Somehow, and never did he figure out how, Gimli had found himself in charge of Legolas’ baths. He was sure the elf had planned it somehow, but he wasn’t sure how. He was also sure he was the least qualified of all creatures in Middle Earth for such a position. Dwarves didn’t worry about bathing. Once a week if they could get access to water was just fine. If not, that was also fine. However, there was no getting around the fact that elves, and not just the one he was cursed with, seemed to take an inordinate number of baths.

One of the first things Aragorn had done when he began to rebuild his city was to establish bath houses as he had known them when growing up in Imladris. While the populace of Gondor still was somewhat skeptical, the elves of the colony of Ithilien were grateful and made use of them on every visit. So, here he was, a proud and mighty dwarf, somehow stuck escorting an elf on their second trip to the Aragorn’s personal bathhouse today, and the sun hadn’t even gone down! He grumbled in his beard but not so loudly, or so he thought, that Legolas could hear him. He didn’t really mind after all and it did give the elf so much pleasure, and he had had little of that for so very long now. It’s just that he didn’t understand it. Elves!

They entered the bathhouse, and Gimli was glad to see they were so far the only occupants. This morning! At least eight in addition to themselves getting ready for the day. And that was another thing he’d never understand. A dwarf, when he does bathe, strips off his clothes right before, jumps in and in five minutes he’s out again and pulling on the same clothes as before. These creatures seemed content to linger unless some other business needed their attention. And, they didn’t seem all that concerned at covering themselves unless the air was chill. As for putting on the same clothes, Legolas’ eyes had widened in incomprehension when he had made the suggestion once. Elves!

He was glad they would probably remain alone. Elves in large numbers acting as elves made him nervous. Warrior elves were one thing, and Gimli would take an army of them any day. When they were at peace and among their own kind, though, that was another thing and very unsettling to the dwarf. For one thing, they touched one another frequently and thought nothing of it. Adult male dwarves did NOT touch one another unless they were punching one another in the midst of a satisfying brawl. Even Legolas was different in the company of other elves. Gimli had seen so many of his male healers and other friends kiss his forehead or cheek when they came to the room of healing where he lay, and they would sit and stroke his hand as they sat by the bed or raise it to their lips as they talked. This Gimli did not like. Gimli had even seen Aragorn do the same with Legolas and his foster brothers and even Elrond, who had fostered the future king of Gondor. But, then Aragorn had been raised by elves so that probably explained it. Gimli knew these were not the same as the kisses a man might bestow on a maiden, but they still made him uncomfortable. Dwarves do not really believe in kissing he thought. Yet Legolas seemed to take comfort from the touch and kiss of a friend, and when he was in the most pain it would still soothe him. Gimli just didn’t understand. Elves!

He stomped his way over to the stone bench near where Legolas preferred to bathe and sensibly put the fresh clothing (fresh clothing!) and towels that he had carried for his friend where it could not possibly be splashed. He did not intend that Legolas should get a chill and risk a return of fever even if he insisted on bathing when the sun was beginning to think about setting. He grunted and sat down. He watched in silence the ritual an elf could make out of a bath.

Legolas dropped to one knee as he faced the water and lay his right hand over his heart and bowed his head. Gimli heard him murmur soft words in what he knew was an elven tongue, but he could not understand them even though he had reached the point where he could get by in Sindarin if he had to do so. These words were somehow different, more formal than what Gimli would hear Legolas say when his healers questioned him or he gave greeting to someone in passing. Legolas had told him once that when he greeted Ilúvatar, he had been taught to do so in Quenya and not the Sindarin of his ordinary life, or the wood-elven he sometimes spoke to joke with childhood friends who could speak it. So, Gimli supposed that this must be Quenya, and that Legolas must be praying. Then Legolas rose and removed his clothing swiftly and laid it carefully aside, although he would not put it back on again when he was done. He stood with his back to Gimli and began to unbraid his hair and shake it free. The setting sun through the windows caught the golden hair in its rays and turned it the color of burnished gold from a craftsman’s smith. He’d once heard Arwen say that Legolas’ hair was the color of the wheat at harvest and that she was jealous, and Legolas had laughed and said hers was like the ebony of night, and he wanted to bury his face in it to find the stars. They both had laughed then, and Legolas had brushed Arwen’s hair as a brother might, and she had done the same for him, and Aragorn had smiled to see them together, like elflings sitting cross-legged on the floor and plotting mischief. That was something else Gimli would never understand. A dwarf, if he could become betrothed at all, would kill another who even looked too closely at his betrothed.

But, no, Arwen was wrong. Legolas’ hair was not like wheat. It was gold, the purest of spun gold, and only its softness betrayed that a good smith could not turn it into an ornament wondrous to behold. It remained ever its own ornament alone, but it was still spun gold to Gimli, for metal and stone spoke to him as the trees and green things did not. He watched as Legolas knelt before the fountains designed for this use and washed his hair and then ran a carved wooden comb through it. Legolas came and lay the comb on the bench beside Gimli, and Gimli noted that even this simple thing that no doubt Legolas had made himself had been delicately carved with a pattern of leaves and vines. Elves!

"Will you not join me?" Legolas’ voice was soft as always. Gimli grunted. "It would give me pleasure."

Now, that was another thing about elves. They were unfair. The one he was cursed with knew somehow that for all his grumbling Gimli took a secret delight in making Legolas happy, if only to see the brightness that would light his face and fill his eyes. "Ah, my leg is hurting. Best not get it wet."

"The water would soothe it. Please?"

"I suppose you won’t leave me alone unless I do?"

"Probably not." Legolas smiled. "And you did not bathe this morning with ‘all those other elves about’. Dear Gimli, if you are to share my bed tonight as you promised Haldir you would do while he rested, I really would prefer a clean dwarf beside me! The castle is crowded as you well know and to find another bed will be difficult. Although, perhaps Arod might share his stall?" Legolas laughed as Gimli began to growl about that "accursed horse" and the sound of that laughter won his battle for him. "I will wait for you in the water." Legolas knew that it made Gimli uncomfortable if anyone watched him strip off his clothes, and so the elf stepped into the bathing pool and sat on one of its steps with his back to his friend. He did not understand why his eyes should make Gimli uncomfortable, for to him if no one else the dwarf was beautiful. This was the only dwarf he knew. Perhaps this was so with all the others as well? He heard his friend grunt as he lowered himself onto the middle step with his stiffened leg. Gimli did not like to get his beard wet.

Legolas moved gracefully down to the lowest step and sat so that he could look up at his friend. The water covered him completely to his neck and the gold that was his hair floated about him on the movements of the water. Legolas smiled as he watched it for a moment. Then he looked again at Gimli and saw the scarred and badly healed wound of the leg that always plagued his friend when it was cold. He extended his long fingers and lay the tips of them gently against the scars. Gimli did not protest. Legolas was the only creature on earth that Gimli would permit to touch him in affection and only if they were alone would Legolas do such a thing, for he knew his friend’s dwarven pride was mighty. Legolas increased the pressure of his fingertips ever so slightly and again Gimli heard him breathe words in the strange elven tongue. When the hand was removed, Gimli was astonished that his leg felt so much better.

"What are you up to, lad, elven magic?" Legolas laughed and leaned his head back into the water to make his hair float once again.

"No, my suspicious friend, merely a prayer to Ilúvatar to give you ease from your aches, for I know you are an old and decrepit dwarf." Legolas was suddenly serious. "I meant not to offend you, Gimli, forgive me!"

"You’ve not offended me, Master Elf, and my leg does feel better." A smile of pure joy came onto Legolas’ face. That was another thing Gimli would never understand. A simple thing such a leaf perfectly formed or the blueness of the sky would bring that same smile of joy to that face that in other beings would require wealth or power to bring. Legolas took such joy in life and he had so nearly lost it, was still not completely free from the threat of death. Gimli somehow found his gnarled, battle-scarred hand resting awkwardly on the golden head of Legolas that now leaned against the old wounds of his leg. For somehow Gimli knew that the elf needed to be close to someone at this moment, someone that he loved, and he loved Gimli above any other that he knew, even his father or Aragorn.

This filled Gimli ever with wonder that somehow this perfect creature whose whole life was beauty and color and grace should so love Gimli the Dwarf. Galadriel filled him with awe at her beauty and all that she was and he would serve her forever, but Legolas filled Gimli’s whole life with love and for him would he gladly die if it would protect Legolas from hurt or pain for even one minute. And both perfect creatures in his life were Elves. Gimli the Dwarf would never understand it, but he would ever give thanks for this blessing that Aulë had sent to him, the two jewels of his existence.