) and thanks for wishing me luck for my exams! :D

35. The scars of recent fires

The Lord Of The Rings: Two Towers – Chapter 7: Journey to the Cross-roads

Fire.

Flames licking down his spine, liquid heat boiling his blood, his head an explosion-

…

Fire.

Flickering, blazing, burning.

A whole new kind of agony, worse than anything he has ever felt-

…

No, a tiny, traitorous voice whispers. A new kind – but not the worst. Not by far.

Nothing – nothing will ever be as excruciating as seeing him with Caleth, her fair head resting trustfully on his shoulder, or hearing the song flow from his pale lips like a rivulet, bright and beautiful-

…

Cannot die tonight, echoes in the few spaces not consumed by flames, cannot die tonight, so much that still needs to be taken care of, the Ring,cannot die tonight-

…

But is there a better, more courageous death than dying to save his heart?

…

…

…

The flames have burnt down to embers when the darkness releases him again, still glowing but far less consuming than the firestorm from before. Little pearls of liquid stone – so hot that they are molten, but stone none the less, and stone he trusts – trickle down his spine, and his blood may be simmering, but is boiling no more.

His head – his head is another matter.

The ongoing blast has faded, no longer threatening to push him back into nothingness, and for the first few moments he might have believed it to be gone entirely – until he (rather unsuccessfully) attempts to open his (terribly heavy) eyes, and suddenly the side of his face is ablaze.

A pained moan erupts from his seemingly disconnected throat and makes its way through his stony, numb lips.

The fire rages for but a moment – then a comforting, cool hand smoothes against it, and the fire dies as quickly as it came.

"Gimli?" a beautiful, oh-so-familiar voice whispers, "Are you awake?"

Answering, it turns out, is quite another matter. Heaviness he has never felt before is weighing his tongue down, and his lips feel chiselled rather than alive. A pathetic grunt is all he manages, too weak and shocked still, yet a bright sound of delight pearls through whatever room he appears to be in.

"I am so glad- …"

And just like that, the delight turns to dread – so consuming it is almost palpable.

"But please, Gimli, say something! I need to know… the blow hit your head so hard, please… mellon nín- … are you still- …"

…yourself?

"T-Tauriel," the second attempt allows him to gasp clumsily, and the elf exclaims in relief.

"Thank Aulë- …"

Mahal, of all Valar, is the one she – an elf – chooses to thank?

Someday, Gimli thinks, he might understand the way elves think. One day… in the very far future…

"I should inform your father, and Legolas! Master Óin only managed to make them leave you for a little no more than an hour ago, but I believe- … he should not mind my messing with his scheming in this case. Give me a moment, please."

He cannot hear her rush towards the door, of course, his ears by far not as keen as an elf's and her footsteps way too soft – the door's opening, however, he picks up just fine, as well as the low murmur of words exchanged. And while the content may evade him, the spoken whispers flowing together to an undistinguishable hum, it would have been hard not to hear the delighted squeal. And not realizing who it belongs to… would have been rather embarrassing indeed. While the Mountain might still be filled with plenty of elves and men, no one squeals quite like a hobbit.

Bilbo.

He made it, then.

"Everyone will be so excited to hear that you are awake," Tauriel murmurs gently after she has returned to his side, her own happiness still brightening her voice and delight colouring it once more. "Your father and Legolas most of all... but your Company as well, of course, along with my King."

She does sound rather surprised about that last part, and a dry, hoarse chuckle makes it past Gimli's still terribly uncooperative lips.

"I… hope," he rasps, forcing the words out even though his tongue feels as dry and brittle as gravel, "they will not… come upon me… all at once."

Tauriel's laughter is bright and giddy, brimming with relief.

"I would be disappointed if they did not," she gently teases, her cool fingers ghosting over his cheek once more.

Immediately, the laughter bubbling up in his own lungs is gone, snuffed out like a candle.

"Tauriel," he asks hesitantly, almost afraid – "what happened?"

A short moment of silence.

A bad sign-

"What do you remember?" she wants to know, smooth voice carefully blank.

Remember.

That – is the part he would rather skip, coward though it would be. Going back there, confronting the darkness still looming at the back of his mind-

…

Agony, he remembers thinking, was seeing Legolas with Caleth.

Agony was the fire in his veins, and the explosion in his head.

Agony- … will be remembering, the dark images he has managed to keep at bay so far once more at the forefront of his mind, waiting whenever he closes his eyes.

Yet – there is no choice, is there? If he does not remember, everyone will be worried, thinking the blow- … And if he has to remember, even if only for the sake of others… he would rather do it now, before they arrive, and be confronted with knowledge of what happened-

…

A sharp, piercing whistle – Thorin – Azog – Beorn – the Eagles – Hádhron – Thranduil – Legolas-

The crude mace that comes rushing towards his unprotected back-

…

The cry tears out of his throat and through his numb lips again quite without his consent, filled with the indescribable agony of seeing Mandos open his arms in welcome-

…

"Gimli!" Legolas cries, his soul a torch that comes flying to his side, and another set of cool hands – the right one, this time – settles against his cheeks, cradling his face with unexpected gentleness.

The elf is panting, his lithe body trembling against the dwarf's still slack arm, and there is a fear rolling off him in waves the kind of which Gimli has never seen him experience before.

"Gimli," he repeats, this time but a whisper, and soft tresses dance against the side of his neck. Then-

A drop of rain, splashing on his lid-

…

Not rain, the dwarven part of his mind tells him, according to the echoes they are inside a chamber, and a small one at that. Not rain-

…

The amount of strength it costs him to finally snap his eyes open, to make the weak arm rise and his feeble fingers grasp those lying comfortingly against his cheeks – exhausts him more than any battle ever has.

"Legolas," he whispers, aghast.

The beautiful, endlessly blue eyes are blurred behind a film of liquid, red-rimmed and sunken-

"Gimli!" the elf exclaims again, and then all walls seem to crumble at once as he almost falls against the dwarf, suddenly boneless, and hides his face in the warm neck.

Shuddering with body-wrecking sobs he trembles against his friend, and the dwarf once more mobilises all his strength and willpower to force his arm around the lithe body, holding the elf's shivering torso against his own.

"Legolas," Gimli hums against the pointed ear, spun gold tickling his nose and impossible closeness racing his heart. "Do not cry, I beg you – I cannot stand seeing-"

"You cannot stand seeing me cry?" Legolas asks sharply, surprised anger swirling in his deep eyes when he raises them from the warmth of the dwarf's neck. "Well, imagine what I could not stand – perhaps watching you almost die?"

"Almost being the important part," Gimli grumbles gently, terribly weak arm still slung securely around the slim shoulders. "I may be feeling as though I have been trampled by an oliphaunt before having been gifted to a cave troll for playing – but even that rather points towards me being alive, doesn't it?"

"This is no laughing matter!" the elf scolds him, beautiful voice bordering on hysteric, and the redhead sighs tiredly.

"I certainly understand how terrible this must have been for you-" he begins, only to be interrupted by the suddenly furious prince.

"Do you?"

Another sigh.

"Of course I do," Gimli gently reprimands him, wishing he would not have to elaborate. This is only going to pain the older one… yet, he is too exhausted to deal with this the way he ought to, without hurting his friend. "You know what I did when faced with the possibility of your death."

Legolas recoils, eyes wide with shock and pain.

For a moment he stares at his friend with pure, agonized incredulity shining in his eyes, before crumbling as understanding dawns.

"Forgive me, mellon nín," he murmurs, face hidden in the strong shoulder once more. "You are right, of course… I heard you scream, when you thought you were going to lose me, and- ... it is your life, and your choice whether to make fun of it." The last words are ringing with a tiny bit of cheek, a weak attempt to lighten the mood, and Gimli can feel the iron ropes around his heart ease.

"I ought to apologize as well," he grumbles good-naturedly, fingers slowly curling around the shoulder, the blunt tips coming to lie against a slender collarbone. Legolas shudders against him- ... "I should not have reminded you of my stupid feat."

"Stupid indeed," the elf hums lowly into the crook of his neck, warm breath caressing the puckered skin and making goose bumps erupt wherever it hits. "I- … I know of course why you did it, but- … how could you do this to me? Gimli, if you- … if you had died- …"

"You would have had to take care of the Ring alone... visit Aragorn alone..." Guilt rears its ugly head. It is not, however, strong enough to make Gimli regret his sacrifice. Never-

"If you had died I would have withered away and followed you within weeks, perhaps even days," Legolas disagrees hotly.

Gimli freezes, the implication making all thoughts slam to a halt-

"Perhaps this is not the appropriate time for that discussion?" a deep voice prompts mildly, and the dwarf's head snaps around.

"Uncle!"

"It is good to see you talking again, lad," Óin grumbles, the gruffness belied by the relief in his eyes and the happiness on his lips. "How are you feeling?"

"…stiff," Gimli deadpans.

The aged dwarf rolls his eyes, and slaps the younger one's arm currently not occupied by an elf. "Any pain?"

"Some when I woke up," the time-traveller hesitantly admits. "Tauriel took care of it, though."

"And now?"

"None." He squints. "…not that I have moved around a lot yet, of course. I have only just overcome the rock I must have grown instead of a tongue…"

The snort – though rather dwarvish in nature – clearly comes from Tauriel. Huh.

"You were without consciousness for almost five weeks – what did you expect?"

Gimli freezes once more.

"Five… five weeks?" he asks disbelievingly, before clinging to Legolas' slim shoulder even more tightly, and the elf shudders once again. Five weeks. They did not know whether he would wake up for five weeks…

"We would have given up hope," Óin confesses lowly, "if not for Ciril's never-ending belief…"

"Ciril?" Gimli inquires weakly.

"Our best healer," Thranduil explains from across the room, and when in Mahal's name did he arrive?

"My brother seriously doubted his own skill for the first time…" another deep rumble adds, and the time-traveller smiles in tired relief.

"'Adad…"

Glóin's strong fingers finds their way around Gimli's, and he holds on tightly. "I did not want to steal you away from Legolas," the older one weakly teases, the shaky layer of cheekiness attempting to drown out to tears in his dark eyes and the trembling of his hands.

Gimli gives him the best smile he manages, well aware that there is little he can say after having lain unconscious for so long.

"I am glad to see you well, 'Adad!"

His father raises his bushy eyebrows. "I will be even better when your mother arrives, and has your hide for almost getting yourself killed," he threatens, and the younger one stares at him with wide eyes.

"…you told her?"

"Of course I did!" Glóin snaps back, before deflating. "You are our son, and no one knew whether you would wake up again… whether you were going to die… She deserved to know! Or had you rather she arrive here with the first caravan, expecting to see us both, only to find but your grave?" He does sound rather angry now – and desperate. The guilt rears its ugly head again. "I sent her a raven as soon as the battle was over…" His voice shakes a little, and Gimli holds onto his hand even more tightly. "In fact, a few weeks later I received word from Elrond, informing me that some of his men picked up her and a few others of the women from Ered Luin at the banks of the Bruinen, soaking wet after a rather unfortunate crossing. Apparently they were not interested in waiting until the official caravan left, and found it a good idea to try on their own. Considering what misfortunes we managed to find I have to admit I am more than relieved that the elf sent them on with an escort to be released at Mirkwood, by some of Thranduil's men who will lead them here."

His tone betrays his grudging thankfulness for both elven leaders' actions, and Gimli chuckles softly.

"That does sound like her," he admits gently.

Glóin snorts.

"Of course it does!" he rants, "and of course you would find it amusing!" Behind him, Óin is snickering rather openly. "You would have done the bloody same – when it comes to sudden, arbitrary decisions, the two of you are ridiculously alike! In fact, had you still been your natural age, and I the one wounded, you would have made her let you come along within minutes! And here I had wished you might come after your level-headed father…"

At that not only Óin snorts loudly, but also Legolas and Fundin's older son (who must have arrived at some point) – while Dwalin is outright laughing.

"In comparison to her – I might be tempted to agree with Glóin," Thorin rumbles from where he is leaning against a wall, a light crown upon his brow and managing to appear regal no matter his relaxed stance. (Somehow, Gimli begins to suspect, he is not yet able to have a conversation and keep an eye on his surroundings at the same time, what with everyone appearing without him ever noticing.) "Women!"

At that, the time-traveller flinches.

He knows where this is going…

"Tell me she did not!"

"Of course she did," Balin huffs, rolling, his eyes in an unusual show of exasperation, "as well you should have expected! Her sons were hurt, afte-"

"Hurt?" Gimli exclaims, forcing his body into a sitting position no matter the lava that rushes down his spine. "What happened?"

Óin snorts once again even as he pushes the younger one back down.

"The boys tried to be heroes, of course. Not surprising, after your idiotic stunt! Ever since you returned to us from your future they have been emulating you to a dangerous extent, and when you threw yourself between the one you love and a potentially deadly blow – what do you expect Fíli did when a sword came a little too close to Kíli's head?"

Choosing to ignore this open talking about his feelings for the moment (even though Legolas' beautiful eyes are sparkling dangerously) Gimli groans, fear making his heart race.

After everything he has done to make sure they survive...

"But… he lives?"

"He lost an eye," Thorin admits, deep rumble suddenly grave, and sighs. "Which he thinks will compliment his kingly face or however he put it… Kíli was torn between beating him up for making fun of it, and admiring his courageous warrior." The last few words – clearly a quote – he says as if they were something slimy on his tongue, almost spitting them out.

Legolas snickers.

"While he is overjoyed they finally found love in each other, he is rather disgusted by their open displays of affection," he stage-whispers, ignoring the King under the Mountain's majestic scowl and his own father's ensuing cackle. "Understandable, considering that he is more of a father than an uncle to them, and already walked in on them twice."

Thranduil laughs openly at that, and Thorin sends the fellow King a dark glance.

"Just you wait until Gimli and Legolas get their act together and you run into their open displays of affection," he threatens, and Thranduil blanches. (His own face, Gimli imagines, is probably heading into the opposite direction, considering with how it is heating up at the implication.)

"Do not remind me of it," the Elvenking moans, "I do not want to catch my son engaged in... that kind of activities."

"Ada!" Legolas exclaims, his own cheeks conspicuously alight, and Óin chuckles good-naturedly.

"Perhaps we should not tease them thusly before they have even talked about the matter?" he prompts mildly, before proceeding to herd everyone out of the room. "Besides, Gimli is still my patient, who woke up after weeks of unconsciousness – so, everyone except direct family out, healer's orders! And yes, that also includes Kings of whatever realm!"

He then expertly chases them out of the chamber, happily ignoring both Thranduil's and Thorin's protests. It is only when Legolas rises from where he is still half sitting, half lying on Gimli's cot, pure dejection making his pretty face fall, that the aged dwarf rolls his eyes.

"Stay, elfling. You are good as family anyway."

The beautiful eyes light up in happiness, and Gimli barely realizes how Óin's large hand finds its way around Glóin's muscular arm, the older brother pulling the unwilling younger along and out of the room. All he knows is that he is suddenly alone with Legolas, the door closing behind the last two, and that there was all that talk of I would have withered away and followed you within weeks and just you wait until Gimli and Legolas get their act together and you are good as family anyway-

"Gimli," Legolas whispers, blue eyes wide with what might be nervousness (or rather, blank panic), "I… do you… do you remember our conversation when we waited for Haldir and D-Dáin to arrive, about- … about hearts and souls?"

Of course I do! the dwarf wants to yell, how could I not? It was the reason I almost-

"What about it?"

He averts his gaze, unable to stare into the terribly blue depths any longer. All those implications, yet- … he cannot allow himself to hope.

Too grave would the ramifications be should he be misinterpreting all this.

"Meleth nín... I realize I should have told you then. A better moment, I imagine, could not have come… Yet, I was too scared, too frightened. Not only about the possibility of your rejection itself, which I did expect – but also about the ramifications." That does sound awfully familiar- "I did not dare walk into a battle after being rejected by the one I had given my fëa to, too great would the risk have been… Only after you fell, sacrificing yourself for me, and I was left with holding your head together until we reached the healers, with waiting, with praying- … until your uncle instructed me to sit with you, claiming that it would help you find your way back since you had bound your soul to mine- … it was only then that I realized how much pain I could have spared both of us, and that now I might never get the chance to tell you... I love you, Gimli Glóin's son, with everything that I am and ever can be. My heart is yours, and without you my fëa is incomplete. I am incomplete."

Legolas' long fingers find his chin and gently turn his head, making him look into the deep blue seas once more.

Gimli finds himself frozen.

His heart is beating faster than ever, even as all his thoughts have slammed to a stop.

"I- … love you too," he manages to choke, lips and tongue as uncooperative as when he woke up, and a sound of pure delight fills the chamber.

With wide eyes Gimli stares at the pale, beautiful lips it has fallen from.

His-

"Oh, my dear Gimli!" Legolas beams, and – somehow, quite without his active choice – strong arms wrap themselves around slim shoulders once more.

"I thought- … Caleth-"

Deep eyes widen in surprise.

"Caleth?" the elf asks incredulously, "What about her?"

"I- … it was obvious that you cared about her," the dwarf weakly explains, and Legolas' face lights up in understanding.

"She provoked my protective instincts, I assume, when I found out about her situation – but saw how strong she was trying to be none the same. You are right, I care about her, but- … more like about a sister. In fact, I might just be tempted to make father officially claim her as his daughter," he then adds, eyes sparkling with cheek.

"But- … why?"

"Well, someone will need to provide him with an heir…"

A surprised, snorted laughter somehow makes it past Gimli's lips.

"I love you, my dearest dwarf, and no one else!" Legolas promises firmly, before melting against the strong body once more.

Gimli pulls him even closer.

"Ge melin," he murmurs into the pointed ear suddenly so close to his lips, and lets his heartbeat flow together with Legolas', racing against his ribs through two pairs of thin tunics.

"My Gimli," the elf hums, sounding more content than ever, and the dwarf finds himself quite lost for words.

"Legolas… would you allow me a question?"

"Any," the blonde breathes against his neck, and Gimli shudders.

"… why me?"

"I might ask just the same-"

"You are an elf," the redhead interrupts him, "Who would not love an elf?"

Legolas raises his head, only to give him a rather dry look.

"Most dwarves, as a matter of fact… I am far from what most of your people look for in a lover."

"And yet there is nothing and no one in all of Middle-Earth who might ever rival your beauty," Gimli murmurs, understanding what the older one is trying to tell him. "While most dwarves would compare their Ones to strong metals and precious gems… I cannot do that. For while you might be as persistent as Mithril, and as beautiful as any jewel, I cannot compare you to rock and stone. Just like a flower, your beauty lies in the life that flows through you, and like a tree your strength comes not from hardness but from deep roots and flexibility… and while it may have taken me some time to learn how to admire such features just as much as fine gems and precious metals – I did learn it, and now nothing may rival your beauty. Also, I would be a poor example of a dwarf, could I not find beauty in your deadly grace and elegance."

Legolas' eyes are wide with joy, and his beaming smile is quite dazzling.

"You and your silver tongue… my dear dwarf, you do know how to delight an elf. To me, you are of the utmost beauty as well."

Gimli raises his bushy eyebrows. "I might be pleasing to a dwarf's eye," he admits, "with my full beard and stout body. What an elf my find pleasing about me, however, I cannot imagine."

Legolas shakes his head in what might be fond exasperation, and the dwarf's heart stutters once more.

"Your dwarven strength and ability are certainly as deadly and as beautiful as my elven grace and elegance, as you put it – however, there is so much more about you that appeals to both my eye and mind. Your strong shoulders are as pleasing as the fiery colour of both your hair and beard, not to mention your wicked humour. I love your ability to make any situation – any battle – feel winnable, and your dark eyes that are ever sparkling. You make me… you make me feel safe, Gimli, and though I never thought that I might enjoy that – a warrior of my own right as I am – there is nothing that excites me more than the knowledge that no foe would make it past your strength and axe should you stand to protect me."

Gimli shudders, blood ablaze with the sheer satisfaction about knowing that his One would trust him to offer protection.

"You too know how to appeal to a dwarf's self-confidence," he rumbles, and Legolas' bright laughter resounds like a thousand silver bells.

"Also," the elf adds, and did his voice just drop at least an octave?, "I do have to admit I understand Prince Kíli, in a way – your new scars are rather… fetching."

"My- …" Gimli freezes.

He took a mace to the head, a blow that would have killed Legolas. Granted, he wore his helmet, but- … he did black out within moments.

Of course there would be scars.

"…how bad is it?"

The deep blue eyes are alight with an unknown fire, and darker than he has ever seen them.

"Visible," the elf answers curtly, "however, I find myself quite intrigued..."

"You do not... mind them?"

"They are even further proof of your strength, of your love – and while those past weeks have certainly been terrifying, the scars a constant reminder of your condition… now that I see them in your conscious face – I do have to admit that they suit you, in a way I never thought possible," he breathes hotly against the younger one's skin. "Another reminder that you are a warrior who would shrink away from nothing…"

"I should watch you around Dwalin," Gimli gasps in a weak attempt to joke, forcing his hands to stay where they are.

Legolas' body flush against his, voice deep and hoarse with excitement – are arousing emotions he does not yet feel strong enough to cope with.

The elf, it appears, understands immediately.

"Please forgive me, meleth nín… you have barely woken, and already I am tempting you thusly. It is simply… hard to control myself, when the prize is so beautifully on display…"

Slender fingers ghost down the contours of his strong abdominal muscles, which are barely hidden by the thin tunic he is wearing. (Flames he only now realizes dancing in a fireplace do keep the small chamber warm, it seems.)

He gasps for air, trembling when the sensation races up his nerves, and Legolas snaps his hand away."

"I am terribly sorry!" he whimpers, hiding his suddenly flaming face once more in the crook of Gimli's neck, "you are ridiculously tempting…"

His body melts against the dwarf's as if it were meant to be there, the redhead's strong arm wrapped securely (perfectly) around a slender waist, and Legolas goes from embarrassment to content within moments.

"Would you mind if I stayed?" he hums, voice suddenly drowsy instead of husky, and all Gimli can do is shake his head, holding the elf close and almost falling into Irmo's open arms.

His heartbeat in tune with the elf's is the last sensation that makes it through before sleep claims him.

TBC