Legolas let the pendant unravel from its chain and hang between his fingers, swaying slightly. There was nothing so undignified as tears in his eyes. He just watched the pendant swinging back and forth.

Gimli had twice seen Legolas in grief before, but this third was taking him hardest. Where Boromir was a new friend and Gandalf an old but infrequent and capricious acquaintance, Legolas and Aragorn were as close as brothers.

"Do you want to explain what that's about, lad?" asked Gimli, settling himself on the cold stone next to the elf.

"It was a promise," said Legolas. "And not one made without sacrifice." He flicked it back into his hand in one fluid movement and tucked it away. "All for naught, now."

"If you talk about it, it might help."

Legolas shook his head. "It is not my story to share."

In Lothlorien they had found common ground in sharing their grief. Beneath the bare trees they talked for hours, sharing memories of Gandalf until they could both laugh again. But all of Gimli's words had deserted him now, and he had no way to penetrate this bleak despair.

"I left my home in search of him," said Legolas, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "He was twenty seven years old when we met, barely more than a boy, but even then I would have followed him anywhere he wished." His eyes sought something unseen in the distance, his brow furrowed as if in confusion.

"Aye," said Gimli at last. "I've only known him a few months, but I'd follow him to the halls of the dead if needed."

"Do you know what the Gift of Men is, Gimli?" Gimli shook his head, and Legolas continued. "It is that when they die, all their mistakes, all their grief and sorrow is lifted from them and they are at peace."

Gimli was filled with curiosity, but now was not the time to interrogate the Elf on how that differed from his own fate. "He deserves to be at peace," he said at last.

"He deserved to see the things he fought for come to fruition." Legolas's mouth was a tight line of frustration, his hands clenched fruitlessly at his sides.

On the plains of Rohan, their ease with each other had spoken of long years of familiarity. They twittered at each other in Elvish and laughed at meaningless statements as if they were old jokes. This went beyond that. This was the kind of battle-hewn partnership Gimli could never hope to match in a thousand years. The kind where you were lost without your partner.

Legolas shook his head. "Where do I go from here? Even if Frodo and Sam succeed, who will unite the races of Men if not Isildur's heir? Is it all lost?"

Gimli reached over to squeeze his shoulder and Legolas jerked away in surprise. Gimli stood to withdraw, apologising.

Legolas caught his arm and held it. "No, stay. I forgot that Dwarves like to bring comfort with contact."

"Aye, we do," said Gimli, sitting again. "For comfort, for joy, for any reason we wish." That had been a topic of some debate in Lothlorien.

Legolas looked at him sidelong for a moment, then dropped an arm around Gimli's waist.

Elves were not good to hold. They were too tall, too thin and somehow entirely made up of sharp angles. Legolas held him gingerly, like he was certain he was doing it wrong.

Gimli sighed and leant his head against the Elf's shoulder. He watched the sun chase fluffy white clouds across the sky and wondered that the sky could be so beautiful when his heart was too sore to welcome it.

Legolas stiffened, exclaiming something in Elvish. He got to his feet abruptly, almost sending Gimli sprawling on the stone. "What?" Gimli demanded, picking himself up and dusting himself off.

"A lone rider," said Legolas. "I dare not say more, for fear that my eyes deceive me."

"Your eyes? I do not believe they could be deceived even by Saruman himself," snorted Gimli.

Legolas shook his head. "Then go to the gates and welcome our rider in my stead."

He narrowed his eyes at the Elf, but Legolas waved him on. "I do not trust myself for this task. Go, Gimli."

Gimli went.