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*Legolas in Esgaroth- Anglach buys sheesha pipes for Thranduil and Galion.

For Hawaiichick and SilverOnlyReads. Thank you for reviewing.

Chapter 10: Homecoming

'Master, that Elf is back!' Forvi cried, scuttling into the workshop.

Hallvarðr turned his head and glared at the apprentice irritably but when he realised what the boy was saying, he immediately put down the blowtorch he held and wiped his hands on his leather apron.

'Sigrúnda, take over this welding please,' he instructed and hurried towards the cast iron doors that opened into his halls.

'My lord,' he said as he entered, seeing the very tall Elf standing a little uncomfortably with his head slightly dipped to avoid hitting his head against the ceiling. Hallvarðr bowed cursorily and gestured to the low bench pulled up to the long oak table, indicating that Laersul should sit. 'How is the leg?' he asked

Laersul grinned as he eased himself under the table because he was very tall, and not this time, because of any injury. 'As you see, I am healed and if not yet quite as strong as I was, well on the way.' He inclined his head slightly. 'Thank you for asking.' He clasped his hands and leaned forward upon the smooth table that had been polished and waxed so it was like a mirror, much like the huge oak dresser that stood against the far wall and contained all of Hallvarðr's pewter, cutlery, plates and many tankards. In each corner of Hallvarðr's hall hung bronze firebowls and the flames reflected on Hallvarðr's luxurious beard and in the lazurite and amber beads in his beard, a gift from his Khabbûna, his betrothed. Gilthrûn Sindri.

Laersul's grey-blue eyes caught on them for a moment and a brilliant smile flashed over his face. 'I see that congratulations are in order, Master Hallvarðr,' he said with a wide smile. He bowed with great courtesy. 'May your beard grow even more luxuriant and Mahal bless your hearth and forge.'

Hallvarðr nodded, grinning in spite of himself. 'It seems your own request inspired me,' he said. 'She is Gilthrûn Sindri, Master Jeweller.'

'I have heard of …her,' Laersul said with slightest hesitation and Hallvarðr of course knew that he had probably not realised Gilthrûn's sex although anyone who saw her could not mistake that voluptuous sexuality, he thought, and stroked his beard dreamily.

Laersul tilted his head slightly and smiled. 'I have brought you a gift,' he said. 'I hope it is welcome.'

Hallvarðr shook himself out of his reverie and said with a faintly suspicious air, 'Well that depends on what it is,' because after all, it was said Beware Elves bearing gifts

Laersul's smile widened. 'Two things. Pipeweed from The Shire. Longbottom Leaf. I believe this is highly prized and much sought after.' He gestured towards two small barrels at the end of the table that Hallvarðr had not seen.

'Longbottom leaf!' Hallvadr exclaimed, most impressed, not only with the gift but with Laersul's attention to the rite of hospitality before Tharkût, for no Dwarf would ever talk business before hospitality had been shared. 'We have had no deliveries from The Shire for over a year and have had to make do with the inferior stuff from Lower Rhovanion.' He resolved to hide it deep in his second cellar and to steadfastly refuse to share it when Raggnr and Dwalin made their next rounds. The familiar fragrant tang of Longbottom Leaf came from one barrel and Hallvarðr's mouth watered, thinking of the taste, the slow burn in the back of his throat.

'There is a barrel too of beer, from Mithlond.' Laersul smiled even more widely. 'I have always liked a little beer of a Winter evening ever since Thraín introduced me to it.' He reached over and tapped the top of the second barrel with a knowing smile. 'I hope we can share a cup to celebrate your betrothal.'

Hallvarðr met his gaze with a warmth he never thought he would feel for an Elf. 'I will be happy to,' he said, rising to his feet. He lifted the keg with ease and shifted it so it was on its side. A tap was already in the keg and he threw open the dresser drawer and selected two of the largest pewter tankards, the ones that Dwalin liked. Opening the tap, Hallvarðr watched pleasurably as amber liquid rushed into the tankard, the sweet smell of hops filled his nostrils. and he saw with satisfaction, the slight head of froth was thick and creamy and he handed it to Laersul and poured one for himself. They clinked tankards companionably while Hallvarðr took out his best pipe and opening the cask of pipeweed, almost swooned with delight. He offered a spare pipe to his guest but it seemed that might be a step too far.

'I tried it once,' Laersul said with a laugh. 'I am afraid I thought my mouth was on fire and I would choke. I never tried it since. This is from my father's personal store,' he said as if that explained everything but Hallvadr simply stared: Thranduil smoked pipeweed?

'Oh,' Laersul smiled, realising. 'I should explain. Long ago, on a trip to Esgaroth* my brothers brought these pipes back but they are nothing like yours. You smoke through a long tube attached to a …bottle, a glass flask and you smoke through the water. It relaxes him greatly in times of immense stress.'

'Your brothers?' Hallvarðr asked hesitantly.

Laersul looked down briefly as if grief seized him. 'Foster brother I suppose, although he was family all the same. Yes.' He paused. 'He is dead now. Killed just before the start of the War.'

'Ah.' Hallvarðr didn't really know what more to say. He too had lost at least one close to him and the grief was too raw to speak of. It seemed Laersul and he had yet another thing in common.

They were both silent for a moment and then Hallvarðr said, 'You have come for Rûk-Shtôl?'

Laersul nodded with a smile and Hallvarðr thought he smiled a lot, as if he were completely delighted with everything he saw and heard. 'Ah, is that its name? I think my father said something like it.' He looked at Hallvarðr shrewdly. 'However I will not be taking it with me if that is what you assumed. No, my father is most particular that gifts should be for the receiver's pleasure and not to make them beholden.'

Hallvarðr looked at him with approval. That was as it should be, he thought, and not like some of these modern ways that had crept into Erebor.

'I will leave it here with Gimli's father if you think that is acceptable. Gimli Gloínsson is not required to travel to the Wood to receive my father's thanks. Or mine.'

'Oh, well that is gracious indeed,' said Hallvarðr, impressed anew with Thranduil's generosity. In fact, he found himself thinking that Thorin Stonehelm could learn a thing or two from the Elves. 'And wise,' he added, thinking the King was right not to prolong his youngest son's absence any longer than he had to. He thought Laersul get his younger brother back into the King's stronghold where he would stay out of trouble since he seemed so good at getting into it. Hallvarðr wondered briefly how it was that the two other sons were so impressive and this youngest one seemed to constantly need rescuing. 'Let me fetch it for you so that you might take it to Gloín Groínsson.'

Laersul nodded and picked up his tankard, raising it in a toast. 'To Gloín Groínsson,' he said seriously, with emphasis on all the right syllables.

'Wait here,' Hallvarðr stood and drained his tankard. 'I will fetch Rûk-Shtôl so you might see him.'

Hallvarðr walked into the cacophony of bellows thumping and the hiss of steam as hot metal was plunged into quenching baths, the clang of hammers. The noise faltered for the slightest moment as the apprentices looked up in anticipation, and perhaps hoping to see this real life Elf who had come to the Halls. But they quickly bent back to their work when Hallvarðr fixed his gimlet eye upon them. He stomped over to the oak chest where he had placed Rûk-Shtôl into and carried it easily back to the hall, placing it before Laersul.

'Here,' he said and opening the chest, drew forth the dark oiled leather sheath that Raggnr had tooled with such careful detail.

As he held it up, Hallvarðr thought that the sheathed double blade resembled a hooded hawk with wings outstretched. Gently, he pulled off the sheath, and in the flickering torchlight, the emeralds glittered and flashed like a hawk's eyes blinked upon awakening. The flames of the firebowls flashed over the layers of steel so they seemed to flow and move.

Laersul gave an appreciative smile. 'Elbereth, it is a beautiful thing,' he murmured and took it from Hallvarðr. He lifted it towards his face to examine it. 'Rûk-Shtôl,' he said, as if it were a greeting. The steel and mithril reflected on his face, giving his skin an unearthly glow and Hallvarðr remembered all the stories he had ever been told about the Woodelves; more dangerous, less wise.

Wonderingly, Laersul carefully placed Rûk-Shtôl upon the polished oak table and resting his hand upon the engraved haft with its copper and mithril casing, he looked down at it. 'It is great masterpiece,' he said at last. 'And a worthy gift for what Gimli Gloinsson has done for my family.' He gave a slight nod and then looked up almost shyly. 'I wonder if …'

Hallvarðr smiled and before Laersul could finish, he drew from his apron pocket the small box of sandalwood that he had asked from Gilthrûn. 'Here,' he said. 'I hope it is what you wanted.' He slid it towards Laersul who took it from him with a more breathless anticipation than he had looked at Rûk-Shtôl. Carefully he opened the little box and peered within. A look of pure delight lit his whole face and he looked young and so pleased that Hallvarðr felt a fierce little protective joy for his new friend.

He grunted. 'Looks like you're happy with that then.'

'I am. Thank you.' He bowed slightly but his face was thanks enough. When he closed the lid, he held I against his heart for a moment and then, seeing Hallvarðr's knowing smile, shook his head at himself and smiled back. 'I am made a fool by Love,' he said guilelessly.

Hallvarðr took in a deep breath. 'You and me both, Laersul Thranduillion.'

0o0o

The early morning was cold here in the North for Winter was creeping upon them, and although the sky was a bright clear blue, the air was brittle with frost. Gimli kicked earth over the smouldering fire and stamped his feet, cold in their thick, steel capped boots. He tucked his pipe and pipeweed carefully under the oilskin folded in his pack, and held the little tinderbox cupped in his palm for a moment longer looking down at it.

He remembered the deep hazel eyes looking at him over a bronze chalice chased with gold. Copper-bronze hair, a complex knot of braids with small beads of amber wound into them. A deep sigh escaped his lips then and he stowed the tinderbox away with the pipe. It was a long time ago, he reminded himself. And even if he did return as the future lord of Aglarond, Brisingr might not feel the same about him anymore, she may have even found love in another's arms. The thought gave him a little pang in his heart and he tugged on his beard anxiously.

If Legolas noticed, he said nothing but swung stride Arod and then reached down to haul Gimli up behind him.

As they rode along the edge of the lake, the Mountain's imposing mass was reflected in the grey water and suddenly Gimli longed for the dry mineral smell of stone, the sense of the weight of stone above, below, all around him, encasing him.

They took their time, dawdling a little for neither was anxious to part. But at last, they came to a ford on the banks of the Forest River. Legolas let Arod stand in the shallows of the river and lower his head to drink.

'Westwards the road runs along the river to Ascar-Legrin,' said Legolas softly, gesturing towards the dense green forest. 'It is the village where the Raft Elves live.' He did not say that this was his path now and that Gimli's ran the opposite way, towards the flat grey water of the lake and the docks at Esgaroth. 'Are you sure that you do not want me to take you to the Gates of Erebor?' he asked, looking back over his shoulder at Gimli. 'Or even to Dale? I can put you down in Esgaroth if I have to, even though it stinks of fish.'

Gimli smiled for Legolas spoke like it was a great a sacrifice to go to Esgaroth and it was not really true; the little town had been rebuilt after the Dragon's fall and was closer to the shore than its predecessor. A sturdy wooden bridge linked it to the shore where a bustling little dock had been built and the town's economy was now linked to that of Dale and Erebor; indeed the King of Dale ruled the town instead of the corrupt Masters who used to govern it.

'No. But I do thank you for the offer, Legolas,' Gimli said. 'There are always boats crossing the Lake from Esgaroth to Erebor. And it is far quicker than taking the Road. Besides, my old bones need a rest from this clumsy great beast and I want to feel the ground under my feet.' But he patted Arod kindly in case he had hurt the horse's feelings.

He could feel the warmth of Legolas' body against him, the hard muscle beneath the moss green suede tunic. Suddenly Gimli turned his head and laid his cheek against Legolas' back and slid his strong arms about the Elf's waist. He did not say anything but breathed in the smell of meadow hay and herbs, horse and leather, listened to that steady strong heartbeat. His eyes were suddenly a bit blurry and he sniffed.

A strong hand reached around and sought his, clasped it. 'Was ever a dwarf so loved, Elvellon,' Legolas murmured, canting his head towards Gimli.

'When we set out, Legolas, we were nine companions of the Ring,' he said with great seriousness. 'Now we are friends. And that has nothing at all to do with the Ring.'

'Are you saying that you will you miss me, Nana Gimli?' Legolas asked.

'That is not my name, Legolas,' said Gimli mildly. 'My name is Siginalâ Idzadân-Úthaar.'

He felt Legolas' smile rather than saw it. And felt the deep breath that Legolas took that betrayed his emotion too. 'You will not mind if I continue to call you Gimli. I know it well and have become fond of it.'

'I have no objection at all, my friend. As long as you do not call me Nana.'

Legolas laughed then. 'At least, not in front of your father and uncles,' he promised. 'But you will still remind me to clean my teeth and brush my hair and wash my hands and face and…'

Gimli's own strong arms came up around Legolas' lean waist and he laughed in spite of the sorrow of parting. 'I will send word when I leave for Aglarond. Will you ride south with me as you said?'

'Of course I will.'

They were silent for a moment and then Gimli, for the last time, clung to Legolas' hand as he slid down from Arod and stamped his feet on the good solid earth. He found the last bit of apple that he had been saving for Arod. The horse took it gently and crunched it up.

Then Gimli looked up at Legolas and suddenly the images he had seen in remembered Galadriel's mirror struck him:

… Aragorn lay on the wide bier aboard the ship, the handsome face now lined with age and his hair was white. He was very still and cold. Lifeless. Legolas stood at the bier, face in his hands and shoulders hunched. He was weeping

The deck shifted beneath Gimli's feet and he wondered if the ship had been loosed and was sailing down to the Sea for now the wind blew and Gimli felt spray on his lips. Salt. The ship plunged suddenly and then rose like it crested a wave. The sound of the Sea washed and soughed and sighed about him and there were white gulls racing on the wind beside them…

He felt a sudden dislocation like he was on board the ship and sailing on the swelling and falling waves. Suddenly there was a huff of hot breath down his neck and he startled, jerking back his head in alarm until he realised that Arod was standing much too close and snuffling the top of his head and neck.

He reached up and lay his hand upon Arod's soft nose and the horse pressed his long face against Gimli's shoulder as if he too was going to miss him.

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Gimli stood at the edge of the Long Lake and watched Legolas ride Arod away along the road towards the Raft Elves' station. The little horse had planted his feet firmly in the mud at first and looked back at Gimli reproachfully until Legolas murmured quietly and laid his hand upon the horse's neck. Even then Arod did not move on but stayed looking at Gimli with confusion. Gimli breathed in sharply and fought the urge to fish in his pocket for a spare old apple core, a bit of carrot or lembas for he had carefully fed every last crumb to the silly beast before they parted.

At last Arod gave a deep sigh as horses do and turned his head towards the forest. Gimli could see how stiffly Legolas sat and at last they broke into a loping canter along the road that ran along the forest river towards the trees. Gimli watched them for a moment longer and then shifted his pack, feeling the now familiar weight of the Mazarbul against him, and set off. Glancing back, he saw that Legolas too had turned and was lifting his hand in final farewell. Gimli raised his own hand and they stared at each other for a moment until Gimli turned away and stomped down the road towards the little docks of Esgaroth.

Voices carried over the water and he headed towards them, seeing the lights come in one by one in Esgaroth as families lit candles and oil lamps, cooking fires.

They were not really docks, he thought; a few pontoons reaching out into the deeper water of the lake where some boats bobbed about cheerfully, and one long barge that was being unloaded. A couple of wagons waited for its cargo on the shore, each pulled by a pair of strong, long horned oxen. Men were rolling huge barrels carefully from the barge to the wagons. Two Dwarves strode purposefully along the pontoon, past the Men. It was their voices that carried across the water and Gimli thought he recognised one of them. Motsógnír, a merchant from the Iron Hills, who dealt in steel and rare metals. A few more Dwarves were gathered together on the shoreline near the smaller boats.

It was the sound of their voices, the deep resonant timbre, like rocks, like the deep sounds of the earth, made him breathe deeply, a swell of emotion in his chest. Home. He was home. Nearly. Erebor rose majestically over the far end of the Lake, reflecting in the flat grey water. Its peak was covered now in snow this late in the year. The Long Lake with its grey water gleaming, a silver sheen under the low sun and little waves rippling against the sedge.

When he looked back again, Legolas and Arod had disappeared into the forest.

0o0o

Gloín was sitting in a comfortable chair in Gimli's old room. A fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth and his son's letters were piled up in his lap. One had slipped from his fingers when his head dropped gently to his chest as he fell asleep.

An hour ago he had had a visit from Hallvarðr and a very tall and rather imposing Elf who was so like his father there could be no doubt that he was Laersul Thranduillion, commander of the Woodelves' army and Thranduil's oldest son. It had rather thrown Gloín into a muddle and he had welcomed his elven visitor in a manner that would have appalled Dwalin had the old berserker been there to see Gloín bow and scrape to the son of their erstwhile gaoler.

Of course, Gloín had long forgiven Thranduil after the gracious way he had bestowed both the Arkenstone and Orcrist upon Thorin. And his son had been the epitome of Dwarven courtesy and spoke exceptionally good, if archaic Khuzdûl. He had been very formal and laid a leather axe sheath upon Gloín's hall table and Gloín had known immediately what it was. 'This is the axe, Rûk-Shtôl that my father wishes to give your son as thanks for his friendship of my brother, Legolas.' Laersul had said some other stuff too but Gloín was a bit overwhelmed and had not really listened.

And then, when Hallvarðr had unsheathed the axe and presented it to Gloín, he had gasped at its richness, the mastery of its Making. He had taken it from its Maker and turned it this way and that, admiring the glittering emeralds, the casing of mithril that enclosed the haft, the gleaming etched steel of the double bitted blade. How Rûk-Shtôl had flashed and glittered in the lamplight.

Now it lay in its sheath once more, sleeping until Gimli, its master, awoke it when he returned. Until then, Gloín was determined that none other should handle it and that even his old companions would not touch it until Gimli returned.

He had fallen asleep in the warmth of the fire he lit every night now, hoping that it might call Gimli home. But he did not hope for it soon for Gimli had written in this last letter:

Legolas has agreed to explore the caverns with me and I know that he will see and understand for he has come to appreciate what is means to be Khazâd. And I have promised to return the favour and travel with him through Fangorn Forest for he is bound to meet with mishap if I should not. We will stop at Lothlorien of course to pay respect to the Lady and then travel up past the East Bight and part at Esgaroth most likely. It will still be some time therefore before I am home.

Your dutiful and loving son,

Gimli.

A sound of a door opening, the creak of hinges stirred him from his sleep and he blinked and rubbed his face.

The stone rang; a deep note resonating through the Mountain. He heard such a thing only once before when Thorin had been brought to the King's chamber and Thranduil himself had placed the Arkenstone upon his breast. Then he had been lost in the grief of the sound of Erebor mourning its beloved Prince and King.

Now it was a welcome, he thought, his old heart thumping. Slowly the bedroom door opened and he felt a surge of hope and reached out.

Surely his eyes deceived him? It could not be! 'Úthaar?' he called, hearing the tremble in his voice for he could not bear it if this were simply a trick of his mind.

But no! The beloved, familiar voice cried out in reply, 'I am here, Addad!' and Gimli was before him, throwing himself to his knees at Gloín's side, and Gloín leaned forward and gathered his son into his arms and wept unashamedly.

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One last chapter and I really need to get back to Erestor and Elladan and the long promised Elrohir comes to Mirkwood! (gulp)