The morning came grey and cold, clouds covering the sky as if the world itself was mourning.
Legolas found Gimli sitting apart from the others, his stocky form silhouetted against the eastern horizon. The Dwarf's axe lay across his knees, but his hands weren't cleaning or sharpening it—they were simply resting there, as if he'd forgotten what they were supposed to do.
His eyes were fixed on the mountains they'd fled, on the peaks that hid Moria's eastern gate, on the grave of everything he'd hoped to find.
Legolas approached without speaking. His footsteps were silent—Elvish instinct—but Gimli didn't startle when he sat on the rock beside him. Perhaps the Dwarf had heard him anyway. Perhaps he simply didn't care who joined him in his grief.
They sat together in silence.
The Fellowship was stirring behind them, Aragorn's voice gentle as he roused the hobbits, Boromir moving with mechanical efficiency through the morning's preparations. But here, apart from the others, two members of the company faced their losses together.
Gimli had found his cousin's tomb and his wizard's grave in the same kingdom. Both deaths separated by decades, but experienced within days of each other. The Dwarf's grief was layered—sorrow upon sorrow, loss upon loss, until the weight of it seemed to press him into the stone beneath them.
Legolas understood that weight. Understood how grief accumulated, how each new loss awoke the ghosts of previous ones, how the dead crowded around the living until breathing felt like betrayal.
Sometimes presence is enough, he reminded himself. Sometimes words only make it worse.
They sat for a long time. The sun climbed behind its veil of clouds, turning the world from grey to silver without quite achieving gold. The Fellowship prepared to move, their voices carrying across the morning air, but neither Legolas nor Gimli rose to join them.
Finally, Gimli spoke.
"You walked those halls differently than other Elves."
The statement came without preamble, without context. But Legolas understood what the Dwarf was really asking—understood that grief sometimes needed distraction, needed something else to focus on while the heart slowly stitched itself back together.
"I've learned to appreciate stone-craft," Legolas said carefully. "Mirkwood's corruption taught me that different perspectives have value. The Dwarves see depths that Elves miss."
"Hmm." Gimli's grunt carried neither agreement nor disagreement. "My father always said Elves couldn't see past their own reflections. That you thought your way was the only way, your light the only light worth following."
"Your father wasn't entirely wrong." Legolas allowed himself a slight smile, though Gimli wasn't looking at him. "Many Elves are exactly as he described. We've had ages to develop our prejudices."
"And you? Are you different, then?"
"I try to be." Legolas looked at the mountains that had cost them so much. "The darkness in Mirkwood taught me that pride was a luxury I couldn't afford. When shadow presses from all sides, you learn to value any light—even light that comes from unexpected sources."
Gimli was quiet for a moment, processing. His hands had begun moving again, fingers tracing the runes carved into his axe handle—a nervous habit or a meditation, Legolas couldn't tell which.
"Gandalf said something similar once." The words came slowly, weighted with fresh grief. "That the free peoples would need to stand together or fall separately. That old grudges were chains Sauron used against us."
"Gandalf was wise."
"Was." Gimli's voice cracked on the word. "Was wise. Is dead."
Legolas had no response to that. The lie sat on his tongue—he'll come back, he's not truly gone, his sacrifice will be rewarded—but he couldn't speak it. Couldn't offer comfort that required revealing knowledge he shouldn't have.
So he said nothing. Just sat beside the Dwarf as grief washed over them both, as the morning aged toward noon, as the Fellowship waited for them to rejoin the march.
"He was kind to me." Gimli's voice had gone soft, almost childlike. "When the others looked at me with suspicion—an Elf prince, a wizard, a king's heir—Gandalf looked at me and saw a Dwarf who wanted to help. He didn't ask me to be anything other than what I was."
"He saw clearly." Legolas thought of the wizard's eyes—sharp and questioning when they'd turned toward him, but warm and accepting when they'd looked at the others. "He saw the best in everyone. Even those who disappointed him."
"Even you?"
The question surprised Legolas. He turned to find Gimli watching him with eyes that held something beyond grief—curiosity, perhaps, or the beginning of understanding.
"He was suspicious of me," Legolas admitted. "From the moment we met in Rivendell. He sensed something... different. Something he couldn't explain."
"And now he's gone without ever learning what it was."
The statement hit harder than it should have. Legolas felt his chest tighten, felt the guilt that had been circling finally find its landing place.
"Yes." The word came out rough, scraped over emotions he'd been trying to contain. "Now he's gone."
Gimli studied him for a long moment—the kind of assessment that Dwarves were known for, the weighing of stone and metal and character that their culture had refined over millennia.
"My father also said," Gimli continued slowly, "that grief shared is grief halved. That the burden of loss grows lighter when others help carry it."
Legolas looked at the Dwarf—this proud, stubborn, grieving warrior who'd spent weeks glaring at him across campfires. Something had shifted between them in Moria's darkness. The shared experience of horror had stripped away layers of prejudice, revealing the common ground beneath.
"That sounds like wisdom," Legolas said.
"Dwarvish wisdom." A ghost of Gimli's usual combativeness surfaced. "Not everything useful comes from Elves."
"No. It doesn't."
They sat together as the sun continued its hidden climb, two members of races that had warred and mistrusted and avoided each other for ages beyond counting. But here, now, in the aftermath of shared tragedy, those ancient divisions felt less insurmountable.
Gimli's hand touched Legolas's shoulder—a brief contact, there and gone, but carrying weight that words couldn't match. The Dwarf rose, gathering his axe, straightening his shoulders with visible effort.
"The others are waiting."
"Yes."
They walked back toward the Fellowship together, falling into step with an ease that would have seemed impossible a week ago. Merry looked up as they approached, his young face showing the first hint of curiosity that wasn't overshadowed by grief.
"You two are getting along," the hobbit observed.
"We're learning," Gimli said gruffly. "Against our better judgment."
Legolas almost smiled. "Some lessons are worth learning, even when they're difficult."
The Fellowship resumed their march, heading east toward the golden trees that grew clearer with every step. Legolas walked beside Gimli now, their shoulders occasionally brushing as the terrain shifted beneath their feet.
It wasn't friendship. Not yet. The word carried too much weight for what existed between them—a fragile understanding built on shared loss and reluctant respect. But it was something. A foundation that future events might build upon.
Against all odds, Legolas thought, the canon friendship is forming. Different circumstances, different timing, but the same destination.
The border of Lothlórien rose ahead, tall trees with silver bark and golden leaves that seemed to glow with inner light. Even from this distance, Legolas could feel the power of the place—the protection that Galadriel's Ring provided, the sanctuary that awaited them.
And he could feel something else. A presence watching them. A perception that had sensed his approach from leagues away and now waited to examine him in person.
The Lady who named me "Unsung."
The confrontation he'd been dreading since her message arrived in Rivendell was finally at hand. Whatever secrets he'd managed to keep, whatever barriers he'd built against discovery—all of it would be tested against perception that exceeded anything he'd faced.
Arrows appeared from the trees—Elvish bows drawn by guards who materialized from the forest like ghosts given form. The Fellowship halted, hands moving toward weapons that would be useless against the ambush.
"The Dwarf breathes so loud we could have shot him in the dark." The voice came from a silver-haired Elf who stepped from concealment with the casual grace of a predator who knew he held every advantage. "Welcome to Lothlórien. The Lady of the Wood has been expecting you."
His eyes found Legolas, and something flickered there—recognition of a fellow Elf, but also something else. Wariness, perhaps. As if he'd been warned that one of the visitors was not entirely what he seemed.
"I am Haldir of Lórien," the Elf continued. "You will come with us. All of you. The Lady wishes to speak with the Fellowship—and with one member in particular."
His gaze didn't leave Legolas's face.
She knows, Legolas thought, his stomach tightening. She's been waiting for this moment since she sent that message. And now there's nowhere left to run.
The Fellowship followed Haldir into the golden wood, walking toward judgment, toward sanctuary, toward a confrontation that would determine everything that came after.
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