Author’s Note: Here I took some liberty with Legolas’ age, putting his time of birth after T.A. 1000.

To those who have read this over at FF.Net, I have made some small alterations to the chapter because the overall tone of the narration was worrying me. If anyone has any concern about my depiction of Eryn Lasgalen, please don't hesitate to tell me about it.

And for the purposes of the story, I've set this at early spring, about four months after the parting at Isengard. Legolas was obviously very reluctant to go home ;-)

Chapter III: The Green, Green Grass of Home

“When maybe a thousand years had passed, and the first shadow had fallen on Greenwood the Great…”
- Appendices, ROTK

In the light of a clear, fresh spring day, Gimli could see why Mirkwood's name of old had been Greenwood the Great. Everywhere he turned, his eyes encountered such a splendid display of green that the early spring world began to blur.

The awakening forest displayed the colour of green in a breath-taking range of hues and shades, so rich and full of life that every other colour was muted. Moss-green carpeted the ground beneath drops of emerald delicately attached to slender branches; the bright lime of some leaves providing a stark contrast against the teal showers from its neighbour. So striking was the brilliance of the greenery that Gimli had a wild fancy that the colour itself was alive. He made to share this thought with his Elven companion, then paused.

So overwhelmed had he been that the Dwarf had not observed Legolas' reaction to returning to his home wood. Legolas' sky-blue eyes were wide in child-like wonder, and his face was lost in an expression between a rapturous smile and shocked gaping. For the briefest moment, Gimli saw what a young Legolas must have looked like, as the prince stood there drinking in the sight of the forest like an abstaining Man gulped down his first ale in years. Unheeded, Arod was doing his own exploration, tentatively munching on a few select leaves.

"It looks very different from when I traveled through with my father on our way to Rivendell," Gimli commented dryly, hiding a smile. There were occasions where beards were quite useful.

Legolas blinked, and the image of an awe-filled Elfling faded into a solemn, sad being whose heart was as old as his body appeared young. "Aye," he breathed. "It was like this before the shadow came." A slender hand reached out slowly to lightly touch the tip of a bud. "I never knew, never imagined it being truly what the songs declared."

His words and expression were odd, but Gimli responded to the sadness in his friend’s voice and clapped a comforting hand on the Elf's slight shoulders. "Welcome home, Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen."

~*~

Earlier I spoke of wounds, but I was to learn now that the Sea-longing is the closest to the surface and the hardest to hide, but was by no means the only one, nor the most grievous. For the ensuing conversation alone would I heartily wish that the Ring had never been made.

~*~

Gimli could sense that Legolas was troubled. It was difficult to believe that just a year before he barely had a civil word to say to the Elf. Now he could discern the reclusive creature’s moods better than any other mortal, surpassing even Aragorn’s skill.

“My friend, what ails you?” he asked gently.

The Elf did not give any outward sign that he’d heard, but after many trials Gimli had eventually discovered that patience got him further with Legolas than pressure. So he busied himself with re-adjusting the strap that held his throwing axes to his pack, even as they slowly made their way through the forest. Ever since crossing that unseen barrier between the flowering life of Greenwood of old and the almost wintry desolation that still plagued the woods too far from the dwellings of the Wood-Elves to be nurtured by their power, the pair had journeyed on foot, allowing Arod to wander as he would, though he kept them always in sight.

True to his instincts, the Elf spoke up after a long moment. “I think I am beginning to understand Frodo.”

Though his reply wasn’t at all reassuring to the Dwarf. “What do you mean?”

Legolas gestured at the forest around him. “All of this! It is Greenwood restored, as I’ve always dreamed and hoped it would be one day, free from the Shadow. And yet…”

“Not home for you,” Gimli finished for him, remembering long talks with Frodo about his beloved Shire. He had hoped to cheer the Hobbit up by discussing his peaceful home, but it only made Frodo more melancholic. He hoped that returning to the Shire would disprove his friend’s fears, though he knew that Frodo would probably never completely heal.

And now, looking at the Elf more closely, he thought he could see the same melancholy growing in his friend’s eyes. His heart fell at the thought of Legolas suffering more grief on top of his sea-longing.

“I was born after the Shadow fell on Greenwood,” Legolas continued. “I never knew the wood as it had been before, though the trees and minstrels always sang about its living beauty.”

“Legolas…” Gimli began, but he could not think of what to say to console his friend.  For a long while, the two of them strolled on in companionable silence, the breeze dancing around them like the singing of trees. It was a fine day.

“But if gentle Frodo, a Hobbit out of the Shire, can accept it, then so shall I,” Thranduil’s son finally said, though the sadness in his eyes remained for days.

~*~

I do not know what inspired me to build such a close friendship with the Elf. We had been antagonistic towards each other since the day we first met in the halls of the Last Homely House. Thranduil's son had inherited his father's distrust of the Dwarves, and I was all too aware of my own father's imprisonment in the dungeons of Mirkwood.

But somewhere between Moria and Lothlorien, something changed.

~*~

Gimli shuddered involountarily at the memory of their stroll through fallen Khazad-dûm. It was those dark-filled hours that made it occur to him that Legolas was quite a singular Elf. Where even the Lord Celeborn, accounted a wise Elf-lord of the White Council, had pointed the finger of blame at the Dwarves for the evil that came out of Khazad-dum, Legolas had never spoken a single word of blame. For sure, he had no lack of insults aimed at Gimli's person, but Moria and the Dwarven Race in general received no critical word after that journey through darkness. Gandalf's apparent downfall had made their pointless bickering seem quite childish, especially in the face of the Hobbits’ grief. Then, even as Moria was where Legolas' animosity towards him melted, Lothlorien healed his hostility towards Legolas.

He had often wondered what had passed through the heart and mind of the Elf during their time in Khazad-dûm. He had found out from Aragorn that Legolas disliked caves immensely, so that journey must have taken all the determination and strength of will the Elf possessed. Though it was not until the Golden Wood that he'd admitted friendship with the Elf, Gimli could recognise courage when he saw it, and in Moria the Elf had earned a great deal of respect from the Dwarf. He was still puzzled, however, at how such terror could have made Legolas more friendly towards him.

That is why I shall never understand Elves. Gimli smiled. He remembered still the perpetual cloud of puzzlement that had taken up residence over his head during the fledgling days of their friendship. Several months on, puzzlement had evolved into resigned acceptance as his unpredictable friend continued to reveal daily the bewildering layers of his personality. It was entirely possible, Gimli concluded, that he was friends with one of the most complex individuals alive on Middle Earth, yet goes to great pains to hide it.

~*~

Once in Minas Tirith, an inquisitive Peregrin Took inquired, “I almost forgot to ask- why don’t Elves and Dwarves get along?” This had earned a confused look from Legolas and myself, but in the midst of our jumbled explanations it occurred to us that a lot of the traditional reasons our Races detested each other was based more on myth and misunderstandings than actual facts and events. So, in tribute to our beloved Shire-folk, I have made up my mind to learn as much about the Firstborn as any Dwarf can. An impossible under-taking, on the whole, but perhaps before my life’s end I shall succeed in unlocking at least one particular Elf.

Yes, Legolas, I know that you will be the first one to read this after I finish, and I know that you understood my heart’s desire long before I did.

~*~

The huts and houses upon the ground or amongst the strong branches of the mighty trees looked deceptively simple, but Gimli could see that simplicity was part of their art. The homes were strong and sturdy, open enough to let a great deal of wind and sunshine in, yet enclosed sufficiently for privacy and protection.

He wasn't sure where the city started, or even if it could be termed thus. At one point the space between the trees suddenly became greater, and the trees themselves grew taller and possessing greater girth than the ones that dominated most of the wood. It was... different, from the other realms Gimli had visited, but pleasantly so. In Rivendell, the homes were more clustered together; in Caras Galadhon, there were very few dwellings on ground level.

"What you see is a fusion of the Sindar and Silvan cultures," Legolas explained as they circled the perimeter of the residential areas. "The palace is a shadow of Menegroth and the might of Elu Thingol, whilst the realm for the most part takes after the nature of the Silvan, who love the free woods best."

Gimli nodded. It was beyond him how they'd managed to get so far without being spotted by a single Elf, considering how noisy he knew he was being and how keen Elven hearing was. Surely it was not by Legolas’ skill alone, though his companion did have a remarkable ability for stealth.

They made their way towards the heart of the Elven realm in much the same way as they had crossed the expanse of Mirkwood. Gimli spotted a few Elves in the distance a number of times, but they never came close enough to one that the Elf could sight or hear them. Eventually Gimli thought he could hear the quiet roar of a river, and Legolas told him to stay put whilst he scouted ahead.

After a while, the Elf returned to fetch him with a smile. He followed his friend apprehensively. They came to a fallen tree that overlooked one side of the largest of the Mountains of Mirkwood, and Legolas pointed at where a bridge ran across the river. A gasp escaped the Dwarf when he laid eyes on the infamous ‘magic’ gates of Mirkwood.

It was a strong wall of stone over twelve feet high. The surface of the wall was beautifully carved into life-like patterns of vines and plants beneath a sky of flowers. Gimli felt his jaw drop. He fought a rising desire to run to it, to pass the delicate blend of metal and stone beneath his fingers.

“I wanted to see your face when I showed you this, for even your father has not seen our wondrous Gate in the full light of day.” Gimli could hear the smile in Legolas’ voice. “It was made a long time ago.”

“A very long time ago,” the Dwarf said, his voice trembling slightly in awe. “Such art has been lost to my kin since the fall of Moria. Mithril, for sure, from the quality of the light reflecting off that half-bloom near the top, but I think I recognise the workmanship... I have read accounts of the making... the most wondrous part is where the stone and rock have been blended to make something new… like a metal that remembers being stone, or stone that has a heart of metal. Only the King and those of his line can open the gates, correct?”

“Aye. The Dwarves who made this took the secret with them, but I will try to show you the old records from the earliest days of the kingdom. I daresay that the 'magic' is not so different from that of another pair of Gates that we have encountered.”

The pair shared a wry smile, and Gimli felt like doing a merry little caper right there and then. "An Elf after my own heart, you are." For some reason the comment made Legolas' smile even brighter. The Elf turned for a moment to look behind them, addressing Arod in fluid Elvish, who answered with a derisive snort, then gentle fingers touched his shoulder.

"Come, don your Lorien cloak, and we shall pass through it together."