I wake slowly, like rising from the depths of an ocean, and it is a pleasant awakening indeed. I am warm and comfortable, nothing hurts, I am not frightened or worried and for a long time I simply lie where I am. I am happy.

My room in Minas Tirith has very little to distinguish itself; it is simply a room. It is not particularly large, although it is spacious enough, and it is not ornate or lavishly furnished. There is a soft bed with a feather eiderdown and deep pillows. There is a fire and a chair and a chest for my belongings, a small and sturdy desk should I feel the need to write anything, and every day someone comes in and tidies things up although I have never seen them. It is not much of a room, but it has been specially selected and I am rather fond of it.

There is a door that leads to Legolas' chambers, which adjoin mine, and after I have washed and dressed myself I try it and find that it is unlocked. I remember to knock at the very last moment, but the elfling knows that I am awake and due to visit just the same as I know he is in there and waiting.

It is this room that has marked the two chambers as ours; it is the reason we do not sleep in huge and ornate guest rooms and I am long resigned to the idea that Legolas and I will most often be housed close to one another. I am quite fine with a small room, because I cannot imagine the elfling sleeping anywhere other than this one.

They are the old Healing Master's rooms, and so they both have a lingering smell of herbs, but it is gentle and pleasant and so I do not mind. Legolas has a bed he will never sleep in, a fire he never bothers to keep aflame, a desk upon which his pack still sits, and a few more chairs than mine. But it is the garden that makes it his.

A garden, atop a mountain! It is a thing of wonder – a wide and deep balcony that runs along the outside of the room, and has been glassed into a greenhouse. Arwen maintains it whilst we are away, and within the garden there grows a veritable forest of things: flowers and shrubs and herbs, grasses and small potted fruit trees that have remained stunted by their captivity. The plants are cramped together and overflowing their trays and troughs, so that it does not look like inside at all.

Passing through the growth there is a further door that leads out to a small terrace, open to the sky, and Legolas never closes it. The flowers bob and the grasses hiss in the breeze that passes through, and I have my suspicions that Legolas sleeps in here. I am simply glad that he sleeps at all.

I find him dressed and in the doorway to the garden, and I can see that Aragorn has got his own way again. They argued for a long time last night about Legolas' tendency toward dressing as a Mirkwood archer when he is visiting. The elfling sees no reason why he should gussy himself up when he never does at home, but the king's opinion is that if he has to, then so does Legolas.

Aragorn favours blue, and so the elfling wears pale blue, and I must admit that it is a good colour on him. His tunic is light and beautifully made, with silver stitching that looks of elven design to me. His leggings are grey and his boots calf skin, a belt cinched tightly at his waist so that he looks slender and elegant and tall. His hair is un-braided and falls softly about his face in summer gold, and I have always thought that he looks younger and more vulnerable this way. I am endlessly glad that I was born strong and sturdy rather than flimsy and fragile, but I must admit that he does look quite fine.

He takes one look at me, and his face drops into a scowl.

"Why are you permitted to wear your own clothes, when I am not?"

"My goodness," I breathe in a mockery of confusion. "I have no idea whatsoever why this might be, Prince Legolas Thranduilion of the Woodland Realm. How indeed is it that you might be expected to wear fine clothes whilst I, Gimli, a simple dwarf, might not? We should call for Aragorn at once; there has been a terrible mistake."

The elfling says a very rude word as I make a bee-line straight toward our breakfast, my attention entirely upon the honey cakes. I stand in a warm beam of spring sunlight, and it feels clean and fresh and pleasant. A feather light breeze brings the scent of last night's rain, and for a moment I feel a touch of Legolas in my mind. He wishes to be outside, he feels the wind calling to him, but he is starting to learn to shut it out again. Starting to, but he is not quite there yet.

"You actually look like a prince for once, and it makes Aragorn happy," I conclude. "It will do you much good to at least look civilised for a few days."

"You are considered a Lord, you know," he mutters sulkily. I decide not to respond; we could be arguing for hours, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I would end up in uncomfortable clothes by the end of it. Instead I fall quite unceremoniously into the softest of the chairs – the one I always claim for myself – and begin my breakfast. I eye him dubiously, and he raises a questioning brow.

"You must be sure not to walk about bristling with weapons when you wear nice things. It ruins the effect."

He laughs, his mood shifting suddenly as it often does, and he brushes his hair from his face as though he is wiping his poor mood away. He selects a honey cake, picks at it with elegant hands, and he perches on the desk although there are chairs not two feet away from him.

"Estel says that if I feel the need to carry my knives around his city, then he will provide me with a bodyguard until I feel safe. I have no wish to spend my visit hiding from a chaperone."

"You were shot by a crossbow the last time we were here," I point out.

"I was," he nods. "If I am unlucky enough for such a thing to happen twice, then it is fated and I should accept it."

I feel my face relax into an amused smile and silence falls between us, comfortable just as it ever is. I can hear birds outside, and the soft rustling of the garden, but there is nothing else at all. It is peaceful and still.

"Your heart is calm, Gimli," Legolas says softly, and I realise that I have let my eyes slip closed. I do not open them; the sunlight is across my face and I am quite fine this way.

"It does not take much to keep a dwarf happy, my friend," I mumble past my beard. "I am warm and clean and fed, I have managed a good few months without anything horrible happening to me, I am with my friends," I crack one eye open, "and you."

He throws a morsel of honey cake at me, which falls quite far from reaching me, and there is a softness in his face that could only be recognised by those who know him. He is too much like his father of late – too still, too difficult to read – but to me his emotions dance across his face like a flag in the wind. I can see them, and right now he is as happy as he can be. It gives me hope that perhaps one day he will be healed. Perhaps one day he might be as he was.

~{O}~

Once we are done with our breakfast we find ourselves host to an alarmingly old man, whose sole job appears to be the organisation of our time whilst we are in Minas Tirith. He looks as though a bad fright might send him sailing to the afterlife, he is made almost entirely of sticks and leather, but by Eru does he frighten me. He has the eyes of an elf and the voice of a king, and we are given our instructions as though he expects them to be followed unfailingly.

He stands in the doorway and a flock of timid young girls break formation around him, settle upon our discarded dishware, and once they depart there is not a single crumb left behind. He informs us that we are to spend the morning being shown around the garrison where the constabulary are now situated, and then there are a number of notable persons involved in the matter that we are to meet with. We will have refreshments at midday, then we will be inspecting the new recruits where they are being trained, after which there is a library of books on law and such tedious nonsense that we are expected to pass our opinion on. By fifth bell we will return to our chambers, where we will bathe and take rest before dining with the King and Queen, and after that we are given leave to do as we will.

As a grown dwarf of respectable years, I have managed to pass my whole life thus far without needing anyone to organise it for me. I am only the son of a lord, and I think perhaps this is something afforded royalty, but I glance at Legolas to see how he is receiving this treatment and I nearly laugh aloud.

The elfling is wearing his most obstinate face – indeed he looks quite insulted – and I know for certain that he has no intention of following these instructions. None at all. My elfling has never liked being told what to do, and this man is officious and self-satisfied and I hope that Aragorn had no part in this. He has always seemed like a fairly clever man, and I would hate to have my opinion of him so quashed.

The man is still talking, entirely oblivious to the fact that he is under the full and direct force of Legolas' most penetrating glare, and the elfling finally reaches his breaking point. He interrupts him mid voice.

"Your name?" he demands, although I am sure that we have been told it already.

"I am Gowry, my lord," is the reply, perhaps a little surprised. I do not think he has been interrupted in his life.

"Indeed," Legolas muses, and then he is up and off and stalking out of the door. I grin and shrug as I follow, hurrying off after the elfling, and I find myself quite out of breath after a very short time. Legolas' legs are significantly longer than mine, and he is striding along with the full force of his pique.

"Legolas!" I implore after a while, and it comes out more like a laugh than anything. He checks his pace but not by much, and he gives me a look that breaks me out into laughter all over again. He is outraged!

"Men find comfort in the setting of schedules," I laugh, falling into pace by his side. "Only elves misplace entire days, you should be more forgiving."

"I should be no such thing," he informs me quite certainly, and I give up before I have even really made much effort. It is another battle I will not win, I am not so foolish as to try, and so instead I follow him through a labyrinth of stone. The elfling always seems to know where he is going, although I am utterly lost, and he is anxious to be out of the mountain so we make good time.

We find the sky, and although the sun is bright and the sky an uninterrupted expanse of blue, it is still early in the year and we are very high up. I am glad that I brought a cloak.

We make our way toward the sixth circle, passing through the mighty spur of stone that cuts through the city like a blade, and Legolas picks up his pace again until we are through it. There are very few people living so high in these reaches – it is not bustling markets or bawdy streets lined with taverns and shops and homes, not like the lower rings. It is quieter, more formal… certainly windier. Everyone here seems to be in a hurry, on some form of business, but it does not stop them from staring at us quite openly.

Legolas either does not notice or does not care, and it is something I have become used to of late. We make a strange pair, I know that we do – an elven warrior and a dwarf steaming along the streets of Minas Tirith. Legolas cuts a path for us – we are always afforded a wide berth when he has a purpose and a place to be – and our passage is marked by surprised young apprentices and squires bumping into or dropping things.

"Do you actually know where you are going?" I ask eventually.

"Vaguely," he shrugs, and that is as far as I am willing to entertain things. I collar the first young boy I see – a slip of a thing carrying an enormous stack of blankets – and I hail him. He drops them, of course.

"Ho… you, lad – little thing, yes you! Where would we find a constable in these parts?"

He points a quavering finger, eyes wide as saucers, and scrambles to pick up his blankets. I march off in the correct direction, and Legolas sighs as he follows me.

"Is it not enough to simply enjoy the air, Gimli?" he asks, as though I have disappointed him in some way.

"This is not air, Legolas," I inform him, "this is the sky. I am cold, I grow weary of being stared at, and apparently we have an appointment in three bells time."

He snarls at me but I continue regardless, and he follows just as I knew he would.

~{O}~

We reach a place that we are reliably informed is called the Rookery, although there are no rooks in it. I think there might have been once, but if it was ever used for such a thing then that time has long since gone. We are right on the edge of the outer wall – a series of long and thin buildings huddled up against the stone – and every spare bit of space is in the process of being transformed.

Stretches of unused ground are being fenced off as training areas. There are wooden huts being built, an army of carpenters out in the sunshine making things: bed frames, chairs and tables and benches, doors and shutters for the windows. They plane, sand, chisel and hammer away, and there are exhausted looking young men heaving extremely heavy looking furniture into the existing buildings. Draught horses stand at rest, tails swishing lazily as their carts are offloaded, and I think perhaps a lot of these things have come from the old army garrisons and billets. We are watching a whole new section of the city being outfitted.

I think that once this is finished, it will look rather fine. The buildings are neat and well made: low and sprawling and well laid out. The white stone is lit clearly in the sunlight, there have been trees planted and there are lawns that are being trodden into mud, but will recover. Once the wooden billets are completed it will complement it well. I think perhaps there is a good space for a petitions room here, right at the entrance to this enclosure, where the people can come and speak with a constable… perhaps something welcoming in sandstone and…

"Gimli stop it," Legolas grabs me by the sleeve and pulls me forward. I had no idea I had stopped. "You have that look upon you again; you are lost in thoughts of making things, and we have no time for you to start picking holes in what they do."

"Yes," I frown lightly, hurrying to catch up, "but I do not complain when you become insensible over a particularly fetching stand of trees, or trip over your feet because someone is practising at bow."

"We will return later," he promises. "You can criticise their workmanship as much as you like then. And I have never tripped over my feet once in my life."

I make a noise – not a particularly dignified one – but I follow him along the path in any case. There is a particular building that looks bigger, nicer; more elaborate. It practically screams that the more important people are here, but as we approach I can hear a man swearing as though he was raised by goblins. I have never heard such language! He is berating someone sorely, and I had not expected to hear this sort of thing in such a… nice place. This is the voice of a soldier, a leader, but one risen from the ranks. Coarse and abrupt, battle hardened and far more worthy of respect, in my experience.

We stop suddenly, because the source of the shouting storms out of the building and we nearly collide. He stops as well, and for a long time we all simply stare at one another.

He is not particularly tall but he is broad, with hair closely cropped and a thick scar running across his scalp. He is bare chested and filthy, a patched and torn tunic in his hand that he tugs on in agitation, and he is younger than I had imagined. He is a veteran, he is no young man, but there are only the barest touches of grey in his hair and he keeps his beard trimmed closely. He looks about a step away from an alehouse, and a day or two away from ruin.

Men like this do not have families. Men like this play dice and visit taverns where cut-purses roam. They drink heavily and fight hard. Other men follow them unfailingly, and they often die long before the rest of us.

Men like this I can relate to.

"Well," he hooks both hands upon his hips, regards us with the slightest hint of scorn and then raises his voice slightly. "The dwarf and the elf prince are here to tell us how to do things, lads," he calls out, quirking his head over his shoulder slightly but not taking his eyes off us. He bows, floridly, mockingly. "Welcome to the Rookery, my lords! They are not paying us yet, half of us are war broken and the other half cannot grow a beard… we have no idea at all what we are doing, but here we are: ready to defend this mighty city from pickpockets and guttersnipes. At the behest of our most progressive and benevolent king, and because we cannot get jobs elsewhere, we are at your service."

I blink, stunned, and Legolas leans in toward me.

"I might like him," he hisses.

I think I might like him too.

~{O}~

He says his name is Hob, and he leads us behind a store room so that he can dunk his head into a barrel of water. He has been working all morning, he says, and apologises for his rough appearance but it does not sound like an apology at all. He eyes Legolas with undisguised contempt – seeing only his fine clothing, his overall appearance – and I find that I cannot wait until Legolas crushes this first assessment, but I am patient. All good things come eventually.

"I expected you later than this," he says, swiping water from his face and ruffling it out of his short hair. He has not stopped watching us once, and the way that he is observing us is a bit unnerving. "Master Gowry said that Larke was to fetch you."

"We saw no point in waiting about," I reply neutrally. "Do you need more time?"

"No," he chuckles to himself, and tugs his tunic on. "If my king would have me conducting tours then that is what I shall do, but it will have to wait; there is something that requires our attention. There has been a murder."

TBC

A/N

I was absolutely blown away by the reception this new fic received - you are all absolutely wonderful people. I think I replied to everyone (if I didn't, I meant to, and I am very sorry) but special thanks go to Halfpenny, who left me an absolutely huge review. I meant to track down your user account my friend and reply to you, but I didn't get a chance before I posted this chapter. I'd love to hear from you so we can speak properly, because your review meant a lot to me.

This fic is about two thirds written already, and although it turned out a lot longer than I anticipated (hello, my name is myselfonly, nice to meet you) and a teeny weeny bit serious toward the end when I had meant for it not to be, I'm actually quite happy with the way it's turning out. I will be posting fortnightly, by the looks of things, and although these chapters are way shorter than they were with the Silence in the Song, I have about fifteen ready to post.

So yes, absolutely brilliant to be back (although I wasn't actually gone for that long tbh) and it's great to hear from you all again - I've certainly missed the contact. These reviews are what keep these stories coming, so if you can take a minute to say hi I'd be chuffed to bits.

Hope you all have a great weekend, and see you again soon :)

MyselfOnly