Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a peculiar thing, time. In the Glittering Caves, it seemed to weave itself differently, the days and years intertwining in a dance that blurred the boundaries between past, present, and future.

For twenty years now, Gimli had labored tirelessly to create a dwarven colony that was more than just a thing of beauty. Each chisel strike against the cavern walls had been a reverberation of ambition, a symphony of echoes that spoke of dreams taking shape in the subterranean realm.

Under Gimli’s watchful eye, the Glittering Caves had transformed into a dwarven haven, a labyrinth of chambers adorned with luminescent crystals and mirrors that cast a soft glow upon the intricate carvings. Stalactites and stalagmites became pillars of intricate dwarven architecture, melding with the natural beauty of the caves.

Twenty years was not a long time for a dwarf, let alone for an elf. Yet, in the two decades that flowed like a gentle stream through the corridors of Aglarond, Gimli's vision came to life in ways that exceeded even his grandest aspiration. In a short amount of time, twenty-three years since the end of the War of the Ring, the Glittering Caves became a testament to collaboration, coexistence, and the only neutral ground for every race of Middle Earth, exactly the way Gimli hoped them to be.

It also certainly helped that news of Aglarond's beauty and the spirit of union that dwelled within its chambers spread like fire across the realms. Elves, men, dwarves, and even the occasional hobbit came to experience the magic of the Caves when traversing through Rohan.

Legolas had much to do with that, for every time he traveled outside Rohan or Ithilien or met a new Gondorian citizen, he painted a vivid picture of a haven where races could coexist in harmony. There were not many elves left on Middle Earth, but most of those who still resisted the call of Valinor had now visited Aglarond. Most records of the elves that now reported information on dwarves reported an addendum mentioning “so said Legolas”, for he was the biggest champion of the Khazad outside their mountains.

As for Legolas’ personal connection with the Caves, he had remained true to his promise, and the past twenty years, from October to March with no exception, had found the elf nestled in the warm embrace of Aglarond - and of Gimli’s arms. During the rest of the year, when the flora of Ithilien burst into vibrant hues, Legolas would return to his forest, offer council to a now quite old Aragorn when needed, or occasionally patrol with Faramir’s troops in case of special operations. Keeping busy, just the way the dwarves had taught him, proved to be the most potent antidote to the relentless pull of the Sea-longing.

But the highlight of his year was always the month of June. That was when Gimli would spend the entire month in the forest with him, to celebrate their wedding anniversary and to revel in the summer's solstice under the stars.

They had a well-crafted routine, better than they could have hoped for, especially considering their differences and how hard it had been to simply carve out a space in the world for them.

It was a good life.

Yet a life that had kept them away from their families for two decades, and while for Legolas time was relative, it was not for Gimli.

And so, as the calendar pages turned and Bilbo Baggins' 93rd birthday approached, the decision to journey to Erebor and spend the winter there with the rest of the family took root. September 22 marked not only Bilbo's birthday but also Frodo's, who had never left the mountain after visiting for their wedding all those years ago.

As the Lonely Mountain loomed in the distance, in Legolas and Gimli’s hearts anticipation and nostalgia intertwined. Erebor awaited, with its grand halls echoing tales of old and all the family they had not seen for years.

Arod trod the path with a measured pace. Now twenty-seven years old, even their once-majestic steed now had a gait that was more deliberate than it had been in the days of more swift journeys. Gimli, gripping Arod's mane, stole a glance at Legolas behind his back. They had swapped riding places a few years back – Gimli tired of not having a clear view ahead, and Legolas, preferring the closeness, happy to embrace Gimli from behind for hours on end.

The elf locked gaze with Gimli’s and a mix of excitement and apprehension shined through his elf-eyes. They had sent letters over the years, of course, but returning home after two decades held a promise of joy mingled with uncertainty.

“Well,” Gimli began, his voice a hearty rumble above the rhythmic hoofbeats. “It's been a while, hasn't it? I wonder how much has changed and if we will feel like strangers.”

“I suspect much must have changed, meleth. But what I have always loved about Erebor is how constant ultimately is. When we lived there together, I often thought that it felt more eternal than elves.”

Arod snorted, as if sensing the weight of their words, and adjusted his pace as the terrain shifted beneath his hooves. The mountain loomed larger now, its shadow casting a nostalgic hue over the approaching reunion.

“Look at him,” Gimli remarked, patting Arod's neck affectionately. “He’s almost too old to travel and yet he still bears us true… good boy.”

Legolas simply smiled and pressed his cheek against Gimli’s cold helmet. “It took twenty years, but we made a horse-rider out of you.”

“Nonsense! Arod is an exception. All other horses are devilries,” he grumbled. “And no, I am not accepting a new horse from Éomer. Arod is the only horse I will ever ride, end of the story.”

Legolas chuckled and simply tightened his arms around Gimli’s waist, silently reminding him that riding also meant being this close.

As they neared the gates of Erebor, memories flooded back. With his eyes fixed on the entrance, Gimli muttered more to himself than to Legolas, “I wonder what the twins look like now or how tall Kíli and Tauriel’s daughter is… we have seen Elfwine, Eldarion, and Elboron become young men, but we missed the first years of our family’s baby dwarves. Will they even remember us?”

“Of course they will. Time waits for none, my love, but family has a way of preserving the essence of it,” said Legolas, understanding Gimli’s bittersweet words perhaps too well.

Gimli's expression softened, and he glanced at Legolas. “When did you start sounding so reasonable, oliphaunt-killer?”

Legolas scoffed slightly. “I cannot believe you still bring that up as proof of my recklessness. It happened only once, more than twenty years ago. You will have to move on one of these days, husband.”

“Never,” Gimli said, grinning like a fool while the gates of Erebor loomed larger with each step.

***

Amidst the echoes of laughter and the joyous reunions that filled the halls of Erebor, Legolas and Gimli found themselves basking in the warmth of familial embraces and the company of dear friends. The first week back home had been a whirlwind of dinners, gatherings, and catching up with the lives that had unfolded in their absence.

Legolas, famous for being the most tireless of all the Fellowship back in the day, was already exhausted. “I think I finally understand what you meant all those years ago in your letters – the exhaustion of these welcome-back parties. It's like trying to catch the wind,” he said with a wry smile.

Gimli chuckled, adjusting the ceremonial attire he put on for the occasion and fixing the last of his shining moissanite clasps in the beard. “Ah, the irony, my elf. It seems we are now victims of our own popularity. But in all honesty, I am too happy to see the faces we have missed for so long.”

“True, the love and joy are undeniable,” Legolas nodded while tying his robe. “But I confess, I'll be glad when the festivities settle, and we can steal a moment of quiet.”

Gimli placed a hand on Legolas' thin waist. “Aye, my love, a moment of quiet beneath the stars, away from the clamor. We'll find it, I promise. It is still warm enough to go enjoy a night out on Bilbo’s terrace.”

At that, Legolas smiled his beautiful radiant smile and Gimli felt so proud for saying the right thing.

Soon after, they were off to enjoy the party. The grand hall of Erebor buzzed with merriment as guests gathered to celebrate Bilbo and Frodo's birthdays. The air was filled with the sweet melodies of elven harps, the hearty tunes of dwarven drums, and the laughter of drunk dwarves and men from Dale.

Gimli and Legolas found themselves nestled at a beautifully adorned table, alongside Glóin and Gimriz, and not far from the King’s table, where the royal family – and Frodo – sat. The table groaned under the weight of sumptuous dishes, and goblets of mead were raised in joyous toasts. The atmosphere was vibrant, but Gimli and Legolas, now accustomed to the ebb and flow of social gatherings as Lords of their own realms, observed the festivities from their chosen vantage point.

“I see Dwalin's got a new beard trim,” Gimli whispered in Legolas’ ear, nodding towards the sturdy dwarf who was animatedly recounting a tale to a group of young dwarves.

The elf chuckled, knowing very well there was no need for Gimli to whisper in his ear, but closeness was always welcomed. “Seems he's taken a liking to intricate patterns. A fashion-forward dwarf, who would've thought?” he said, emptying his goblet.

“That’s the Lady Dis’ effect, if you ask me,” Gimli remarked and poured more Dorwinion wine into Legolas’ glass.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, husband?”

“No,” he said innocently. “But I am happy your father has sent the wine you like as a gift instead of himself. Now drink up!” Legolas rolled his eyes at the comment, but still drank. Gimli nodded contently, while his eyes went back to scan the room.

As the night wore on, the celebration reached its peak. Bilbo, surrounded by well-wishers, made one of his speeches, and his humor was as sharp as ever.

Gimli laughed heartily at one of Bilbo's jokes, squeezing Legolas' hand in shared mirth. But to his surprise, the elf didn't reciprocate the squeeze, and an unusual stillness lingered in the grasp. Gimli's laughter faded as he glanced at Legolas, a flicker of concern creasing his brow. The usual sparkle in Legolas' eyes seemed dimmed, and a shadow of distraction played across his features.

“Something on your mind, my love?” he whispered into Legolas' ear, mindful not to trouble Glóin or Gimriz with their private exchange.

Legolas took a deep breath, his gaze momentarily fixed on Bilbo, who continued to regale the gathering with tales and jests. “It's Bilbo,” Legolas confessed, his voice a hushed murmur to match the discreetness of Gimli. “His hair is now grey, and his hands, once smooth, bear the mark of time.”

Gimli followed Legolas' gaze. “Aye, he's not a young hobbit anymore… time catches up with even the most resilient souls,” he murmured.

“And there's something in the way King Thorin looks at him. It's a mixture of the usual love and... a hint of fear, as if Bilbo might disappear with the next breeze. I did not think he was even capable of looking afraid.”

As they continued to watch, the merriment of the party unfolded around them, but their focus remained on Bilbo and Thorin. Every now and then, Legolas sighed, his gaze lingering on Bilbo's aging form. “It is a stark reminder that even the most enduring tales have their chapters…”

Legolas' wistful words lingered in the air, reaching the ears of Gimli's mother, Gimriz, on the other side of the table. She turned towards them, her concerned gaze settling on the elf.

“Darling, are you alright?” she inquired, her maternal instincts kicking in.

When Legolas did not reply, Gimli jumped in. “I think we have reached our limit for parties, Ma. We should go home.”

Gimriz furrowed her brow, glancing between the two of them. “Are you sure, my dear? The night is still young…”

“I am sure,” Gimli said, standing up and helping Legolas to his feet. “Thank you, Ma. We'll see ourselves home.”

But Legolas clutched his dwarf’s hand to make him sit once again. “You should stay, my love. Enjoy the celebration with your family.”

“I am not leaving you alone.”

“I insist,” said Legolas laconically.

“And I insist I’d rather be with you”, replied Gimli, teeth almost grinding as he challenged his husband.

Legolas didn't argue further, accepting the support with a grateful nod that, deep down, Gimli knew actually concealed anger.

He did not care.

As they left the lively atmosphere of the celebration behind, Legolas kept his hands clasped behind his back. He was toying with the mithril archer ring, a habit that surfaced only when he was worried.

Gimli, walking a few steps behind him, noticed the fidgeting and could not help but inquire, “What is it?”

Legolas hesitated for a moment before responding, “I would like to talk with Bilbo... can you make it happen soon?”

“We have an appointment next week,” Gimli reminded him.

“We need it sooner,” Legolas replied without missing a beat.

Gimli let out a scoff. “You sound like your father when you speak like that,” he remarked, but then nodded. “I will talk to Balin tomorrow morning. Any specific topic?”

“Just friends talking over tea.”

***

As Gimli and Legolas made their way toward Bilbo's studio, they could already smell the scent of burning pipe weed from outside the familiar door adorned with intricate dwarven carvings. Gimli knocked twice, and the door swung open with a creak.

“Bilbo!” Gimli exclaimed as he saw the familiar hobbit, now older and grayer, standing at the entrance with a beaming smile.

“Your Highness,” said Legolas with one of his soft and splendid smiles.

“Argh, don’t call me like that, Legolas!” Bilbo's old eyes twinkled with delight. “Come in, my boys, come in!” He ushered them into his studio, where the air was thick with the comforting aroma of freshly baked poppy cakes and a steaming pot of tea.

Legolas followed Gimli inside, his keen elven senses taking in every detail of the room. The walls were adorned with maps, sketches, and mementos from the past, the way they both remembered them from years ago.

Bilbo motioned toward a table set with delicate china. “Sit, sit! Oh, it has been too long. What a sight you are for these sore, old eyes! You two look so… so…”

“So what?” asked Gimli, having taken a seat and already biting into one of the poppy cakes.

“So in love and happy,” Bilbo concluded, pouring tea for everyone. “It makes it all worth it, to see you like this.”

Gimli shot a concerned glance at his elf. “Makes… what worth it, Bilbo?”

The old hobbit simply smiled from his plush armchair, deftly sidestepping the question. Normally they would both ignore it, but Legolas approached him and gracefully bent on one knee, bringing himself to eye level with Bilbo.

The unexpected gesture startled the old hobbit. “My goodness gracious, Legolas, but you are fast when you wish to be.”

“A long time ago, you gave me a home here in Erebor when I had nowhere else to go, and Gimli pledged his services to you, Bilbo. With his axe always comes my bow, you should know that. Will you not tell us what ails you? I sense something amiss. Perhaps, together, we can fix it,” said Legolas, searching his face with inescapable, perceptive elf eyes.

Bilbo regarded him with resigned tenderness. Then he glanced at Gimli. No more needed to be spoken; from Bilbo’s gaze, Gimli immediately understood that Legolas was the last person in the mountain who needed to be involved in this particular conversation.

“Legolas,” called Gimli, his tone reassuring. “Be gentle with him; he's old and likely weary of dwarves and elves pestering him for the last forty years. Come here to sit with me.”

Legolas hesitated, his worry etched across his ageless features as he observed Bilbo, who appeared frailer and more delicate, a stark contrast to the indomitable spirit that still shone in his eyes. Still, even unable to shake off his concern, he joined his husband on the sofa.

With a determined resolve, Legolas turned to Gimli, who was now holding his hand. “Gimli, there is more to this. I can sense it. Bilbo may not speak of it, but there is a shadow over him. Something is wrong. Should we not be aiding him? He would help us by force, if the roles were reversed.”

Gimli, ever the diplomat, gently squeezed Legolas' hand. “Meleth-nin,” he murmured in Elvish, a language rarely spoken by the dwarf, but when he did, it was part of their personal code, a subtle acknowledgment that Legolas needed to retreat for the moment, and they would discuss the matter privately later. “I think he is only tired. Don’t worry.”

Legolas looked into Gimli's eyes, realizing the depth of the unspoken message.

Bilbo leaned back in his armchair. “Legolas, my dear boy, your Gimli speaks the truth. There is no trouble within Erebor, or anywhere else for that matter, that weighs on my heart. It's just that, well, old age catches up to even the most adventurous of hobbits,” he said, smiling a wrinkly grin. “But I'm not tired of these dwarves. They are my family and my dearest friends in the world. I would never tire of them! But I am feeling thin, sort of stretched… like butter scraped over too much bread.”

“You have earned every moment of rest you desire,” Gimli said, with his quiet, formal voice, the one he always used when trying to stay calm. “You are not alone. We will continue your work.”

Legolas recognized that tone all too well, for it usually surfaced during his now infrequent episodes of Sea-longing. He clasped Gimli's hand with such force that, had it been anyone else's palm, it would be already fractured.

“No, I am not, I know that very well. Thorin reminds me of it every day,” replied Bilbo while sipping his tea. “And this winter in particular, I was blessed with having you two back in the mountain. You both have brought immeasurable joy and pride to my life – you protected my Frodo when Thorin and I could not; you acted as a beacon of peace in Middle Earth, you fought against prejudices with… with such grace! You built homes instead of walls, you crushed bigotries, you spread love; and ultimately, you were the last push Thorin needed to become the King I knew he was always meant to be,” he smiled almost dreamily. “Yes! Yes, I dare say getting to see your love blossom was one of the highlights of my life.”

Legolas nodded, his gaze lowered out of respect for those words and to hide the tears. “Bilbo, if there is ever anything we can do…”

Bilbo interrupted him with another warm smile. “Just be yourselves, my friends. That's all I ask. And now, let us not dwell on the weight of years, but on the beauty of the moments we have left together… boys, tell me more about Aglarond, about Ithilien! What’s cooking in Gondor and Rohan? I want to hear what’s going on outside of this old mountain. Give me some gossip!”

***

Gimli and Legolas left Bilbo's studio in stiff silence and still hand in hand. They both needed each other in that moment. The air outside in the corridor was crispier than usual for being only late September. As they turned the corner, they unexpectedly encountered Frodo and Thorin, engrossed in a hushed conversation; the two stopped abruptly upon seeing Gimli and Legolas and stared at the pair with matching blue eyes.

Gimli saluted the King with a nod of his head and a bow, and Legolas followed suit with his hand on the chest in the fashion of elves. Thorin returned the salute with a firm clasping of Gimli's arm and then Legolas', a silent acknowledgment of their camaraderie.

“Your Majesty,” Gimli said kindly. “We weren't expecting to meet the King so early in the afternoon. A pleasant surprise.”

Thorin smiled a little, a rare warmth in his kingly demeanor that did not quite reach his blue eyes. “I do not work the long hours I used to, Gimli. These are times for peace – even Legolas’ father cannot seem to think of new ways to annoy me,” he said, not resisting a small jab against his archenemy. Legolas forced himself to smile knowingly. “But excuse me for now; I have a few matters to discuss with Bilbo. Tell Balin to find a moment for us, Gimli. I want to hear about Aglarond.”

With one last nod, Thorin disappeared into Bilbo's studio, leaving Gimli and Legolas alone with Frodo in the dimly lit corridor.

The hobbit, with his usual benevolent smile and not a day older than when they had met him more than two decades earlier, broke the silence first, “I see you like interrupting important discussions as always, my friends.”

“Well, we've been accused of worse, dear Frodo,” said Gimli, trying to light up the mood. But Legolas squeezed his hand to remind him of what they just witnessed in Bilbo’s studio.

Frodo's smile faded as he noted the small exchange. The weight of the moment settled in, and he knew he couldn't keep the news to himself any longer.

“I know you must have seen it too, or you would not be wearing such faces after coming out of the studio,” Frodo said. “Each day, he grows weaker. He's had a good, long life, filled with adventure, love, and friendship, and…”

“We understand,” interrupted Gimli, not for lack of compassion or interest, but because he knew that Legolas could not bear any more of such talk for the day. The concept of mortality among mortals had always been a torment, a shadow that lingered to remind the elf that one day, very soon in the eyes of elves, everyone he knew and loved would die.

“We have known that Bilbo's time would come eventually,” Frodo continued, his gaze focused on the ground. “But seeing it happen is a different matter altogether. Yet it is not him I am worried about – he is happy and at peace. But he will leave a hole in this world hard to refill.”

Gimli, sensing Legolas's inner turmoil, gripped his hand tighter in silent support. “It's a bitter truth we must all face. But there is you yet, Frodo. You can be the hobbit of this mountain. Erebor will always need one of your kind.”

Legolas took a moment to compose himself before responding, and he exchanged a glance with Frodo that Gimli could not yet understand. “We will be there for Bilbo, Frodo. Whatever he needs.”

Frodo looked up at them with gratitude. “I knew I could count on you both. You two could not have come back home in a timelier moment.”

But they were not the only ones who could pride themselves on timely arrivals, for only a few weeks earlier, shortly before the mountain was ready to go into lockdown for winter, Gandalf descended upon Erebor for a sudden visit.

When the news of Gandalf's arrival reached the King's ears, his mood darkened in a way Gimli and Legolas had not experienced in years. For the original Company of Thorin Oakenshield, however, his return had sparked cheer and laughter, and that applied to Bilbo as well. Familiar faces rejoiced, rekindling the camaraderie forged in the crucible of their epic quest. Yet, for Gimli and Legolas, Gandalf's appearance had stirred a deep sense of concern. He never did anything just for the sake of it, and no one knew that better than them, save maybe King Thorin.

They pondered the implications of Gandalf's unanticipated visit, aware that the wizard often bore tidings that unfolded in their own time. For his part, and perhaps childishly, Legolas wished to avoid speaking with Gandalf for as long as possible.

“He has inquired, again, where you were at dinner… I am running out of excuses to justify why you are avoiding him and everyone else,” said Gimli, laying down against the many pillows of the bed while smoking in the bedroom before sleep. Legolas was by his side as always, although with his back turned and his arms around a pillow instead of Gimli’s warm body.

Because the pipe's smell certainly was not helping in improving his mood, nor in making him want to snuggle his husband, Legolas said, “Why are you smoking inside? And in bed no less. You know I hate it.”

“Because I am worried,” Gimli replied, drawing another puff.

Legolas rolled his eyes and started toying with his archer ring. “Just tell them I am only being my usual weird self. Everyone will believe you and if they don’t, Tauriel can confirm.”

“First of all, prissy princeling, I do not need Tauriel to confirm anything I say about you. I am the one you married,” and moving his hand under the soft blankets covering them, Gimli swatted him on the butt for the comment. “Secondly, stop acting like a brat. I know you are sad for Bilbo. I am devastated too. But this is mortality, Legolas – you have a right to mourn, but you should not do it before the deed actually happens and by yourself! Besides, you do not know for a fact that Gandalf is here as an omen of death.”

Legolas finally turned in bed to gaze at him, smoothly rolling on his side like the cat he secretly was. “I am not avoiding the others or Gandalf because of sadness… not only, at least.”

“Then why?” he inquired.

“Because I am afraid,” Legolas confessed, “afraid of what Gandalf might tell me when I ask him where hobbits go when they die.”

Gimli blinked, taken aback by the unexpected turn in the conversation. “What?” he exclaimed.

“I am worried he will tell me that Bilbo and Thorin won't meet ever again,” Legolas continued, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken fears, “and that this is the final chapter of their love story. It would break my heart, and I do not want to hear it! For if they are not destined to meet again, how can we even hope to have a better chance?”

Gimli sat in bed, utterly flabbergasted by Legolas's revelation. His pipe hung, forgotten, from his lips as he processed the weight of his husband's words. Shocked, he hastily put the pipe away and scooted closer to Legolas, eyes searching for understanding. He reached out, cupping Legolas's face in his hands. “Legolas,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring, “we cannot control the fate of others… Mahal knows we cannot even control ours! But we can cherish the moments we have now. Isolating yourself from family and friends will only make you lose precious time we do not have.” Without another word, Gimli leaned in and kissed Legolas thoroughly. In that tender moment, amid the panic of uncertainty, they found comfort in each other, drawing strength from their enduring bond that transcended mortal fears and immortal uncertainties. “Bilbo and Thorin shared a remarkable love, and so do we. No one would separate them for eternity, I am certain,” Gimli reminded him and kissed his perfect elven nose. “Will you stop hiding now?”

“Maybe. I will let you know tomorrow,” said Legolas with a great impression of his father’s smug face. He then wrapped his hands around Gimli’s shoulders and stole another long, languid kiss. “You and that awful pipeweed, Gimli… you taste dreadful,” he complained before reaching for his lips again.

“And yet you keep shoving your tongue in my mouth, elf. Make up your damn mind,” Gimli groused, slowly but steadily rolling on top of Legolas to caress his face and keep kissing him senseless. “Or don’t. I couldn’t care less. I am going to make love to you anyway. Shoot me with an arrow if you disagree.”

Legolas pinched him on one arm, but he started laughing and moaning when Gimli’s mouth found that one spot on his neck that always made him melt and forget every shadow of the world.

***

In the early hours of the next morning, while the world around them still slumbered, Gimli found himself in the kitchen, the comforting aroma of breakfast beginning to fill the air. A pipe hung casually from his lips, wisps of smoke curling upwards as he moved with practiced ease.

As he sliced through an apple with precision, a rhythmic blend of chopping and the occasional puff of smoke filled the kitchen. The dwarf's nimble fingers worked with a surprising delicacy as he carved intricate patterns into the fruit. His brows were furrowed in concentration, a playful glint in his eyes as he meticulously transformed the apple into the likeness of a cute little turtle.

The quiet hum of activity was interrupted by the entrance of Glóin. The older dwarf greeted the morning with a yawn and a stretch, his now mostly white beard betraying the years of wisdom etched into his face. He eyed Gimli's culinary creation with a bemused expression.

“Good morning, lad,” Glóin grumbled, the deep timbre of his voice resonating in the kitchen. “What mischief are you up to at this ungodly hour?”

Gimli grinned, puffing contentedly on his pipe. “I am making breakfast for Legolas. He’s still asleep, but not for long.”

Glóin raised an eyebrow, peering at the apple-turtle inquisitively. “Why?”

“Why am I making breakfast for my husband?”

Glóin sighed exasperated. “I meant why are you carving a freaking turtle shell out of the half of an apple.”

“Oh! Well, because it will make him laugh, Da, and he needs to laugh,” he replied, now focusing on carving the little paws of a turtle. “It will also distract him from my smoking.”

“Is this why he’s sleeping? He never sleeps, always walking around the house at night doing Mahal knows what,” said Glóin, looking for the pot with the kafé powder. “Is he sick again? You know your mother wants to be informed if Legolas is not feeling well.”

“Yes, ‘my mother’ surely wants that…” mumbled Gimli with an amused whisper, well aware that it was Glóin the control freak of the two. “He is sad because of Bilbo’s health, Da. There's not much we can do except try to remind him why he ended up with a family of mortals that will break his heart eventually.”

Glóin stopped in his tracks for a moment, but then reprised what he was doing. “Do you want some kafé?”

“Mahal, yes, please… We still cannot afford certain luxuries in Aglarond and I haven’t slept much last night.”

“I am going to focus on the first part of your comment for the sake of my sanity,” Glóin grumbled, putting the water on the fire.

“Well, why do you think Legolas is finally sleeping?”

“Gimli.”

Gimli smiled cheekily through the pipe in his teeth and observed the breakfast. “I am missing flowers, but we will have to make do with this. It will be enough to make him smile, even if he’s always grouchy when he true-sleeps.” He fixed the last touches on the tray with fruit, cookies, and jam.

“Isn’t that too sweet to start the day?”

“As if the bastard could even get fat,” he grumbled and moved the composition one last time, switching the jam with the cookies. “He’s an elf, Da, he eats like a child or a bird most of the time anyway.”

Glóin hummed in acknowledgment and observed his son fretting over the damn tray for the fourth time. “I am proud of the husband you are, son. You are taking good care of him. He needs it.”

“And he takes good care of me,” Gimli raised his eyes to look at his father and smiled full of pride. “But unlike him, I had a good example to follow when growing up.”

Two cups of kafé were ready shortly after and Gimli took his gratefully.

“How come you are still missing trade agreements on goods? You said in your letters you had taken care of those in the first three years,” said Glóin, taking a sip from his own cup of kafé, the rich aroma wafting through the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, his eyes fixed on Gimli as he contemplated the question.

“Well, Da,” Gimli began, taking a thoughtful sip from his cup, “we're building Aglarond from the ground up, and while we've laid a strong foundation, there are still certain precious commodities we find hard to come by. We've got the finest artisans, and the most skilled crafts-workers; we have got cooks, soldiers, and traders of all kinds, yet sometimes a good cup of kafé is hard to find. Truth is, we are growing at a rate I was not expecting and so we need to focus all our time and resources on building homes and securing the bare necessities.”

Glóin nodded in understanding, his mind already whirring with thoughts of trade agreements, potential solutions, and the recent conversation he had with Gimriz when they received Gimli and Legolas’ letter informing them they would finally spend a winter in Erebor after twenty years away. “What if I could help with that?”

“I do not want discounted rates only because I am the son of the Treasurer of Erebor, that would be below me.”

Glóin chuckled, clapping his son on the shoulder. “Of course it would, my lad. But better trade agreements benefit Erebor as much as they do your Caves, so be smart, Lord of Aglarond,” he smiled and grabbed his son's face affectionately with his huge hands. “Besides, I meant a different kind of help.”

Gimli arched an eyebrow, waiting for his father to elaborate. Glóin released his son's face and leaned against the stone kitchen counter, his expression thoughtful.

“Your mother and I have been thinking,” Glóin whispered, a glint of excitement in his eyes, “about moving to Aglarond.“

Gimli's eyes widened in surprise. “Moving? But Da, Erebor… Erebor is your home! You joined Thorin’s Company because this is where you wanted to be.”

Glóin nodded, a warm smile playing on his lips. “Aye, Erebor has been good to us, lad. We have had more than forty good years here. But when we reclaimed it, I could have never imagined that my son one day would be valiant enough to carve out of nothing a new home for dwarves. Your mother and I have seen the fire in your eyes, the passion you put into Aglarond, and we want to be a part of it, to help with the project. You cannot possibly do everything by yourself,” he paused. “Most of all, we want to be close to you… and to Legolas. Mahal save me, but your mother said she wants to see that dratted Ithilien’s forest with her own eyes.”

Gimli barked a laugh, imagining his parents in the wild green of the forest, and his heart swelled with emotion. “Da, I... I don't know what to say.”

Glóin clapped him on the back one last time. “No need to say anything, Gimli. Family stands by each other, through thick and thin. We have got plenty of years left, and we want to spend them close to our sons. I know Uncle Óin thinks the same.”

Gimli pulled his father into a heartfelt embrace, grateful beyond words for the support and love he felt in that moment. In the quiet kitchen of their home in Erebor, yet another seed of a new chapter was sown, even now that the omen of death and of endings seemed to loom over their happiness.

“Go bring breakfast to your elf now, we have time to talk this over,” Glóin chuckled, shaking his head to hide the happy tears. “Your mother would've had my hide if I played with her food like that, for the record.”

Gimli retrieved the small tray and walked towards the corridor, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “No, she wouldn’t. I can teach you how to do it if you want.”

“Argh, get out of my face right now, you and your turtle!”

***

Of that very first winter Legolas had spent in Erebor with Gimli, now more than twenty years ago, the days with the mountain adorned for Yule were still among his favorites. He remembered the excitement of family and friends explaining what was this tradition that Bilbo had imported into the Lonely Mountain. That year, they ended up missing the actual day of the festivity because of their expedition to the Iron Hills; yet he remembered Gimriz cooking like there was no tomorrow, even though Glóin was meant to travel to Eryn Lasgalen to talk to Thranduil and Gimli and Legolas were ready to be shipped away to fight the army of the orcs.

But this year, perhaps ironically, they finally got to enjoy it the way they were meant to the first time, with the grand party meant for every citizen of the mountain and then lunch, the next day, meant for the royal family and their friends of the Company.

Both occasions proved great moments to catch up with everyone, including the youngest addition to their group, Thalara, daughter of Tauriel and Kíli and vaguely named after Thorin Oakenshield against once again his own wishes. Legolas had often tried to imagine what she would look like over the years they had been away from the mountain, and he was surprised to find out that she simply looked like a regular dwarrowdam with a particularly pretty face and a short beard – though that might have been Kíli’s fault more than the elven genes, as he never managed to grow a long beard like the one of Gimli.

Legolas observed Thalara helping her twin cousins with a plate of sweets. He saw them bringing the plate to King Thorin, who smiled for the first time since Legolas had set foot in the mountain two months ago. At least the young souls of Erebor were keeping his spirit up. At twenty-two and twenty years of age, they were still only children for dwarves, and Legolas looked at them with far-reaching eyes.

“My prince, you look sad,” came the voice of Tauriel from behind the column Legolas was leaning on by himself. Gimli was being pestered somewhere else by his cousin and who knows what else.

Legolas sighed, the weight of his thoughts evident in his gaze. “Will you never stop calling me that? You have married a prince yourself. Didn't Thorin Oakenshield officially make you a princess?”

“He did, although I wanted to refuse the honor. But Bilbo said it was important to accept it for future generations,” and as she said that, her eyes drifted toward her daughter, happily seated on Thorin's knee, sharing laughter with her cousins.

Turning to face Tauriel, Legolas found a strange sense of comfort in her presence. Elves, fortunate in their shared understanding, seldom needed words to convey the depths of their emotions. Yet he felt the need to ask. “What are you going to do when Kíli dies?” he asked harshly, the words escaping with a cold edge, a defense mechanism against the recurrent reopening of an old wound.

Tauriel met his gaze unwaveringly. “I shall stay with our daughter, of course, and with her children if she has them. I will serve Fíli's son as King Under the Mountain, and his children after that. I am not fading, and I am not leaving, if that is what you want to know. Erebor is my home and Middle Earth my land.”

Legolas turned his gaze back on Thorin, but then went in search of Bilbo, who was laughing with Frodo, Bombur, and Bofur about something. The old hobbit was wrapped in one of Thorin’s fur coats to fight the cold.

Tauriel studied Legolas with concern, her eyes reflecting the unspoken pain that lingered between them. “And what will you do when Gimli meets his end?”

Legolas hesitated for a moment, his gaze turning distant. “We are sailing to Valinor together before his last breath,” he finally replied, a serene yet melancholic tone in his voice.

Tauriel's eyes widened with shock. “Valinor? Legolas, you know that's not possible for a dwarf. He will die in the sea and you with him! They will not allow you two to dock.”

An edge of irritation crept into Legolas's voice. “Do you doubt Gimli's worthiness? Do you think my husband is not deserving of the same peace that awaits our kind in Valinor? No one, Tauriel, no one is more worthy than him.”

Tauriel, taken aback by Legolas's impassioned defense, softened her expression. “It is not about worthiness. It's about the nature of the realms. Valinor is not meant for dwarves. Gimli will find solace in his own afterlife, the Lords of the West will never let him reach the island.”

Legolas, however, remained resolute. “We promised to always follow each other, no matter the challenge.”

“Yes, but…”

“Tauriel, do not forget that you are here today because of my husband's stubbornness. He bent this mountain under his will for love of me. He shaped the world anew because he loved me. I shall simply do the same when the time comes.” A hushed silence settled between them, and Legolas, realizing the sharpness of his words, sighed. “I apologize, my friend. My words were harsh. Had he been here, Gimli would have already stamped his boot on mine to reprimand me.”

Tauriel shook her head, a gentle smile playing on her lips. “No offense taken. I was merely surprised by how much you sounded like your father just now.”

Legolas huffed a small laugh, the tension easing. “Gimli has been pointing out the same thing lately, and I know it is no compliment. He claims I am starting to sound more and more like King Thranduil these days. Perhaps I am truly getting old, as the mortals say.”

“Or maybe you are letting sadness overwhelm you just like him,” she pointed out, not leaving Legolas unscathed after facing his bad temper. “Keep smiling, my Prince. It is our privilege to be able to love them; not many have had the same gift.”

Legolas nodded, grateful for Tauriel's understanding. The weight of the impending future lingered in the air, but for a moment, they found solace in each other’s company.

“Legolas!” came Fíli’s cheerful voice. “Come, Bilbo is telling the story of Erebor’s quest from the beginning for the children. We will need your version of the facts too!”

Legolas managed a small smile and gestured for Tauriel to join them. As they approached the storytelling circle, he sought out Gimli, who sat with a warmth in his eyes that spoke volumes of love. Without a word, Legolas took his place by Gimli's side to listen to Bilbo's story.

The hobbit did not spare anyone from his snarky comments, including and especially his husband. Even when it came to his turn to be made fun of for the “goblin mutant” comment, he simply smiled, blushed, and enjoyed the renewed sense of purpose and unity. Gimli circled his waist with an arm to keep him closer. He had flushed cheeks due to too many pints of ale and was snickering with his cousins at Legolas’ expense.

It was a great night.

***

One cold evening in February, the weight of impending farewells became a reality. The royal apartments of Bilbo and Thorin, usually echoing with laughter and smelling of teas and cookies, now stood somber as every relative, every member of the Company, and every dear friend gathered. The air crackled with a tangible sense of finality.

They all found themselves in the room where the King and his Consort received guests, but Gandalf, bearing a sorrowful countenance, ushered them silently into the dimly lit bedroom. Thorin stood steadfast by Bilbo's side, his hand delicately cradling the hobbit's, fingers pressed to his lips, while his eyes remained fixed upon Bilbo's weary face.

Bilbo, though visibly pale and weakened, bore a spark in his eyes that defied the encroaching darkness. His gaze, once bright with mischief and mirth, now held a serene acceptance of the inevitable. As the room filled with the hushed murmurs of loved ones, Bilbo spoke, his voice a gentle whisper that cut through the heavy atmosphere. “Thank you all for being here,” he began, his words a fragile melody that tugged at the heartstrings of everyone in attendance. “The last thing I wish to do is to make you all sad… but I wanted you to hear it in my own words before it is too late,” he smiled. His eyes swept across the room, lingering on the many faces that had become his family, his friends, his world.

Thorin's eyes glistened with unshed tears as he clutched Bilbo's hand tighter. He remained quiet.

“To Gandalf, the orchestrator of fates and the weaver of destinies,” Bilbo continued, a wistful smile gracing his lips. “You guided us through the shadows, and your wisdom illuminated our path. Middle Earth owes you a debt it can never repay… and mine is even bigger. You gave me more than I could have ever dreamed to have.”

Bilbo's gaze shifted to the assembled company, his voice trembling with emotion. “To the Company, my second family. You were there with me in the darkest caverns and the sunlit fields. We faced a dragon, reclaimed a kingdom, and forged bonds that time nor distance could ever break. Each of you, in your own way, turned an unexpected journey into an extraordinary life.”

His eyes twinkled with a blend of gratitude and sadness as he looked at Frodo. “To my dear Frodo, you are the legacy that will carry our tales into the future. Keep writing, my sweet lad, and keep shining bright. Nothing can dim your light, no matter how close to darkness you have come.”

Bilbo's breaths became shallower, but he pressed on, determination etched on his features. “And to all of you, my friends, who shared in this grand adventure, who fought against the darkness, who believed in the power of goodness and… and good gracious, who believed in the power of love, even the kind you were not expecting to receive…” and he looked in the direction of Gimli and Legolas. “Thank you. Thank you for making my life an adventure beyond my wildest dreams. I die a very, very happy hobbit, knowing I left the world a better place.”

As his words faded into the quiet embrace of the room, a profound stillness settled. Tears glistened in the eyes of those who bore witness to the poignant farewell of a hobbit who had given his heart to Middle Earth.

“To my dearest Thorin… please, look at me. I want to see your blue eyes one last time,” Bilbo asked, turning the head towards his King. “You have been the steadfast anchor in the wildest seas for so many, my love. Every moment with you has been a treasure, and I am grateful for every heartbeat we shared. I am quite proud of how I managed to burglar your heart away,” he sighed happily. “They will be telling our story until the Second Song, I reckon.”

Bilbo's chest rose and fell in the rhythm of a life well-lived, and as he took one final breath, a serene smile graced his lips, leaving behind a legacy etched in the hearts of all who had the privilege to know him. Bilbo's chest rose and fell in the rhythm of a life well-lived, and as he took one final breath, a serene smile graced his lips, leaving behind a legacy etched in the hearts of all who had the privilege to know him.

In the ensuing silence, Thorin bowed his head, tears coursing down his cheeks, and the room stood as a testament to a life concluded – a life that had shaped the destiny of Middle Earth, the one of Bilbo Baggins, a self-proclaimed solitary hobbit who quite remarkably, even in his final moments, had a room crowded with people, a living mosaic of individuals whose lives had been forever altered by an extraordinary hobbit.

As the profound silence started to be filled with sobs and cries, Legolas stood there, watching the final chapter of Bilbo's life unfold. Contrary to his expectations, the sight of Bilbo departing with a serene smile on his face eased the pain that he had long anticipated. He had braced himself for shattering grief, but instead, a sense of peace settled over him.

In the quiet aftermath, Legolas sensed a subtle shift beside him. Gimli’s arms wrapped around Legolas's waist, a gesture both comforting and seeking solace. Then, in a motion filled with vulnerability, Gimli tightened his hold, burying his face in the elf's torso. Legolas, initially surprised by the intensity of his husband’s reaction, gently ran his fingers through the dwarf's hair, offering silent support. As he felt Gimli's silent sobs reverberate through their shared embrace, he realized that he had underestimated the profound impact Bilbo's passing would have on his beloved dwarf. Legolas tightened his embrace, selfishly grateful for the purpose Gimli’s pain gave him. Being of support was at least something he could do.

Legolas’ gaze lifted, meeting the knowing eyes of Gandalf, who stood nearby with Frodo cradled in his arms. A silent understanding passed between them, although the elf wondered whether they were indeed thinking about the same thing or not. Yet in that moment, Legolas thought they were both sharing the burden of knowing that this instant was both an end and a beginning.

Thorin had yet to move. His tears were silent, and barely any breath came from him. Then he suddenly spoke, “I would like to be alone. Please leave.”  

Gandalf sighed, perhaps already worried about seeing Thorin falling into old bad habits – if not worse. “This is the way of things, the ebb, and flow of life, and we, as witnesses to the passing ages, must be observers of both joy and sorrow. This pain you are feeling, Thorin, it is the culmination of your love for Bilbo. The culmination of love is grief. And yet we love despite the inevitable, we open our hearts to it. You certainly did, old friend,” he stood, gesturing towards the door for everyone to start leaving the room. “To grieve deeply is to have loved fully, Thorin Oakenshield. Do not forget it and do not despair. Everything can be reforged – even hope.”

***

A couple of days later, the grand halls of Erebor were adorned for a somber occasion, a dwarven funeral befitting a king. The air hung heavy with a sense of reverence as the procession made its way to the hallowed burial chamber. Thorin, holding Sting in his hands, led the mournful march, followed by the grieving Company and representatives from Dale and Eryn Lasgalen. Legolas had yet to have a chance to talk to his father, but at least he was there, on a rare outing outside of the forest, to give his final goodbye to Bilbo Baggins, the greatest of the Elf-friends.

Inside the vast chamber, the stone burial site awaited Bilbo's final rest. Hewn from the heart of the mountain, it stood alongside the tombs of the other Kings Under the Mountain.

Bilbo lay in state, adorned with the trappings of a hero's farewell. The mithril shirt gleamed softly on his chest, a symbol of the battles he had faced, and the stunning mithril circlet adorned his brow, marking him as a monarch in the hallowed halls of Erebor. In his arms now rested Sting, the legendary blade that had seen both the shadow and the light of Middle Earth. Beside him lay a meticulously crafted copy of his book, a chronicle of the adventures that had defined an era.

As the stone lid of Bilbo's tomb was reverently closed, Thorin stepped forward, a regal figure with a heavy, bleeding heart. He began to sing, a haunting melody that echoed through the chamber, and with each note, Thorin began to lay upon the stone dozens and dozens of roses. But they were not ordinary flowers; they were roses made of delicate glasses sparkling in the subdued light, of rubies that formed crimson petals, and of diamonds that glistened like morning dew.

Each flower, a symbol of love, bore witness to the depth of Thorin's devotion. As the king continued to sing, the chamber filled with the ethereal beauty of these crafted blooms, a kaleidoscope of colors perhaps meant to mirror the vibrant life of the fiercest hobbit ever known to the world.

The dwarven funeral procession concluded with a final note, the echoes of Thorin's song lingering in the cavernous halls of Erebor. The stone lid, adorned with the jeweled roses, bore witness to a love that transcended the boundaries of races and time.

As the company dispersed, leaving Bilbo to his eternal rest, the stone burial chamber stood as a silent tribute to the hobbit who had become a legend—a legend etched in stone and memory, commemorated by roses that would never fade, crafted from the very heart of the mountain they called home.

Legolas looked back one last time before taking the stairs that led them to the upstairs level away from the burial chambers, and saw Thorin Oakenshield still by Bilbo’s tomb. He was leaning with his face against the stone, as if he could still hear Bilbo breathing through it.

***

In the months following Bilbo Baggins’ funeral, Erebor became a cavernous haven of sorrow, a place where the weight of grief hung thick in the air, almost poisoning it. The mountain's halls echoed with the hushed whispers of loss and King Thorin remained a reclusive figure, hidden away in his chambers, nursing a pain that seemed insurmountable.

The days since February had been steeped in pain and gloom, with a collective grief that seemed to permeate every stone of the Lonely Mountain. But as inevitable as the passing of time, spring had come, and the mountain, despite the mourning within, had begun to blossom with renewed life, not touched by the heaviness that still clung to the hearts of its inhabitants.

Thorin had not made a public appearance since the funeral, leaving a palpable void in the leadership of Erebor. In his absence, Fíli had stepped into the role of Regent, guiding the mountain through the tumultuous period with a sense of duty that belied his grief. ‘Bilbo would be proud’ was the most common sentence you could hear around the city.

It was against this backdrop of lingering sorrow that Frodo dropped a bombshell on his already grieving family. In the privacy of a gathered assembly, he announced his decision to depart for the Undying Lands with Gandalf as soon as the weather allowed it. The last ship of elves leaving Middle Earth was waiting for him in Imladris.  

Gimli loved Frodo as a brother and he knew very well the pain the Quest had left him with. But he still believed the hobbit’s choice absurd. How could Frodo even consider abandoning Thorin in such a vulnerable state? The frustration simmered within him, and he sought solace in the privacy of his and Legolas's shared quarters.

The atmosphere in their bedroom was heavy with the weight of sorrow as Gimli, freshly bathed but still carrying the burden of grief, let his frustrations spill out. “How can Frodo even think of leaving now?!” he raged, pacing the room with restless energy. “Thorin is drowning in sorrow, and he chooses this moment to abandon him? It's unfathomable! Bilbo would not have wanted this!”

Legolas, sitting on their bed with crossed legs, sighed deeply. “Frodo is no stranger to loss, Gimli. The Ring has left him scarred in a way we cannot fathom to comprehend. Perhaps he believes it's time to seek peace for himself.”

Gimli turned sharply, his eyes flashing with anger. “Peace? What about Thorin's peace? Frodo is like a son to him, and he's choosing now to leave? It's a betrayal, plain and simple.”

“Gimli… my love, you will regret these words when the anger quiets down.”

“I have no regrets, this is not how I lead my life,” he replied, almost spitting out those words, and to less attentive eyes that could seem only bed temper, but Legolas knew Gimli better than he knew himself. There was always more to him in the rare cases where anger took hold of him.

“I should have perhaps told you this before, meleth, but Gandalf was ready to take Frodo to the Undying Lands twenty years ago. Yet our friend stayed, for love of Bilbo and Thorin. Consider this too in your rage.”

Gimli, frustrated and unable to articulate the knot of emotions within him, sank onto the edge of their bed. “Why did you not mention it before? Did Frodo tell you this?”

To that, Legolas could not bear himself to answer. It felt illogical, ridiculous!, to be worried about what Gimli would think of his own idea to go to the Undying Lands. There was no reason why his dwarf would say no, was there? Never had Gimli proved faithless or afraid of trying anything with Legolas.

“Not in so many words. But I overheard a conversation at our wedding and then…” he stopped when he saw Gimli fumbling with his tunic to hold the crystal of Galadriel’s hair that he always had around the neck.

“And then what?”

“And then,” Legolas continued, his voice soft, “I thought we could do the same. That when you felt ready, we could sail together.”

Gimli's eyes, wide with disbelief, searched Legolas's face for clarification. “To... to Valinor?”

Legolas nodded, his gaze unwavering.

Gimli, still clutching the crystal in his hand, struggled to process the revelation. The notion of Valinor, a realm reserved for elves and not dwarves, for the fairest of beings, felt like a distant dream. “But... why?” he finally managed to utter, his voice a mixture of confusion and apprehension.

Legolas took a deep breath. “Because, my love, if I wait until you pass, I fear I may never find my way there. I might fade into nothingness, and while I do not particularly care what happens to me after you are not there to hold me anymore, I know this is not what you would want for me,” he sighed. “Yet going without you is not an option. Never I would leave your arms, never I would leave your love behind.”

Gimli's expression shifted from bewilderment to a mix of understanding and concern. He lowered the crystal, the glint of Galadriel's hair catching the soft light of the room. “You are worried about fading?”

“After seeing Thorin’s reaction to Bilbo’s death, I am almost certain it would happen. But you do not have to make your decision based on this, that is why I did not wish to tell you of this idea for many years yet. I wanted you to enjoy life here freely, without having to commit to anything or-”

“I am committed to you!”

“Yes, but in Valinor you would be alone, the only dwarf to ever set foot there. You would not hear your language anymore, you would not receive the right burial when your time actually comes, and you-”

“Mahal, Legolas, you really are full of shit sometimes,” Gimli interrupted. “I would have you, and it would be enough, I do not need you to do a whole list of what I would lose; I would still choose you over and over again even if you told me Sauron would be there to play conkers with me!” He turned his back to Legolas, remaining seated on the edge of the bed. “I will let you know when I am ready to sail.”

“But Gimli…”

“Are you even sure that they will let me reach the shore?”

“They will. No one is worthier.”

“Argh, and what would you know about that?! Your opinion of me is biased, everyone knows it.”

“Well, if my opinion of you does not matter, then remember this: Lady Galadriel would never allow them to reject her champion. I do not doubt that you will be welcomed.”

Gimli turned to glance at Legolas over his shoulder with stern eyes. “I did not say your opinion does not matter. Do not twist my words, elf.”

Legolas sniffed a little, still in the middle of the bed and far away from him, looking very much like an angry prince of the elves. “I do not need to twist them; they sound quite clear to my ears, Master Dwarf.”

“Legolas…”

The elf looked away and set his shoulders straight. “This is not how I imagined I would ask you to join me.”

“Except there is no need to ask, husband. You should have just said ‘Gimli, we are going to Valinor in a century. Get ready’, and that would have been it. I would have packed and left. Where you go, I will go! That’s our promise or did you forget?! After more than twenty years together, you should know I do not need anything else from you, my darling, my jewel,” and finally, Gimli moved, crawling towards Legolas in the middle of the bed. “My dancing, beautiful elf, when I heard Frodo’s was the last ship to leave Middle Earth for the Undying Lands I was so angry and so worried for you. How could they leave you behind, I thought? How could they leave the kindest, bravest of all of the elves? Is it my fault? Am I condemning you to a life of pain?” He took Legolas’ perfect face in his hands. “But I should have known you were plotting something, and I am glad you were.”

Legolas grabbed the flaps of Gimli’s tunic and yanked him forward for a desperate kiss.

The dwarf smiled on his lips. “I will build you the most amazing boat when the time comes. Screw the other elves! We do not need them to take us there. No smoother sail will ever happen on those fucking waves than with the boat I will build for you, amrâlimê, you will see.”

Swept up in the moment and the overwhelming relief, Legolas finally smiled. His eyes sparkled with lightness and a soft, melodic laugh escaped him, carrying away the shadows that had lingered in his heart.

“You are not only a skilled horse rider, my love,” Legolas remarked with a teasing glint in his eye. “Now you are to become a nautical master as well. Who would have thought that you'd embrace both land and sea in your lifetime?”

“For you, I’d embrace the freaking sky too,” Gimli chuckled heartily, the sound filling the room with warmth. “Aye, a dwarf of the sea shall I be if it makes you happy! Perhaps I'll teach those elves a thing or two about sailing when the time comes. They won't know what hit them!”

***

In the bustling halls of Erebor, the air buzzed with excitement as preparations for Glóin and Gimriz's move to Aglarond were underway. Boxes were scattered about, filled with the belongings and memories of a lifetime spent in the grand mountain.

Gimli supervised the packing with a mix of eagerness and nostalgia, directing movers to carefully handle the various artifacts and trinkets accumulated over the years. He paused to inspect a cherished carving crafted by Gimriz and he thought that the family home he would carve in the Glittering Caves for his parents would need to be deserving of all the memories they were leaving behind.

In another corner, Ori stood with a blend of anticipation and nervousness. As their neighbor and a friend with an uncanny passion for records and cataloging stuff, he had been a great help with packing. But mostly he followed Gimli and Glóin around to capture the last pieces of advice he could get.

“Ori, you've done exceptional work as our scribe. I have no doubt that you'll be the greatest Treasurer yet,” Gimli said, clapping Ori on the shoulder. “My father approved your appointment, hasn't he? And our Crown Prince knows what he's doing – Fíli suggested you because he wants you by his side when he'll be King. Just trust the process, my friend.”

Gimli smiled, exchanging a knowing look with Glóin, who had just entered the living room with Legolas behind. “And as my father always says,” he continued, well aware his Da could now listen. “Take care of the numbers, lad, and they'll take care of you. And if you ever need advice, you know where to find us.”

Ori's eyes widened with a mix of surprise and gratitude. “Thank you, Gimli. It's an honor, truly.”

“I know… now pass me that last box, I still have some of my mother’s books to pack.”

Just as the conversation settled, the sturdy figure of Balin entered the house, his demeanor carrying a certain sense of urgency. These days he had a bit of a limp too, but not even that seemed to stop him from being the best right hand Thorin could ever ask for.

“Gimli, His Majesty requests your presence. He wishes for a last audience before you depart for Aglarond,” Balin announced and his kind eyes were full of a sadness that had never left since Bilbo’s funeral.

Gimli exchanged a quick glance with Glóin and Legolas before nodding. “Can I take Legolas with me?”

“Ah, laddie, nothing against your elf, but… if I can be honest, he doesn’t do well with seeing couples at the moment. It’s already hard as it is, I think you should meet with him alone.”

“I understand, Balin, don’t worry,” Gimli skirted around the boxes and squeezed Legolas’ hand one last time before following his father's cousin out of the house. “Did he tell you what he wants to talk about?”

“No. He doesn’t tell me much these days. He doesn’t tell anyone anything, to be frank.”

Gimli hummed and lowered his gaze a little. “It’s that bad, is it?”

“It is what it is. We all knew it would happen and yet when it happened… we…” Balin sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t want to make you sad, Gimli, you have already enough on your plate as it is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ach, I don’t even know… something Bilbo mentioned in the letters he left to all of us. He explicitly asked not to bother you too much,” Balin said gravely. “I guess it makes sense, doesn’t it? I remember when you visited after building the gates in Gondor – your elf was sick, you had that fight with him and you were moping around the mountain for weeks. I suppose Bilbo must have remembered that occasion very well,” he turned to gaze at Gimli. “Just focus on your loved ones, that is all. Do not let others’ burdens crash you, laddie.”

Gimli nodded in understanding as Balin's words resonated with him, although perhaps not as much as Gimli would have liked. He walked alongside the elder dwarf, with the gravity of Thorin's summons hanging in the air, and wondered at whatever strategy Bilbo’s mastermind must have worked on even in death.

Entering Bilbo's studio felt like stepping into a different world. The room, once filled with the warm glow of the hobbit’s hospitality and the smell of pipeweed and freshly baked cookies or pastries, was now shrouded in a somber atmosphere. Everything was exactly the same, and at the same time, it was not.

Thorin Oakenshield sat in the high-backed chair, staring into the fireplace that held no warmth. The traces of grief etched deep lines on his face, and his blue eyes were dark pools of nothing now.

“Gimli,” Thorin's gravelly voice broke the silence as he turned to acknowledge the arrival. “Thank you for coming. I know you are very busy.”

Gimli bowed respectfully. “I always have time for my King.”

Thorin gestured for Gimli to sit, and the dwarf took a seat across from him. The room felt heavy with unspoken words, and Gimli could sense the profound sadness emanating from Thorin. He wished he knew what to say. Bilbo always knew the best words for every situation.

“You once told me,” said Thorin after an excruciatingly long silence. “That you did not wish to break up a piece of Erebor. Yet you take now my Treasurer away with you. What else are you going to take?”

“I…” Gimli looked at him completely startled. “He is my father before being your Treasurer. He is following me out of love and not out of duty.”

“I won't waste time with pleasantries, Gimli,” Thorin began, his eyes fixed on the empty fireplace. “In truth, I don’t mind that you are taking Glóin with you, but I would like to know what else you are going to take. Erebor is going to need all the help she can get in the next few years and I don’t want Fíli to be with less resources than I had.”

Gimli carefully chose his next words. “Are you… are you abdicating in favor of your nephew, my Lord?”

Thorin smiled bitterly. “I wish I could, but Bilbo left in writing his request that I do not do that when my grief is still fresh. In his will he said that he fought too hard to make me King and so King Under the Mountain I shall be, at least for a little while more, even in the poor ways of the present,” he paused. “Erebor has lost enough already, Gimli, and I include you in the losses.”

“You did not lose me. You are still my Lord, I can serve more than one King, more than one purpose, I…”

“No. No, you cannot and you should not. Living split like that is not good. A dwarf needs clarity in his life and you need to focus on your mountain, on your family.” He finally turned and looked at Gimli with empty eyes. The blue eyes Bilbo wanted to see in his final moments were gone, there was no light in them. “I have called you here because I need to say something before you leave for Aglarond.”

Gimli nodded, waiting for Thorin to continue.

“Bilbo's passing has left a void in my heart that I cannot explain, Gimli,” Thorin paused, his gaze meeting Gimli's. “But in the letters he left, he commanded me to speak my heart until the very end. So before you leave for another twenty years straight or however long, I want to say goodbye, Gimli. I want to tell you I am proud of you, for standing your ground only like a great dwarf would do. For being brave when it would have been so much easier to run away.”

Gimli felt a lump forming in his throat and he sensed a wave of confusion overwhelm him, the way it always happens when you are experiencing something you will end up truly understanding only later. “Thank you, my King. You know my path lies with Legolas now, but I will forever be a son of Durin who serves Thorin Oakenshield the Restorer. You have been my hero since I have memory and making you proud will forever be the best achievement of my life.”

“Let your greatest achievement be your marriage, Gimli. Bilbo fought so hard for it, so you better make sure it works out the way it was meant to be.” Thorin’s dark eyes went astray again. “You are young, but time is never enough. You have this passion in state crafting that is commendable, and I had a similar fire once; now I only wished I had spent more time with him,” he sighed bitterly. “Forty-five years together were not nearly enough. Nothing would have been enough. Do not obsess over your legacy, you will find out that it really does not matter in the end.”

As Gimli rose to leave, Thorin's gaze lingered on him. An unspoken understanding passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the impending separation.

“Thorin…” the name came out almost timidly. “Why do I feel like this is the last conversation I will ever have with you?”

“Because you always worry too much, Gimli,” he said, with a strange hint of humor that did not reach his blue, empty eyes. “Take care of yourself, son. And take care of Legolas,” Thorin said, his voice tinged with a deep emotion. “Remember to focus on the present.”

“I never thought I would say this, my Lord, but you are starting to sound like an elf,” he said wryly. “New perception of time, new perspective on life… Bilbo would be very proud of you if he were here.”

“Bilbo would be laughing to tears if he were here and then he would call me an idiot,” Thorin said bitterly and leaned back in his chair. “But I, on the other hand, would still kick your ass for such a comment, so get out of my face right now.”

“Ha!” Gimli laughed nervously and bowed. “Yes, my King. I will see you soon. I won’t let twenty years pass this time,” he said, hastily making his exit.

Right outside Bilbo’s studio, he found Legolas waiting for him, his ethereal presence accentuated by the soft glow of the lamp-lit corridor. His long legs, shining eyes, and golden hair made him look more unreachable than ever as he waited. Upon seeing Gimli, a wave of relief and immense love washed over Legolas, and he immediately reached out his hands toward his husband.

Gimli, pleasantly surprised, drew in a deep breath and gently took Legolas’ hands. “Let's go home, my beautiful elf. Aglarond awaits.” With a warm smile, he kissed the elf’s long, white fingers, and then wrapped his bulky arm around Legolas’ waist.

He hugged Legolas tight and tried to focus on the solid warmth of his present, just like Thorin taught him.

***

The moon hung like a glowing orb in the velvety summer sky, casting its silver light over the peaceful and florid forest of Ithilien. Legolas stood amid his trees, their leaves rustling gently in the night breeze. The air was warm, carrying the fragrance of flowers and the earthy scent of the woods. It was a night that, under different circumstances, would have been shared with Gimli.

But that night, Gimli had chosen solitude again.

It was always unusually quiet for Legolas when Gimli was not there with him – no merry laugh in the background, no grumbling about treacherous tree roots, no sneaking apples to Arod, no awful pipeweed smell. His thoughts lingered on the letter from Erebor they received a few days ago. Fíli's words had been difficult to read, conveying news they both expected and dreaded: the passing of King Thorin II, only two years after Bilbo’s death.

Legolas had respected and cherished Thorin, not only for his leadership but for the friendship they eventually had forged. He had married them, he had believed in them in the end more than anyone else. He had protected them and gave them the gift of a wedding with all their dearest friends.

But tonight, like the previous three before that, Gimli had decided to wander somewhere in the depths of the woods, seeking solitude to process the news. Legolas understood the need for space, but the absence of Gimli's comforting presence had left a void and he felt lost in the wake of such grief. Gimli never avoided others and Legolas wished he knew what to do now that he was facing a new challenge.

In the moonlit stillness, Legolas couldn't help but replay memories of their time in Erebor. Thorin's gruff yet endearing demeanor, his unyielding determination, and the moments with Bilbo Baggins or the little twins of Fíli and Elara. The loss of who was ultimately a dear friend echoed through the forest, making every rustle of leaves seem like a whisper of farewell.

Hard it was to be an elf who loved mortals.

As Legolas gazed at the moon, he could not shake the somber realization that this marked another June night without Gimli by his side, a rarity in twenty-four years. Even after coming back from their last winter in Erebor two years ago with Gimriz and Glóin, they had always kept the tradition of celebrating this month and their anniversary together, immersed in the beauty of Ithilien.

The solitude felt unfamiliar, and the weight of Thorin's absence pressed on Legolas's heart.

He gave himself a moment to listen to the symphony of the night, the distant calls of creatures echoing through the trees. A solitary tear traced a silent path down Legolas's cheek, blending with the moonlit glow. Yet, within the quiet sorrow, Legolas felt a deep gratitude for the blessings he was given. It had been a privilege to have walked this good earth at the same time as Thorin Oakenshield.

As the moon continued its celestial journey, Legolas awaited Gimli's return, still hopeful that they could find solace together beneath the silver canopy of the night. Yet hours passed and the only sound around Legolas was the music of his trees and the crispy rustling of the small river on his right.

It was a humid and very warm summer night, as they often were in Gondor. Legolas did not suffer temperatures like mortals did, nevertheless his skin was sticky from the humidity, so he decided to wash himself in the river. It was only this big in summer when the mountains’ snow melted. A refreshing bath was exactly what he needed tonight.

He quickly removed his clothes, throwing them on the soft cotton blanket he had laid on the grass together with a basket of food. None of it was for himself. Gimli loved little picnics like that, but clearly it had been useless.

Now fully naked, he dipped his feet in the freezing water and for the first time in hours, he breathed out. As one might expect, after hearing the call of the Sea he had developed a weird relationship with bodies of water, but this river in particular felt innocent. Perhaps it was because it was here only during summer and it disappeared in winter, like Legolas himself, who would spend winters under the cover of the Glittering Caves with Gimli.

He sat on a big rock under the water level, and that immersed him almost up to the shoulders. He hugged his knees and started to sing. It was a lament for Thorin, one the elves of Ithilien had been singing since the day they had received Fíli’s letter.

As it often happened, he lost himself in the music, both the one he was making and the sounds of the river. Not even when he finished singing he noticed that Gimli was sitting on the cotton blanket a few steps from him, and it took the dwarf’s voice to bring him back to reality.

“That was beautiful,” he said, with a grave voice that Legolas had heard so rarely in the years they had loved each other.

“Oh meleth, you are here,” and Legolas almost sobbed at the sight.

Spending part of summer in Ithilien always forced Gimli to wear a sleeveless brigandine and not much else, which meant that Legolas was always treated to several days of seeing his husband’s tattoos in broad daylight. A rare treat that reminded him of the joys of not having sailed.

“I am. Sorry I left you all alone,” Gimli said, lowering his eyes to stare at his slack legs.

“Nothing to be sorry about, husband. You needed space, I am only glad that my forest kept you company enough in your pain.”

“Aye, well… if you had told my old self that one day I would seek solitude in the depth of a freaking forest… I would have told you to slow down with the wine!” He smiled bitterly. “But I felt safe under your trees. Ithilien is no Fangorn, thank Mahal.”

“My trees love you as much as I do – they know how precious you are, how kind is your soul; I tell them about it every day.”

“Poor bastards must be bored to death at this point.”

Legolas huffed and quickly dipped his head in the water to finish his bath. He then stood up, water dripping on his lean muscles and shining under the moonlight like drops of pure mithril. “Would you pass my clothes?”

“No,” was the answer he got and Legolas sighed. Amused, yes, and also relieved. At least his husband was back to being himself.

“Then my dear Lord of Aglarond, it is hardly fair that I am naked and you are not.”

“You can see my arms and a bit of my chest too – I am practically naked by dwarven standards. If my poor mother could see me now! She would tell me I make a very poor dwarf Lord dressed like this.”

Legolas laughed out loud and finally stepped out of the river. “No, she would tell you to eat. You have spent almost three full days alone in the forest, I can only imagine how little you have eaten. There is food for you in the basket, help yourself.”

At that, Gimli seemed confused. “What are you talking about? You left me food every day.”

“I… I have not, and not for lack of trying or willingness,” said Legolas, walking towards the blanket to lay down next to Gimli with all his grace. “I was afraid I would anger you with my presence, it was clear you wished to be alone.”

Gimli hummed non-committedly. “And yet every day I found a wrap of leaves with fruit and cheese and bread.”

Legolas turned to face him, lying on his side like a huge cat, and he smiled that radiant smile of his. “Oh… well, then it must have been Laerel. Or Elenion. Or Elereth… or any other elf, come to think of it, for they all love you, meleth, and were suffering with you.”

Gimli looked vaguely flushed after hearing that piece of information. Flushed, embarrassed, and astonished.

“Why are you surprised, Gimli?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I am not used to having elves by my side... except you, of course, but you are the oddest elf to ever walk Middle Earth.”

“What a strange thing to say… are you not Gimli Elf-friend? The Lockbearer? The champion of the Lady of the Light? The husband of the Lord of this very forest?” Legolas reached out to Gimli’s face with his hand to caress the beard and play with the red mustache he had missed. “The much-beloved son-in-law of the ancient Thranduil of Doriath, King of Eryn Lasgalen?” At that last point, Gimli shot him a doubtful glance, but Legolas simply smiled. “I missed you like air.”

“I missed you too… so much that I might have told a tale or two about you to your trees.”

“Did you now?” That made Legolas laugh once more and Gimli’s stern Durin scowl finally broke into that cheeky, flirty smile of his.

“Aye. They might have changed their opinion on you after I told them about that drinking debacle you had in Minas Tirith at Eldarion’s 18th birthday…”

“Is it the same night when you were so drunk that you tripped over your own pants after you suck-“

“Quiet, insolent elf! I most definitely did not trip! I was kneeling with perfect balance on the floor, holding onto your hips, when you suddenly pulled me up with your freakily long limbs. It is your impatience that will cost me a leg or an arm one of these days, not my balance!”

Legolas giggled like a child and finally thought the mood was light enough to launch himself forward and squeeze the air out of his dwarf with a big hug.

“I missed you,” he said again with his face burrowed deep in Gimli’s neck, still naked as the day he had come on this earth.

“I know, my jewel. Thorin was your friend too and I shamelessly left you by yourself to deal with such dark news.”

“It’s alright, Gimli. We have talked about this, remember? You can’t be perfect all the time… although most days you get dangerously close to being a flawless husband.”

“Flawless?! Mpf! You need to get your pretty blonde head checked, Legolas. I ain’t no impeccable husband, not right now.”

He ignored the comment and pushed Gimli down on the blanket, but only to lay on his chest and play with his beard. Legolas was still naked of course, as Gimli’s calloused hands reminded him when they started caressing the cold moonlit skin, but there was nothing erotic in their hug, only quiet, timeless love.       

They remained silent a long time, until Gimli’s restless hands had no more tasks – after caressing every inch of skin reachable, they had moved to braid Legolas’ hair with the most complex dwarven hairstyle the silky golden strands could hold.

“I remember when you told me about your fear of Thorin and Bilbo never meeting again after the end of their mortal existence,” Gimli whispered, his fingers gently tracing the exposed curve of Legolas' neck. “That night you were a vision of poignant beauty, my selfless elf, nestled in my bed, carrying the weight of someone else's sorrow.”

Legolas lifted his luminous eyes to meet Gimli's gaze.

“Are you still haunted by that fear?” Gimli inquired softly.

“Are you, meleth?” Legolas reached up, his hand stroking Gimli’s pink, plump lips with the thumb. “Is this why you were hiding from me in the forest? Because you believed that if I glimpsed your uncertainty, despair would follow?”

Gimli attempted to speak, but his words dissolved, and his mouth yielded to the tender touch of Legolas' thumb.

“Ah, my Gimli,” Legolas sighed. “Must I continually remind you that it's acceptable not to find the right words? You needn't always offer comfort; I can speak for both of us. You needn't always have the strength in your legs; I can hold you through life’s path,” he said, before leaning forward to capture Gimli’s lips with his own, finally tasting him after too many days apart, and with the sweet sensation of Gimli's beard against smooth skin rekindling their intimacy.

As inevitable as the passing of time, Legolas' body lighted up at the warmth of Gimli's embrace, their bodies intimately entwined on the cotton blanket spread across the grass. The night air carried a gentle summer breeze, rustling the leaves and adding a touch of magic to the moment.

As their kiss deepened, Legolas' nimble fingers skillfully unbuttoned Gimli's brigandine, revealing the strong chest beneath. The moonlight played on Gimli's exposed skin, casting a silvery sheen on the contours of his body. Legolas marveled at the contrast between the moonlit glow and the fiery red hair that adorned Gimli's chest, then he grinned, for the nipple piercings glistened brighter than the moon itself. He stared very little though, and he redirected his attention to the task of undressing his dwarf.

Gimli allowed it, though a trace of concern furrowed his brow. “Amrâlimê, I'm not sure I'm in the right mood.”

Undeterred, Legolas continued his work, briefly evading the warm hands of Gimli as he tended to the removal of boots and later, pants. “I know,” he murmured. "You married an elf; we are conjoined in a way you cannot comprehend, meleth. I can sense when your soul desires my body, and tonight, you need something else.”

“I always desire your body,” grumbled Gimli, unhappy at the thought that Legolas might question his appetite.

“Hush,” Legolas whispered, brushing off Gimli's concerns. “You know what I meant. Come, my love, lay down with me under the moon. How many times have you held me through my pain under the cover of your mountains? Let me do the same for you now.”

He gently guided Gimli to lie down on the soft grass and he gracefully positioned himself on top of him, their bare bodies now intimately entwined.

Legolas' blonde hair cascaded loosely, a reflection of the dwarven braids Gimli had skillfully crafted earlier; a gesture to keep his hands busy when words alone were not enough.

Curiosity etched across Gimli's face as he questioned, “What exactly are we doing naked if we are not making love?”

Legolas met Gimli's gaze, his eyes filled with a mixture of tenderness and vulnerability. “We are building a memory,” he replied softly. “Something to hold onto, a moment that transcends time.”

Gimli furrowed his brow, still puzzled.

A sigh escaped Legolas as he confessed, “I am still terrified, Gimli. Terrified that when your time comes to pass, we may not be able to meet again. But I want to believe that this, what we are creating now, will be enough. Enough to bridge that uncertainty. Naked we arrived in this world and naked we shall come back to it.”

He continued, caressing Gimli’s chest as if it was made of porcelain. “Out of all the years, out of all the possibilities, among all the dwarves and elves, we were the ones who met and fell in love. We shared the most amazing love story of all time, the one that changed the course of Middle Earth. I want this memory to endure, to be a testament to what we have built together, a story that will echo through the ages. It will be the greatest song elves will ever sing.”

Gimli, with a glint in his eye and his usual touch of humor, remarked, “Aye, it will be a song of stone… but not just any stone. A stone that won't crumble, enduring through everything.”

Legolas laughed again, a melodic sound that echoed in the night. Tears glistened in his beautiful elven eyes as he caressed Gimli's cheek. “Yes,” he said, “that is precisely what the Second Song of the world will sound like – a song of stone. Unyielding like the dwarves, eternal like the elves.”

After days of silence and pain, Gimli finally smiled, bright and happy, “And as for your fear, my love, that we may not meet in the afterlife, I cannot promise certainty. Perhaps the Halls of Mahal will be locked or perhaps my Maker will see that you are one of us, in your own way. But what I am absolutely certain of is that one day, when the world is remade, we will find ourselves on the grass again, naked, under a full moon. Just like this, my darling elf.”

Legolas, his laughter fading into a serene smile, rested his cheek on Gimli's chest, right where the tattoos met his heart. In the quiet embrace of the night, he sighed with a sense of profound relief. The world seemed to pause, and all that remained was the rhythmic cadence of Gimli's heartbeat.

In that moment, there was no other sound – no distant calls of gulls, no whispers of the wind through the leaves, and not even the subtle chirping of crickets hidden in the bushes. The stillness enveloped them, creating a sacred space where time held its breath. Legolas closed his eyes, immersing himself in the simple yet extraordinary melody of Gimli's mortal heart.

The night became a canvas of tranquility, and Legolas found solace in the steady pulsing beneath his cheek, a timeless lullaby that whispered promises of a future.

“It was worth it.”

***

Bilbo's eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the ethereal light that bathed the cavernous delvings of the Halls of Mandos. No one had told him where he was and yet he recognized the Halls immediately. They felt so familiar one would almost think they were part of the corridors of his beloved Bag End. The vast expanse around him seemed to stretch endlessly, the walls adorned with the magnificent tapestries that must have been woven by Vairë, depicting the intricate threads of unfolding history.

The absence of a roof revealed the vast sky above, painted with blue auroras that danced in celestial splendor.

Confusion etched across Bilbo's youthful face as he stood up, mostly because he felt strangely invigorated. He felt oddly alive, rejuvenated, and not at all like the frail old hobbit he had been just before dying. Even as the chill in the air clung to his skin and the stark contrast to the warmth he remembered always feeling in Erebor became clear, he was sure in his steps.

Roaming the vast caverns, Bilbo marveled at the tapestries, each thread telling stories both familiar and completely unknown. It was then that Námo, the keeper of the Houses of the Dead, approached him with a serene demeanor.

“It is time to move on, Bilbo Baggins,” Námo's voice resonated through the cavern.

Bilbo, at first compliant, felt a sudden surge of resistance. Memories flooded back – memories of Thorin, the dwarves, and the adventures they had shared in the mountain.

“It is time,” the voice repeated.

With a heavy heart, Bilbo reluctantly obeyed Námo's directive, trudging through the cavernous gallery, each step carrying him closer to the end of the Halls of Mandos. As Bilbo approached the final stretch, the blue auroras intensified, casting an otherworldly glow that enveloped the cavern. The pavement beneath his feet led him to the edge of a precipice, a boundary between the known and the unknown. The void beyond seemed to beckon, a vast expanse representing the great beyond where Men and Hobbits were destined to go.

“Jump, child of the Shire,” Námo's voice echoed once more, a gentle reminder of the inevitability of his journey.

But Bilbo hesitated on the brink, his heart torn between the vivid memories of the past and the nothing of what lay ahead. At the edge, Bilbo gazed into the void, his eyes reflecting the blue auroras that mirrored the night sky. The vast emptiness seemed both daunting and promising, but when he raised his irises to take one last look at the blue auroras, it reminded him of a similar shade of blue.

"Thorin had blue eyes..." Bilbo mumbled.

The realization struck him like a thunderbolt: if he crossed into the great beyond, he might never see Thorin again.

“Jump, Bilbo Baggins,” the voice commanded once again.

With a sigh that could be heard by hobbits back in the Shire, Bilbo turned away from the precipice. “Oh, blast it all! Jumping into nothingness isn't my idea of a jolly good time. And who knows what's waiting for me there!”

“Eternal peace, Bilbo Baggins, and no other alternative. It is time to jump.”

He faced Námo with a determined glint in his eyes and the stubbornness typical of hobbits. “Now listen here! Don’t you have other words for me other than telling me to jump in the nothingness?! I've faced trolls, orcs, and a dragon, and I've got my own ideas about adventures. I won't just leap into the unknown like a fool. I've got questions, and I demand some sensible answers!”

“You cannot alter the fate that awaits you, Bilbo Baggins.”

“Oh, I can and I will, you just watch. I'm not budging an inch without some answers. I won't go anywhere that is not taking me to Thorin, and that's final. So, spill the beans, Wise One! Where do dwarves go when they die?”

Námo was quiet for a long moment. Never before a soul had refused to jump. “The fate of dwarves is not within my dominion. They find their own path.”

“Then tell me with whom I can talk to find it.” Bilbo, undeterred, crossed his arms defiantly. Suddenly, a new memory remerged. “Mahal! Where is Mahal?! I want to talk to him! He can take me back to my dwarf, we have a deal already with him – rest assured, he will know who I am! I have raised hell to protect his children, he won't deny me this!”

Námo's stern voice cut through the chill air of the halls, revealing his displeasure. “Once within these halls, souls either choose to depart, as all men and hobbits do, or in the case of the First Born, they are destined for reincarnation. No one leaves without fulfilling their destiny.”

Bilbo squared his shoulders. “Well, as far as I know, no one leaves without your permission. So, that's what I seek. The permission to go join my dwarves, nothing more, nothing less. You don't have to do anything else.”

“I cannot grant you such a request, child of the Shire. It goes against the natural order. There are no exceptions, and if you persist in this defiance, I may make you wait in eternity on the verge of the precipice as punishment... you will jump, eventually.”

Bilbo sniffed, unimpressed. “Well, you can try, but I've got all the time in the world. Thorin is the love of my life, and I WILL go spend the rest of eternity with him.”

Námo sighed, or the deity equivalent at least, for an intense wind invested Bilbo and ruffled his hair. “I cannot change the rules, but neither can I force you to jump. You shall remain on the precipice.”

Bilbo huffed, “That's fine by me. I'll be right here, making sure you don't forget about me.”

As the timeless minutes passed, Bilbo stood on the edge, a tiny figure against the vastness of the Halls of Mandos. Námo watched and observed and then scrutinized some more, understanding that the hobbit's resilience was a testament to a love that transcended realms.

Awaiting permission or not, Bilbo's determination echoed through the Halls of Mandos, and so the Doomsman of the Valar, pronouncer of judgement in matters of fate, decided to make an exception, a one-time deviation from the ordained paths.

He would grant Bilbo Baggins, child of the Shire, a dispensation to join the Halls of Aulë when the time of his dwarf would come. Until then, he would leave the hobbit on the precipice, a solitary figure against the cosmic backdrop, to teach him a lesson.

Námo contemplated the exception he had allowed. The rules of the world were in place for a reason, and he worried about the precedent this hobbit had just forced out of him.

Fates he judged since the dawn of times, but never had he foreseen them. Hopefully, no other exceptions to any rule will ever need to be made.