This final chapter strikes a very different tone to the previous and explores the mysticism of the Woodelves. You can find more of this in Black Arrow where the Danedh-Amlung (the Dragon's Promise) receive their yaré-cármë. (sacred painting)

Thranduil gets his tattoo here: /works/1113520/chapters/6338057

Siginalâ Idzadân-Úthaar – Gimli's true name given him in the secret rituals of the dwarves.

Colfîndë. Lockbearer (for the gift of Galadriel)

Cilaulëion -beloved of Aulë. Thranduil names him thus.

Samildánach- Ancient Silvan name for Aulë. They then add Aulë added for clarity.

For Caelhir-. Welcome back, so very very good to hear from you after so many years :D

And for Nina and Annika Greenwood, congratulations on your baby girl, Annika. How very lovely.

I am sorry- I had not realised I hadn't posted but it gave me a chance to add something for Annika. x

Chapter 14: Sannadidith. Brother of my heart

Legolas lay back against the comforting trunk of a tall oak. It hummed sleepily, its roots reaching deep into the wintry earth and its thoughts slow. He watched Gimli who was crouching on the sandy shore of the river, sifting through the pebbles of the river. A shadow of sadness was upon his friend; he could see how it blurred the edges of his bright fëa and dulled the deep ring of his Song.

Picking at a loose thread in his sleeve, he thought he knew the cause for there had been no dullness or shadow upon Gimli when they parted. Indeed he had been bright steel flashing in the sunshine, hope in his breast and the little tinderbox cradled against his heart.

Legolas sighed and looked down at the little pile of pebbles Gimli kept adding to. Legolas thought of the B engraved on Gimli's old tinder box. She had not waited.

Turning his head, he picked up one of the small pebbles between his finger and thumb and regarded it without curiosity. He wished there was some way of easing his friend's heart but there was not. Even if Gimli had barely mentioned her throughout the quest, it did not mean that the Dwarf was not in love with this Brisingr. Dwarves were deep and their hearts and souls ran deeply.

'What have you found that interests you so?' he called at last to Gimli. 'You do know you are merely fuelling their beliefs about your people?' He jerked his head back towards the stronghold. 'They think you are foraging for extra tasty pebbles, and you and Ada have only yourselves to blame if you have more offerings at your door tonight!' For wherever Gimli happened to be, rocks, pebbles, stones and in one over-enthusiastic case, a small boulder had been carefully placed where he might find them. And Gimli's reaction of examining each one with careful and exaggerated fascination amused Thranduil no end especially when Galion was around. He had gained huge admiration when he bestowed a particularly pretty little pebble upon the first child born since the siege amidst much rejoicing. And the happy mother had started calling her Brithoen as an endearment.

Legolas had been pleased but also said now, 'You are deepening the prejudiced beliefs of my people about your people.'

Gimli shrugged; he didn't think his people would give a squatting fart about what Legolas' people thought about them. 'There is a lot of quartz here in the river,' he said instead. 'And sometimes I see a pocket of something green and sometimes a bluey-grey. I am looking to see if there is a seam or if rocks have merely been washed down the river and the seam is elsewhere.'

'Oh,' said Legolas, not really interested. He wondered if Gimli meant the seam of emeralds in the Emyn -nu-Tawar, south of the stronghold. But they would not be washed upstream surely? But he did not want to lose his friend to some mining expedition so he did not tell him. Besides, didn't they have enough emeralds?

'Do you know that Galion thought you were coming to be betrothed to me?' he said. Legolas wasn't sure if he should be amused, like his father was, or indignant, like Galion was. But that was also what amused his father.

Gimli grunted. It had become clear that the special interest in him had been partly because it seemed the whole of the palace (Thranduil aside, who just seemed highly entertained by the whole affair) had been convinced that Gimli was Legolas' lover. 'I only hope the rumour does not reach Elrohir,' he said. 'I would not like to be on the sharp end of his rage.'

Legolas sighed and rolled over onto his belly, then remembered it was Winter and even to an Elf the ground was a bit cold for that. He scratched his neck.

'Do they know about Elrohir?' Gimli had straightened and looked at him. The river water washed about his ankles.

Legolas fiddled uncomfortably with a bit of grass. It was brittle and dry. How could he explain? 'What is there to tell?' he said at last. 'We were lovers in Gondor. But that is no time at all and what if he feels differently now he is back in Imladris? What if he regrets it?' He looked down. There was an ache in his chest. 'Our ways are not the ways of the Noldor. They do not believe a man should bind to another man.'

Gimli climbed up the little bank towards him and sat down. 'Ugh, it's cold and damp here. How can you just sit here?' he grumbled but he didn't really mean it and bundled up his cloak and sat on it anyway. 'That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. How can you even think it after all that has happened? If you are good enough for the Lady Galadriel,' he said with a deep reverence in his voice, 'then you're good enough for the rest of Imladris.'

Legolas felt his chest relax and that knot of worry unwound and stretched out like silk. He laughed softly. It was true. He was a fool to doubt Elrohir

Gimli nodded and grinned at him, showing his white teeth. 'You are just realising, are you not, my dear friend! You have been missing my dwarvish good sense!'

Legolas laughed. 'Yes. I have. And your legendary patience.' Then he glanced obliquely at Gimli. 'And you, Belasen,' he said softly. 'What of your own heart?'.

Gimli said nothing for a while, but gazed at the rushing water of the river. At last he spoke. 'You know, Legolas, or have surely guessed.'

So he was right; she had not waited, Legolas thought, and felt crass and clumsy for bemoaning his own doubt about Elrohir who was as steadfast as the Mountain. Gimli put his head down and sifted through the little pile of pebbles through his thick, clever fingers, but he sighed deeply and would not meet Legolas' gaze.

At last Legolas said, 'There are more interesting rocks further in,' for he knew that although Dwarves did not of course eat rocks, they did find solace in them. 'There are darker veins in the rocks upstream.'

Gimli looked up and there was an interest kindled in his earth-brown eyes that Legolas had grown to love. 'Then we should go and find them.'

There was a shift in the breeze and the wind came from the West, but it did not carry the scent of the Sea. The river's song burbled and gurgled cheerily and never ended. His father had told him to bring Gimli here: His heart must find a measure of peace, Thranduil had said. And now, as Legolas realised where they were headed, he thought that the Song was guiding him as they walked along the Forest River.

He led Gimli through the gorge cut out by the river aeons ago and where the river wound more lazily now. As he thought, Gimli admired the striations in the rocks and lingered over the quartz and agate they found along the shore. Out of the gorge, the river wound between ancient glades of beech and oak and Legolas led him further into the deep places of the Wood. He felt the pull of the Song, how the Wood drew them onwards and he knew that the Listener was waiting for them.

At last, Legolas dropped back and Gimli walked onwards, following some call that Legolas could not hear and he knew that he was not invited this time. This time, the call was not for him. But he would wait, as Galion had waited for Thranduil, and Thranduil had waited to Laersul and so on until Anglach had waited for Legolas.

He breathed in sharply. And watched Gimli merge into the deep green forest.

0o0o

Gimli thought he heard the call of a horn sounding down through the woods, as if Oromë still hunted as he had in the ancient times. It was strange how the trees seemed to pull him into the arms of the Wood, taking him deeper into its green heart. Here the forest river rushed over grey granite rocks and the deep moss clung to the stones, the boughs of the ancient trees. This was the Greenwood indeed.

At some point, he knew that Legolas was no longer there and yet Gimli walked onwards, following the call. His heart began to slow to some unheard rhythm that he almost but did not quite understand, felt dizzy with it like he was not walking beside the deep dark river, but that he was swimming through the cool sunlit water.

Emerging into a glade where the light was green glass, he saw that the river slowed and poured gently into a great pool, absolutely still and reflecting only the green light. The huge and most ancient oaks were here and reached deeply into the earth. Time itself seemed to have slowed and lost meaning so there was absolute stillness. Absolute silence This was the glade of the Dínenael, the Silent Pool, the Place of Listening.

Here it was thathe found the Listener, who had called him hither. He bowed his head and found himself clasped, held, and Gimli gave himself over completely. It was like being cradled as a child by his father.

This was Lathron. The Listener. Unbegotten, oldest, wisest who had awoken beside Cuiviénen and not been born. Starlight was in his eyes and his hair was silver-grey like water. He was the greatest of the scribes of yaré-cármë, the stories inked on the skin of the warriors of their battles and losses. He kept the stories of the Wood. The Woodelves called him Lathron, the Listener, but his true name was forgotten and he did not care.

Lathron led the Dwarf deeper and deeper until he was lost and dreaming. He was given a pipe that tasted of the World as it was to him now, bitter and dry and sweet, a fragrance that reminded him of his childhood in the Eryn Luin before Thorin had left, when Erebor and Smaug were only stories still. When he and Brisingr were children together and pledged to be sweethearts forever.

He was not asleep but he was not awake eitherand the voice was not a voice, nor the words actual words and yet, he knew what was intended. A finger traced the secret runes upon his skin and read his true name, inscribed in the secret rituals of Erebor

Siginalâ Idzadân-Úthaar

Colfîndë Cilaulëion.

A new name. Given him also by Thranduil, and he did not stir at the speaking of it for it spoke to something deep, unlocked something that he recognised at last as his true self.

I see your sadness, child of the Earth, beloved son of Samildánach- Aulë. What do you seek here?

He thought for a moment, the bitterness and dry sweetness of the pipe gave him such clarity he felt like he had never truly opened his eyes before.

I seek healing. For I did not know that I am weary and heartsore.

Come then. Colfîndë Cilaulëion, Lord of the Glittering Caves, of Rûk-Shtôl, keeper of the Braigtîr-Hend.

He did not stir at the name given him also by Thranduil, for it spoke to something deep, unlocked something in him and they drank some sweet mead that tasted of honey and peat. It enhanced the sense of otherworldliness and his head felt light enough to float away.

Silently Lathron traced a strong finger over the Gunud-Aglâb, the swift curve of lines and geometric runes already inked on his strong forearms, his secret name. Lathron knew what it was. He smiled in recognition of another's work.

A master scribed this.

Indeed. FinnRáðsviðr scribed me in the Mazar-kut.

You sought healing in it?

Yes. My mother's death. My brother's. My father's grief.

Did it help the grief?

Yes. It helped me forget the pain of loss for a different pain, one I could conquer, I could suffer and survive. It helped.

And now?

I have lost what I thought was mine.

You have lost nothing, child. Not what you think you have.

Be still. Unbind yourself. Loose yourself. Drink. Sleep.

Lathron unbound Gimli's hair and carded his fingers through the dense, luxuriant beard, shaking loose, it seemed that the last few leaves of Winter were caught in it though Gimli knew not how. It was intimate in a way that Gimli had never experienced; he had not had anyone touch him like this in all his life. He loosed Gimli's clothes so he stood naked and unbound by braid or kin or title. Just him. And Lathron. It undid him and he wept, leaning into the Listener's broad chest.

It was not only for Brisingr that he wept, but for Boromir, for Balin and Óin and Ori, and for Thorin, and for Fili and Kili and Tharkîl. And Gloín and Dwalin and those they had left behind.

Is this an enchanted place? he wondered, weeping into Lathron's broad, comforting chest. Am I enchanted? In the stories, if you eat from the Elvenking's table or drink his mead, you are forever bound.

Are you not already? You have bound yourself to his son, and he to you. Together you will go to the ends of the world.

I cannot follow him forever. He is an Elf. Perhaps that was the greatest grief; for Legolas alone would endure and be left behind of all the Fellowship but Gandalf.

I did not say that you would follow. Are you not Siginalâ Idzadân-Úthaar? Faithful Colfîndë Cilaulëion? Do you not bear the Braigtîr-Hend?

Gimli could not speak; the comfort it gave him was overwhelming and he realised that his bonds with Legolas were deep indeed; comrades, friends. Belasen, Legolas called him. Beloved Dwarf. It was not a romantic love- no, indeed. But something else and perhaps even deeper.

Now you begin to see. I will scribe you here. Lathron touched his forearms, traced patterns on his skin with long fingers that had known the Earth before the stars were kindled. Here is the firestorm of your spirit that the Aran has dreamed. And here will be the Braigtîr-Hend, that watch over you. Here, I see a bow, an axe, a blade, and here a ship with white birds aloft and white waves beneath, Colfîndë, for Samildánach- Aulë loves you.

An artist's strokes over his broad shoulder and over his chest, turned him and traced over his muscular shoulders, his strong back and flanks without shame or pause, over his buttocks and thighs.

He did not feel the moment Lathron began to paint. The quiss that pricked into his flesh and the iridescent inks that etched what Lathron had seen; the firestorm and the Braigtîr-Hend, and the symbols of his own brotherhood with Aragorn and with Legolas forever onto his skin. In the silent hours that followed he found a music lingering somewhere although he leaned in, he could not quite catch the melody, it eluded him.

The sharpness of physical pain overwhelmed his sorrow and drove his heart to grit itself, to seize its courage. Then he saw clearly: there was the soreness of his heart. But it would not break. His affection for Brisingr had been doting and fond, but she was not his Khabbûna as he had thought. He already knew that. He saw how young he had been when he had left for Imladris, how foolish. He saw too how he had changed - he was a dwarf lord now like those of old, of Belegost and Nogrod, of the ancient realm of Khazad-dûm.

The smoke and mead and pain pulled him into a different place where Time did not exist and he saw himself in the future; holding aloft a lantern to shine upon the caverns and deeps of a new country. Seams of gold glittered, and emerald and sapphire, dark and rich were those gems, and deeper by far was a vein of mithril such as they had found only in Khazad-dûm before. He saw himself in a council chamber with other dwarf lords, seated at the head of the table but not crowned or enthroned. Not King like Dain or Thorin Stonehelm, but lords, like Narvi, or Azaghâl and he found he liked that.

Another cup was pressed against his lips and he drank. He pulled in the smoke of dry and bitter sweetness and the pain became something else. He had no word for it. He leant his head back against Lathron's broad chest and the tears came until they did not. He heard the heart that had beat for long, long Ages even before the Sun. It had awoken in darkness and run beneath the stars, and Gimli found himself too running beneath the stars; like a white hart he leapt and ran through the trees, two others ran with him beneath the Wood and there was such joy. He plunged into the dark water, and the river churned through rock, ground at it as he would; he felt its determination, its relentless charge and his heart pounded with the excitement as sediment and rock dissolved beneath the endless attrition; he tumbled and turned with the foaming water and burst from the river into the Sea….and there… he floated, his hair streaming behind him and he felt like he was flying for the depth below him was immense, immeasurable and …he felt the earth again and emerged into sunlight, water streaming from his hard, muscular body.

Oh. And there….

His face was wet and his heart… oh, his heart. He could not speak.

Later, as Gimli drifted in the waking-sleeping euphoria that the scribing brought, another came and pressed athelas and uilios against the Dwarf's newly inked skin, wound a linen cloth lightly over the yaré-carmë.

Gimli did not know how long he stayed with Lathron. But at last he found himself standing naked and thigh deep in the still pool and the bitterness of the cold slowly awoke him. He was languid and sated, letting his hand drift over the still water, watching the ripples as they moved away from his touch. He cupped his hand in the water and drank from the forest river and watched the riverweeds streaming like a mermaid's hair. A white hart watched him as he stood naked in the cold water and dunked himself beneath, emerging streaming with water. Utterly at peace.

He knew that Legolas had found him and carefully swaddled him in his cloak, found his boots and clothed him carefully not to disturb the linen pressed over his newly scribed skin. Leaning in and resting his cheek against Legolas' chest, Gimli listened to the love his faithful friend had for him, how deep, unquestioning. He knew then that he would travel with Legolas wherever he went and that Legolas would go with him too, whether it be the deeps of Khazad-dûm once more or the far shores over the Sea. He knew utterly in his heart now and he saw that Legolas too had known it. Not follower indeed. Companions equal in heart.

Legolas looked down at him with great tenderness and affection. 'Belasen', he said.

Gimli nodded and reaching up, clasped the strong shoulder. 'Sannadidith,' he named him. 'Brother of my heart.'

The End

Thank you to all those who left reviews and comments, especially fun plot bunnies (you know who you are!) BUT sadly, I do have to leave this although I have really enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of finding these less well known parts of Middle Earth. Thank you for all the very lovely comments and encouragement but I have got Elrohir breathing down my neck and Maglor. Not in a sexy way but a sort of scary, fire-breathing impatient you-better-fix-it-for- my-brother respectively sort of way! So next fic will be Elrohir/Legolas, following on from Seven Stars -I think shorter and then the longer final sequel to Seven and the last in the Sons of Thunder series. (I think. Maybe)