Kings Elessar and Éomer passed together into the Hallows of Rath Dínen, accompanied by a Gondorian honor guard and six Rohirric men at arms with Meriadoc Brandybuck the Halfling.  There the body of King Théoden was removed from its foreign resting place and laid in its casket upon a bier of gold.  The black and silver Gondorians led them then from the tombs, the Rohirrim bearing their fallen king with all due honor.  Éomer followed them, Merry before him, Elessar behind accompanied by the remainder of his guard.

From the Hallows they emerged into the sunlight, beginning their descent down through the city.  Pennons fluttered all about them, and the way was lined on either side by those who would follow them to Edoras, who one by one fell into line behind as they passed in silent procession, their own banners aloft in the breeze, the lords of Gondor, Rohan, and Elvendom, a greater salute than any King of the Mark had ever before enjoyed.  Queen Arwen assumed her place beside her husband with her maidens; Prince Faramir of Ithilien came behind with his guard and Peregrin Took; Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his retinue; the Halfling Ringbearers Frodo and Samwise; Legolas the Elf as the open but unheralded Prince of Greenwood, beside him Gimli the Dwarf; Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien; Lord Elrond of Rivendell with his sons Elladan and Elrohir; Glorfindel and Erestor, followed by the éored of Éomer, and then by all the Elves who had abode in Gondor, save those who awaited them beyond the walls.  It was a procession long and grave that at last filed out through the broken gates of the city and onto the green of the Pelennor, where the journey would indeed begin.

Théoden was laid now upon the great wain that would bear him to his homeland, and Merry his esquire rode there beside him, bearing the arms of the fallen king.  The green banner of the white horse was carried ahead by the riders, the bier following, attended by the éored placed before, behind, and upon either side, while the others prepared to follow. 

Legolas mounted Arod at the side, the Rohirric steed without ornament save a single ribbon of green plaited in behind his forelock.  The horse was standing ready beneath the hand of a grey-clad Elf of Lórien who seemed somehow familiar to Gimli, though most looked alike to his eyes. 

Legolas thanked him in their own tongue, as the other boosted the Dwarf to his place behind.  Orophin returned in kind, taking the hand he was offered and bidding him farewell.

Orophin left them to return to his own people, and Legolas sat his horse patiently as he awaited his place, a solemn figure in the mid-summer breeze despite the dwarf clinging to him from behind.

Éomer King followed first upon his mighty grey charger, behind him Gandalf the White upon Shadowfax.  Then came King Elessar astride his proud bay stallion draped in the royal black and silver trappings of Gondor, beside him Frodo and Samwise mounted on ponies. 

Legolas watched as they passed.  Aragorn beckoned to him, but he silently refused.

There passed Imrahil and Faramir with the knights of Gondor and Dol Amroth, Pippin among their number.  It was no small company, but Legolas waited by the wayside with infinite patience as it crawled forward.  Even Arod seemed to understand the gravity of the occasion, standing his ground without protest.

Behind them came the Lord and Lady of Lórien with their following, a slowly passing host bearing pale and wispy banners, then the Lord of Rivendell, with whom rode his daughter, Queen Undomiel.  There Legolas at last brought Arod into line, taking his place behind the Lords of Elrond’s household.

From Minas Tirith they passed northward at an unhurried pace, the procession stringing out behind for miles.  The fair weather was a blessing, lifting the hearts of many, for those who had known him imagined that Théoden himself would have bid them enjoy their ride through the north of Gondor and the fair meads of Rohan, that they not darken their spirits with sorrow on his account, who was now beyond suffering and care.

Even now Legolas felt more at home than he had in the city, riding in the open fields, the wind in his hair.  Summer’s manifestations were all about them, the occasional golden spots of buttercups highlighting the fields, the muffled stomp of horses through lush grass.

But as fair as the surrounds were, he could not help but imagine the most welcome sight he would see would be the green boarders of Lasgalen framed between Arod’s slender ears.  The true condition of his war-torn wood was a concern to him.  He had been warned of the devastation by the Elven heralds, who had advised him to imagine the worst so the reality would not be such a shock.  It was not an encouraging report, and having seen the Desolation of Smaug, he could imagine quite a bit.  He trusted Arod to keep their place as his mind wandered, lulled by the gentle pace of the horse, the rhythmic swishing of hoofs in the summer grass.

He had hung back for a reason, one Aragorn perhaps would not understand, for in truth he was avoiding him.  King Elessar thought it a triumph that the Elves would return to Gondor, but Legolas, who was perhaps more sensitive than many, could feel that not all thought the same.  It was enough that their Queen was a daughter of the Eldar, and that the heir to their throne would thus be Halfelven, akin and yet alien to them, Gondorian in nothing but name.  Legolas knew that had he ridden with Aragorn he would have been touted as a Prince of Ithilien alongside Faramir, and he did not wish to be thrust upon the Gondorian people yet.  Let them first acclimate themselves to the new order of things before too much was changed too quickly.  They had every right to resent the inheritance of their ancestral lands by foreign lords, and he would not have blamed them for protesting his appointment.  Many bitter words could be spared with patience.

As their journey continued through the long hours of the day the riders became further and further distanced from one another, no more than a horse-length or two, but enough for a reasonable measure of solitude.  It was not long then until the sons of Elrond reined in their mounts and fell back beside Legolas, the only three of their kind to have faced the final battles together in Gondor and in Mordor.

“Well met, again, Legolas,” Elladan greeted his fellow in their own tongue, thus barring Gimli from the conversation.  Ordinarily Legolas would have objected, but the Dwarf’s steadying grasp about his waist had slackened, and the deadweight against his back told him the midsummer heat and the lilting motion of the horse had conspired to put his companion to sleep for a time.

“The same to you,” he replied in kind.  “All was well in Rohan when you and Éomer left it?”

“Well enough,” Elrohir confirmed.  “If we returned for aught else but a funeral, I would say nothing could have dampened their spirits in victory.”

“Admirable of them,” Legolas mused.  “We may still learn much from the resilience of Men.”

“They were indeed grievously stricken,” Elladan agreed.  “But always their hope outweighs their despair.”

They rode for some time in silence, the procession snaking away before them to the horizon, before Elladan ventured to voice what had recently weighed upon his mind.

“Do you intend to take him into your father’s house?”

“You know my father well enough to know he will not slay Gimli on sight, Dwarf or no.”

“Do I?” Elladan asked incredulously. 

“You will if ever you admit it to yourself,” Legolas qualified.  “Provided there are no great disturbances, accidents, or other unfortunate events, all should be well enough.”

“And you expect this son of Glóin to behave as your father wills?”

“He will if I have anything to do with it,” Legolas insisted in an obdurate tone that always reminded them of Thranduil when they heard it.  Beneath his mother’s kindness ran a strain of his father’s determination, and it did manifest now and again.  Rarely did it ever put father and son at loggerheads, but the potential was there.  He let Arod have his head and lay a hand upon Gimli’s limp wrist, lest the dozing dwarf slide off his perch.

“If I knew no better,” Elrohir jibed, “I would think you were rather fond of that nogoth.  Forgive me if I do not see why.”

“I do.  But I do not doubt that if you endured his company for three months and more, you would find him endearing in his own way.  Even I must admit his worth in combat.  So callous and yet so devoted; so graceless and yet so skilled; so amazingly ignorant and yet willing to learn; so crass and yet so courteous.”  Legolas smiled.  “He says the most hideous things in the nicest way.”

“Well,” Elladan said at last, digesting all that, “pray he says nothing hideously nice to your father.  The fireworks may make you think Mithrandir was come.”

“I do not expect it to be as spectacular as you imagine,” Legolas dismissed him.  “True, my father has no special love for Dwarves, but neither does he bear any special hatred.  The death of his grandfather was avenged long ago.  King Dáin of Erebor was on gracious terms with him, and I hope Thorin III will be likewise, rather than his namesake.”

“Keep hoping,” Elrohir advised.  “Unless the two of you intend to do something about it yourselves.”

Legolas turned to him with a knowing smile.  “Perhaps we will, my friend.”