Found

Though he didn’t show it, Gimli was well aware of Elrohir’s arrival in the grove of fruit trees. He did not move or speak as the Elf dropped into the dirt beside him, joining him in his upward gaze at the towering pillars of the trees. Gimli liked these trees, this grove; it felt closed in and solid--more like the mountains he’d been born in than any of the buildings of Rivendell, for all their stone work.

"You look troubled, Gimli Elf-Child," Elrohir said after many long moments of watching the trees dapple the early morning sun.

"I am no Elf," Gimli said, far more heatedly than he’d planned. "I am a Dwarf."

"I hardly took you for a bluebird, my dear Gimli."

Gimli snorted at the wry amusement that colored Elrohir’s voice. He looked down from the trees, but not at the Elf beside him. He tugged on the leaf of a nearby foxglove and watched the way the tall stalk swayed. "I am not a child, either," he said quietly. "By Dwarf reckoning I am fully grown and battle ready."

"Are you?"

The Dwarf turned his head sharply. He met gray-green eyes that were filled with an honest curiosity and a sort of bemused puzzlement. "I am," he said shortly, stung. Had he been considered a child? All this time?

"Peace," Elrohir laid an understanding hand on his shoulder. "Peace, Gimli. I meant no insult. It is simply…you are Gimli." He shrugged slightly, "Neither a child nor an adult nor an Elf nor a Dwarf. Almost I would think you Elladan, so quick are your moods today." He stretched and lay back on the ground but his voice grew serious, "Is there ill news from your Uncle?"

"No," Gimli turned blind eyes to the tree tops again. "Not ill."

There was a faint tug at his sleeve. "Rest; your eyes are tired today. For all the late hour of my return last night, I believe now that I could indeed have come to your rooms to speak with you, for you would have been awake." The tug came again, just as gently. "Rest. Lay with me. Speak with me."

"Nay," he answered, lying back with a sigh. "Not yet."

Elrohir sat up, blocking the view of the trees with a tumble of ebony hair as he leaned over Gimli, frowning. "You will not discuss your troubles with me?"

"It is not a trouble," Gimli said quietly. "I have said as such already; it is simply something I must think about."

Dark brows drew together as Elrohir’s frown deepened. "It is not trouble but it troubles you. Gimli, will you not tell me? We oft have untangled many problems together. Should now be different?"

"Aye, it shall," Gimli closed his eyes as shadows fell in the eyes that watched him. ‘Because,’ he thought to himself, ‘if I tell you, you will bid me stay. And I would do all that you ask of me, without a care to anything else.’ He said none of it aloud. "As much as I desire your company, I have need of private thought. I promise that I will tell you of it soon. Will that suffice?"

"No. But I suppose it must, if it is all you will give me." A slight sound, a shifting sound and Gimli reached out to catch his companion’s wrist; his many long years with the Elves made his aim impeccable.

"Elrohir," he didn’t open his eyes, merely tightened his grip fractionally. "Your counsel was much missed while you were away hunting Orcs."

"Ah." The amusement was back and behind closed eyes Gimli could all but see the Elf’s smile. "I missed you, as well." Shock at the sudden, sweet press of lips against his own made Gimli’s hand fall open. He’d yet to grow used to Elrohir’s casual affection. "I’m going to breakfast. It’s being set in the courtyard if you wish to join us."

He shook his head and listened to the quiet footsteps as Elrohir left him to think; now that his attention had been called to it, Gimli could hear the sounds of breakfast being set close by. It was hard to concentrate, listening to it, but he didn’t move.

"So you have returned!" Erestor’s voice was light. "I thought I was misinformed when I saw no trace of you this morning."

"If you wished to see him, you should have sought out Gimli; my dear brother is over-fond of him."

"Over-fond? You cannot be ‘over-fond’. Outside that point, you might mean that Father is overly fond. He was the one who spent hours dandling Gimli upon his knee. For years I despaired of ever having a moment with him, truly."

Elrond’s voice followed the faint sounds of somebody choking. "Elrohir, I am beginning to suspect that you have been far too long in the wilds with the Rangers. Dandling him upon my knee, indeed."

"You would have, if you’d thought he would have let you," Glorfindel’s voice was solemn but Gimli knew it for his most teasing tone.

"I made no mistake, brother mine. You I said and you I meant. You kiss him."

"I kiss you, too."

"You kissed him on the lips."

Elrohir’s voice was gleeful, "You feel put aside! Come, I shall remedy that!" Gimli smiled as the sound of somebody leaping to the tabletop coincided with the sound of a chair scraping back—a sign of mad Elvish scrambling if ever he’d heard one. "Come, Elladan! I will not have you feeling left out!"

The sounds of a struggle, shrieks of laughter, and breakfast continued for some time and Gimli grew drowsy listening to it. He drew out the letter that had come to him from his cousin Balin and studied it again; he didn’t open it for he already knew it off by heart. He turned the thick square of parchment over in his hands and listened as Erestor doggedly attempted to speak about the Ranger who’d turned up in Lothlórien over Elrond’s admonishments to the laughing twins and Glorfindel’s quiet singing.

And, oddly enough, it was breakfast that decided him where a night long of thinking had failed.  

The wind was biting; it gnawed at Gimli through the thick furs that cloaked him and its icy teeth snapped at his face when he dared lift it from the warmth of his father’s neck. "Papa?" he’d never seen his father’s face so gray or set or grim. His back was bent though he carried only the weight of Gimli and the small pack of silver and copper from their trading endeavors.

"Sha, sha, Gimli," his father murmured absently, his voice lost quickly to the angry yowling of the wind. "It’s all right." He was bounced slightly against his father’s shoulder, the hand on his back patting rhythmically, the way one might comfort a baby.

"Papa…" He wanted to say ‘I can walk’ but could not. He would have liked to have been able to say it, but his left leg had bled badly and he’d quickly lost all strength in it. He didn’t know how his Papa was walking; Gimli knew he had landed atop him when they’d fallen and the pony that had carried him had been dead when he’d opened his eyes. "Papa, we’ll be there soon. I can see the fire lights glowing," he said instead, trying to sound bracing and helpful and not five and scared as his father was seized by another fit of coughing. "And the Elves will help us. They will because Durin saved them. Durin saved them all."

He was shifted and had to stifle a cry as his injured leg sent up a protest that made his head swim; but his father was looking at him and this time he was truly seeing him. And he was smiling. "Aye, Durin saved them. The Elves of Rivendell will remember their debt of old."

"Yes. And maybe…maybe they will bury Bur for us, so that Mahal will take him to the Great Halls."

Gimli was jogged comfortingly against his father’s shoulder again as another fit of coughing came. "Nay, Gimli," his father sounded tired. "Winter has come in earnest to this part of the world, as early as it is. The Elves would not risk the danger of that climb, not even for the mighty Bur. Do not fret—our pony will find his own way to Mahal and he will be of as much use to him as he was to us."

There was a sudden jolt and this time Gimli could not hush his cry. His father had dropped to his knees. The arm that had supported his bottom was now in the snow, as Glóin crawled forward upon his knees using that hand for support. "Papa?" Gimli whimpered as his leg swung freely, brushing through the deep drifts. He clung to his father’s shoulders. "Papa?" his father did not answer and Gimli burrowed his head into his father’s beard as his father coughed again and again, ever crawling forward. Each movement made his leg throb and he concentrated all his being on not crying out. For a long time the pain and the labored sound of his father’s breathing was all there was.

"My son, ah my son," His papa’s whisper roused him from his intent focus. They had stopped and, Gimli realized, his father had set him down into the burning cold of the snow. "Take this, Gimli." He blinked as their trading pack was buckled awkwardly to his belt. His father’s eyes were shining as Gimli looked up. "The Elves will tend you well and soon you will grow a beard that is longer and finer than even mine. Of all my works, little fire, you are the one of which I am most proud."

He had never heard his father speak thus. "Papa?"

"Elrohir, get the child." Twin visions upon a black horse had appeared out of the skirl of snow. One bent now over his father. "Can you rise, father? Can you speak?"

"I am Glóin of the line of Durin and this is Gimli, my son. Our kin dwell in the Blue Mountains."

"Papa?" he tried to peer around the Elf who stood before him. He gasped as he was plucked up, his face pressed into the warmth of a cloak-covered shoulder.

"If you have stone, good Elf, I will soon require it. If you do not, I will suffer your fire."

"Elladan…"

The other Elf glanced up. "Yes. Go."

"PAPA!" Gimli shrieked; he tried to struggle but the pain in his leg made it nearly impossible. He felt the world go around as the Elf who held him swung them onto the back of the horse, so much taller than stout Bur had been. "Papa! Papa!"

He pushed himself away from the sheltering embrace but was caught when he would have tumbled. "Hush, small one," the Elf said softly and his eyes shone with compassion. The horse thundered on, flying over the snow. "Save your strength; serve his wish to see you well." He knew, then, that he would not see his strong, gruff-voiced, brave Papa ever again.

"Who…" will take care of me, he thought. "Who are you?"

"Elrohir, son of Elrond. You are safe now, child; I will swear it on my name that you are safe." He was drawn back to the warmth of the Elvish body, his face surrounded by wind-whipped dark hair that smelled, even in the winter, of honeysuckle. "You are safe."

And then the ground fell away and the sky tumbled as the horse plunged down and down and down. "Elrohir!" he could see the stallion, close at hand and dead, the packs laying open beside it, spilling out all their precious supplies. "Elrohir!" he didn’t look down at the relative softness that was beneath him, not wanting to see the lively Elf dead. He pressed his face into the hard muscled chest so that he wouldn’t have to look. The sound of ragged, labored breathing assailed his ears and he tried to block it out. "ELROHIR!"

"Gimli…"

"Gimli, hush. Hush. All is well, Gimli," a soft voice shushed him and the crook of shoulder in which Gimli’s head was held was warm and familiar. He drew a deep, hard breath, feeling his heart slow from its terrible race. "All is well."

"I am awake," he murmured. He took the silently offered comfort, not moving from the tight embrace or away from the hand stroking though his hair. "I dreamt, only. I dreamt of my father." ‘And you’ but he didn’t say it.

Elrohir continued to rock him, stroking. "It has been long since your nightmare has plagued you and yet…yet it seems to me to be more frequent now than it once was."

It was, Gimli silently agreed. It had also changed significantly. It had happened, this new dream, three times now since the awakening of his yearning; since his heart had chosen to lay itself at Elrohir’s feet in offering. "I have never been free of it entirely," he said, closing his eyes and breathing deeply of Elrohir’s sweet scent. "Your father believes that I never shall be."

"Mm. Unfortunately, Father has a tendency to being very right in these matters," Elrohir murmured. Gimli felt a quiet kiss on his temple and long, clever fingers on the nape of his neck. Stroking.

He ducked out of Elrohir’s embrace when he would have melted against him; he had not, and would never, take more from any touch that the Elf would give him than was meant. No matter how much he might wish for a different kiss or a less brotherly touch, Gimli would not take it by deceitful practices. He had not spoken of these longings, however, because he could not willfully deny himself any affection that Elrohir might bestow on him. "Why are you here?" He glanced toward his windows and noted that the moon had already set for the night. "Is aught the matter?"

"Not as you mean it, no." There was a flare of brightness which settled into a dim light as three of his bed-side candles were lit. Gimli scrubbed one hand over his eyes as Elrohir, his features etched with candle-glow, sat back down beside him on the bed. "But I didn’t see you at lunch and you were nowhere to be found when I tried to summon you for dinner; you said you would speak of it soon…"

"Ah," Gimli tucked his pillows behind his back and settled against the headboard, eyeing Elrohir warily. "I spent the evening meal with the messenger from the Blue Mountains."

"He might have dined with the rest of us, Gimli," Elrohir smiled, his eyes dancing. "I have been told that we are passable company—even for Dwarves."

Gimli couldn’t find an answering smile within himself and it pinched at his heart to see the cheerful good-humour slip away from the eyes he held so dear. "We…I was drafting an answer to my kin."

"An answer?"

"Yes, to say that I will join them."

"Join them?" Elrohir repeated. His eyes shuttered. "You are leaving us, then?"

"No. I am but…" Gimli tugged on the end of his beard in frustration. "I am not certain."

Elrohir’s eyebrows flew upward. "Not certain? You are joining them."

And that, Gimli thought with a sigh, was the easy part of the explanation. "There is an expedition to reclaim the Lonely Mountain. I have been asked to take the place that would have rightfully gone to my father."

"You did not say ‘yes’, Gimli!" Elrohir shot to his knees on the edge of the mattress, eyes wide. "Gimli, you did not say yes."

"I have. You have already guessed that I have."

"There is a dragon there."

Gimli felt a wry smile twist his mouth. "I was well aware of that fact."

The bed dipped as Elrohir leaned forward, balanced on hands and knees, his face mere inches from Gimli’s own. "Why? Why would you do this?" There was anger, deep and heated, crackling in every line of his body. "A hundred Dwarves could not defeat Smaug! You will have perhaps—perhaps!—half of that number. It is folly, Gimli."

The Dwarf felt his sleepless night and the pressure of the choice stir into anger. "It must be done," he growled, holding back his anger, knowing it flashed a warning in his eyes all the same. "It must be done and I will do it."

Elrohir went rigid. "You will do it. Folly or no, you will knowingly march to a wasted end. And how many of your kindred march with you to that end? How many shall straggle back along the path away?" Gimli bit his tongue, refusing to answer and Elrohir leaned closer, eyes burning. "How many, Gimli?"

Reckless anger, driven in part by fear and in part by pride, made him speak. "Thirteen of us will gather in the Shire beyond the hills. Mithrandir is arranging a burglar to be our fourteenth."

The Elf snapped back as though Gimli had struck him. "Thirteen? Thirteen and a burglar?"

Gimli nodded sharply, radiating defiance, and was stunned when Elrohir slipped off the bed and slumped onto the floor. "Elrohir?" he sat up worriedly and shook him lightly; unseeing eyes stared back at him.

"You will die," the words were strangled and Elrohir’s eyes remained blank. "Fourteen. You will die." One strong hand grasped Gimli’s wrist the other, Gimli noted, fisted in the blankets. "You will be lost to me, Gimli…"

He tried to be comforting; kneading the bunched muscles beneath his fingers. "We are not planning on marching in through the front gates, Elrohir. Smaug, curse him, shall be ousted with stealth and cunning, not brute force."

"No, Gimli," Elrohir’s fingers laced through his and he drew their joined hands to his chest. "No. Your place is here."

It hurt, more than Gimli had thought it would. "My place is here because of the destruction wreaked by that worm. No, Elrohir, listen," he reached out with his free hand to stop the shaking of Elrohir’s head. "When I came to this place it was winter and I could not be brought safely back to my people. In the spring my uncle came and yet I did not go with him when he went. Do you know why?"

"There…" the soft voice faltered for a moment. "There was none to look after you."

"So it was," Gimli confirmed. "Even the youngest of my cousins worked and there was no one who could be spared to tend a babe such as I was. More," he shut his eyes, an old grief swimming in his veins. "Óin wished to have me with him. But I was doing well here; I was learning and growing as I had not traveling with my father. There were soft beds and warm meals here. My kin had not those assurances. Óin asked me to stay, for the sake of all. I was happy to say yes." The admission cost him. "The mountain I remembered was often cold and it was noisy. Lonesome. Imladris was like a paradise. I wanted to stay here. I dreaded leaving."

Arms banded about him and Gimli once more found himself pressed into the haven of Elrohir’s body. "Is this why you dreamt, tonight?"

He eluded the question with a tired shrug; it was leaving Elrohir that caused the dream far more than the thought of his family. "I have been lucky. I would give my kin the same chance to have what I have had all this while. And we do have Mithrandir’s vote of confidence," he yawned.

The darkness behind his closed eyelids grew darker as Elrohir leaned away and when he returned there was a light kiss pressed to his forehead. "You will forgive me, Gimli, if that means very little when faced with the loss of you." The room tilted as he was borne back to the mattress; Elrohir followed him, twined around him.

"Elrohir?" Gimli asked as the blankets were drawn over both of them.

"I would stay here, if you would allow it," answered a sleepy voice just above his ear. "I think that neither of us slept last night and I am exhausted."

He swallowed hard. "If you wish to stay, you may," he said quietly. Elvish fingers tangling in his hair was his only answer. 

Odd it was, Gimli mused, to be speaking the common tongue of men. Though their burglar, a queer little fellow whose pony insisted on trotting next to whichever pony he, Gimli, was saddled on, spoke Elvish. Of all the Dwarves most had only enough of the language to get by, three spoke not a single word of it and Gimli alone was fluent. Odd, yes, but the chance to practice his Dwarvish on the way to the Shire had been enjoyable in the extreme and the common tongue was not entirely unlovely.

"Really, shan’t we have reached it by now?" The burglar, Baggins, was saying in a conversational tone. He was mostly ignored by the Dwarves, though several had glanced ahead, questioningly, to Mithrandir and Thorin.

Gimli glanced to his left and noted the moon-shadows cast by the ash trees and the small tumble of smooth stones that marked, for the observant, the Elvish paths. "No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"No, we should not have come to it yet. But we should be crossing the river soon and then we will have reached Imladris and you will see the city proper."

"Oh. You have been to Rivendell often? Though I do seem to recall that Dwarves weren’t much keen on Elves, mind, and I’m not saying that you’re an odd sort—not at all!—but you have been to Rivendell and know the way? Well?"

Hobbits, Gimli frowned, were prone to chatter if this one was anything to go by. Harmless enough, all in all, he decided, and well meaning despite their over-abundance of nonsense. "I have lived in Imladris nearly all of my life."

Baggins blinked. "Oh, pardon. I didn’t know that…that…," he seemed to struggle for words that would not seem insulting. "That the Elves were prone to taking in foundlings."

"Gimli wasn’t found, Bilbo, he was brought." Mithrandir appeared as if from nowhere at the Hobbit’s right hand and Gimli smiled, having seen the Istari’s movements from the periphery of his vision. "Brought, one might say, by the hand of Fate."

The not-quite foundling in question snorted. "Oh, aye, because one Dwarf can change the luck of all the world."

"How should he not?" Mithrandir’s voice was, Gimli shivered, a rebuke and a lesson to listen, despite the casual tone. "Think on it; had you not been in Elrond’s care, how would Thorin come to have business in such a far-off place as Bree? If Thorin had not been in Bree on business to see to you, Gimli, he could not have come across me and this expedition would not now be occurring."

Bilbo Baggins apparently didn’t hear as well as Elf-raised Dwarves. "Despite it, Gandalf, wouldn’t the Dwarves have had a go at it? Without the map or key or any sort of well-considered plan? Begging your pardon," he nodded to Gimli.

"Dwarves plan," he said shortly and watched in some satisfaction as the little burglar winced before smiling brightly again as the sound of running water and flowing Elven voices became plainly heard.

"Indeed both of you," Mitrandir chuckled quietly. "Indeed yes. Still, luck is with us. Elrond is allowing thirteen Dwarves beneath the roof-tide of Rivendell and that is no small feat. Without Gimli, Bilbo, you could not hope to pass safely through the forest realm of Mirkwood; the Elves there are wary of strangers and its paths are treacherous to friend and foe alike, if you have not an Elven guide." Gimli received a look of import, as Mithrandir continued, "On Elrond’s word, Thranduil will send out a party to greet you and lead you safely through to the palace. And I dare say you shall have need of the rest you will have there!"

"Rest? Are you already seeking your beds?" Elladan’s voice came from the trees above them, followed shortly by its owner. "How unfortunate when the night is yet young and the moon still full in the sky. Gimli," a hand came to firmly grip his shoulder, all the greeting Elladan ever gave him when in the company of others. "Alas, I will give up your company and give you to your sleep."

Gimli patted his forearm before shoving the hand away. "Some fifteen of us have been on the road steadily; sleep is hardly an unreasonable expectation." He slid from the saddle as they crossed into Imladris and let his steed wander off on its own will, noticing that the other ponies also went free as their riders were led away to the guest chambers. "I am not the only one traveling," he said quietly as he turned towards his rooms, Elladan still companionably at his side. "Has…" he paused slightly. "Has Elrohir returned yet?" Because when he’d woken, the morning after sleeping in the arms of his heart’s chosen, Elrohir had been gone. From his bed and from the entirety of the Elvish stronghold. Gone, everyone had supposed, to find a few more Orcs. Despite the fact that he’d been returned only a day. Despite the fact that he had not, for once, waited for Elladan to join him. "Or is he yet hunting?"

Elladan smiled. "He has returned." They reached the door they had sought and the dark-haired Elf bowed, "Gimli, Father has asked that you stay some little time before the journey continues on, so that he may consult with Thorin Oakenshield and Mithrandir. Talk with my brother before that time is over."

"I have always spoken with Elrohir," Gimli dropped his pack with a tired yawn. "Why would I not this time?" He deliberately did not look Elladan in the face as he spoke. Very little that happened in the house went unnoticed by Elrond or his oldest son.

"Gimli, speak with him," he said meaningfully. "He fretted when he learned your path would wend its way through the Woodland. Neither for the spiders, nor for Thranduil’s petulance over being denied a share in any gold earned from your trip…but for Legolas."

His heart froze in its beat and Gimli was amazed that he could still pull his shirt off and his nightshirt on. Legolas. "The princeling is well able to take care of himself in the forest, and could only be helped by Dwarves at his back. Elrohir’s worries are for naught." If that were the place where Elrhoir’s heart had found itself, there was little Gimli could do.

"You misunderstand. He frets not for Legolas’ safety. He frets because you are friendly with Legolas and Legolas is fair."

"Fair?" Gimli was genuinely puzzled. "Fair at what?"

"Which is what I asked," Elladan came into the room and sat himself on the rug at the hearth. "As it happens, the spare prince is fair of face and body." Gimli felt his mind tilt with a terrible weight of hope. He gaped at Elladan for lack of words and was surprised to see that the Elf, whose voice always sounded like laughter, was very serious. "Much the same was my reaction. He hadn’t worried when Arwen was yet here and Legolas came for council. He hadn’t worried when Legolas was here as emissary from his father when you were a child." A smooth hand reached out and tugged his beard in a friendly manner. "Yet for some reason I will not name to you, he worries now. And you, he says, are an adult in the reckoning of mortals. Speak, Gimli, before you leave."

"I…" the idea of it, any of it, made his head swim. "I shall."

Elladan smiled and bid him goodnight. Gimli went to his bed with his thoughts in a muddle and though he did not think he would be able to sleep, he did. 

Dwarves were masters of stone, of gold, of steel, and of strange and precious dreams. It was those dreams that stayed Gimli’s tongue, for he was not entirely certain that he had not dreamed his words with Elladan. He had, therefore, decided that he would not seek out time alone with Elrohir—he could not be expected to discuss such matters in public and if he had no privacy then he would not be breaking his word, if he’d given it, to Elladan. For the first few days he had waited in hope and dread, wondering. But Elrohir had not sought him out as was his usual wont, or at least he had made no strenuous effort for time apart.

"And," he muttered to himself as he slid a buckle into place, "he would, wouldn’t he, if his brother were right?"

"My brother is too much like our Father…he has a tendency to be annoyingly right about a great many things." Elrohir stepped into the grove of fruit trees and laid a hand on the neck of the pony that Gimli was saddling. "About what, precisely, is he right?"

A stark moment of terror hung, crystalline, in his heart and Gimli wished, frantically, that Bilbo or Thorin, or even Bombur, would stumble by seeking their own mounts in the shade of the trees. ‘If I should speak,’ he thought, ‘what that I would lose everything?’ Honor and pride won out. "I am undecided if he is wrong or right," he said and was amazed at the normal sound of his voice. Perhaps baring his soul would be, in the end, no more or less than anything he had ever said to Elrohir. Perhaps he’d done it all his life without knowing. "He told me, yesterday that Legolas is…" he paused. If he were to be turned away, he would not come back to this place and he would not see again the one he loved. He let his eyes take in features he had memorized as a child.

"Legolas is…?" Elrohir smiled and gestured broadly. "He is what? An excellent archer? A fine singer? No?" his smile, playful and bright, grew and Gimli knew that he had dreamed. "An Elf, then? A Man? Oh, female!"

"Fair!" he burst out, stopping the good-natured guesses that shamed him, his heart’s secret hope, without meaning to. "Legolas is fair," he said, as the anger crumbled beneath his unhappiness.

Yet…yet Elrohir had taken a swift step away and there was something in his eyes, horrible and scared. "Gimli, I…" he stuttered. It was not a sound that he had ever made before. "My fear, no, no, my concern was…"

He would have liked to turn away, to be nonchalant and graceful in this thing, but Gimli could not tear his eyes away. "It was your concern, then? You feared?"

Elrohir’s voice, when he spoke, was the same voice that had said tens of thousands of words for Gimli’s ears. "I feared." And Gimli wondered what strange dreams Elves dreamed. "I feared when I wanted the heat of your body, and I feared when I left it. I feared that you would have come and gone again before I managed to return home. I fear now, Gimli, because I have found that I have not truly come home until I have seen you."

Something that had been tight in his belly, something that had come with the yearning, loosened and relaxed and Gimli sighed softly. When he reached out it was with the grace of surety. "Then I shall return," he said as he drew the Elf down into a kiss that was softer than any that had come before and tasted of love beyond brotherhood. He stepped back and took the trailing reins into his hands.

"Gimli…"

"My heart is here, with you, though I might be far away," he said, laying his hand on the slim fingers that held the whither. "Though I might be a Dwarf of many journeys, I shall always return to you. Even if," he smiled suddenly, "I might travel with the fair Legolas."

Laughing quietly, Elrohir stepped away. "Go, then, with your kin or with mine, but remember to take care…my heart travels with you, even if yours be here."

He nodded once, hard, and mounted, automatically nudging the pony toward the bridge where the others would be gathering.  

When he returned, their hearts were together. And though there would be many partings between them, their hearts would always return, each to the other, as they had ever done.