Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for fun.

Author's Notes: Many thanks to Theresa Green. word goddess extraordinaire, whose depiction of Gimli and Legolas I have shamelessly stolen for my own sick and demented purposes.

"Legolas, you've been nattering at me for over an hour. I know I lost my temper," Gimli grumbled as they walked through King Elessar's palace gardens. "But by all that dwarves hold sacred, I couldn't stop myself. They're lucky I didn't take an ax to them. Especially that one with the face like a weasel. Aragorn is not well served by these bureaucrats."

Gimli stole a look at Legolas, gusts of wind blowing long blond locks higgledy-piggledy. Overnight fall had arrived, with a nasty biting wind that crept under the thickest clothing. If Legolas hadn't set a punishing pace as they strode around the palace gardens in an attempt to walk off Gimli's rage, no doubt he'd be shivering in his thick boots. Naturally, Legolas was dressed in his usual leggings and jerkin, no layers for him, elves being somewhat impervious to cold. Yet another supremely annoying trait that Legolas lorded over him in their constant game of one-up-man-ship.

"Well, Master Dwarf, you can explain yourself to King Elessar. I didn't stomp out of that meeting in a rage," Legolas said rather smugly.

"You can drop that tone, Elf. I saw you at least three or four times stroking the end of an arrow from the quiver at your feet, which, you and I both know, is a sure sign that you were aching to pull out your bow and level an arrow into someone."

Legolas laughed. "You're right, Gimli. The weasel-faced one was quite irritating."

Gimli and Legolas had been charged by Elessar before his wedding trip to review the damage done to the city from the assault by Sauron's troops and give their recommendations on how to rebuild it. The morning had been spent in pointless meetings with city bureaucrats. Gimli was in charge of rebuilding the city, Legolas, the replanting of trees and gardens. When Elessar had initially asked his two friends to oversee this enormous effort he'd known what they were up against.

Not that he'd tell them that.

"Please, delay your trip to Fangorn and the Glittering Caves," he'd begged. "We need to restore the city and quickly. The longer it takes to rebuild, the longer the scar of Sauron's evil lay upon this land. Arwen and I are away to Lothlorien and will return in a fortnight. You're my staunchest warriors. I trust that a few bureaucrats won't stand in your way." He slapped both of them on the back with a false grin of assurance. Even in his brief reign, Elessar had suffered through enough of these meetings to know that this was perhaps as equally fraught with certain failure as the battle at Helm's Deep.

Gimli had never spent a more frustrating morning in his life. He was a doer. A man of few words, his normal approach was to analyze, determine a course of action, and steady on. His hand had strayed to his ax handle several times as every suggestion he'd made was shuffled off to the side and ignored. And they were good suggestions, by Aule. What dwarves didn't know about stone wasn't worth knowing. He was being tolerated, no, merely endured, because he was the king's friend.

No one would make a decision. "If we did this...but perhaps not. Perhaps we shouldn't do that either."

After two hours of fidgeting and squirming in his seat, ignoring Legolas's constant glares and numerous elbows in the ribs reminding him to behave, Gimli had had enough. He began to snort audibly in derision as the members of the council tried to outmaneuver each other with no end in mind other than their own aggrandizement. Three hours into the meeting, all restraint abandoned, he'd begun verbally insulting the bureaucrats with blunt assessments of why their ideas wouldn't work. At four hours, he'd thrown up his hands and shouted, "It won't be my head on a platter when King Elessar returns and find his council has done naught!" Then he'd stormed out of the room, Legolas in his wake.

They tramped through the gardens, Legolas in monologue about the nature of dwarfs: (a) they fly into rages without any provocation; (b) they have no patience; and (c) dwarvish diplomacy consists of wielding an ax. Gimli only grunted in response. Normally, he'd have made equally damning comments about the nature of elves, perhaps the only subject upon which Gimli was eloquent, but he didn't have the heart. He hated the idea of facing Aragorn and admitting failure.

Finally the rage that had nearly driven the dwarf to slay King Elessar's entire council had abated. He was tired, thirsty, and needed to piss.

"You know, not all of us have legs as long as an oliphant, Elf."

Legolas gave Gimli the once over, keen blue eyes missing nothing. "To be honest, Gimli, I can't tell whether you have any legs you're so bundled up."

"Even a stout dwarf like myself isn't impervious to cold. It's a nasty wind," and he wrapped his arms around himself in reflex. "Not that you would know, you blasted elf," he added.

Legolas laughed, and Gimli felt a firm grip pull on his arm.

"Here's a bench, my friend."

Tall, slim, as graceful as a cat, Legolas almost leapt on top of the bench and within a thrice sat cross-legged on one end. It was hard to imagine him as the fiercest warrior who'd had ever fought by Gimli's side. Forged during the battle for Middle Earth, the unheard of friendship between an elf and dwarf startled all, perhaps no more so than the two of them. They were now inseparable, one rarely seen without the other.

"Sit a minute to catch your breath. Then I believe we should return to the palace." A sly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Aragorn has restocked his cellars recently. I've heard tell of some mighty fine ale. Not to mention a delicious red wine." Legolas unconsciously licked his upper lip.

Gimli sat down and smiled. "Aye, I've heard tell of that rumor as well. I'll have a quick pipe, Elf, and then we'll return to the palace." He waved a hand in the direction of a thickly wooded copse in front of them. "Tell me about that tree over there. The pretty one with the leaves."

Legolas narrowed his eyes and gazed at the copse. "Gimli, on a wild guess I would say that there are roughly twenty different types of trees in front of me, all sporting leaves. Could you try to be more specific? And don't say the ones with the trunks. They all appear to have trunks, as well."

This was yet another odd aspect to this friendship, one that had started shortly after the final battle. No sooner had they promised each other that Gimli would take Legolas to the Glittering Caves and that Legolas would, in turn, take Gimli to Fangorn Forest, than Legolas began teaching Gimli about plants and then quiz him about what he'd learned. Dwarves loved the earth, but that forged into rock and stone, not its flowers, shrubs, or trees. One day, when Legolas had been prattling on for what seemed like hours on the thousands of varieties of ferns that existed, Gimli had exploded and shouted, "And why would I need to know all this? Would it be possible to spend one hour in your presence and not talk about green things? You don't hear me going on forever about rocks, now do you?"

The naked pain on Legolas's face at Gimli's harsh and thoughtless words made him feel like he had struck a young child. A quick dip of his head gave Legolas a second to regain his composure. Then with a face devoid of emotion and a voice flat and gruff, Legolas snapped back, "Master Dwarf, you will not truly appreciate our trip to Fangorn Forest if you do not understand how the plants live in harmony together." Then he left the room, leaving Gimli truly ashamed for perhaps the first time in his life.

Since then, Gimli had made a point to ask Legolas about the flora. Legolas never volunteered unless he was asked. In kind, Legolas would ask Gimli about any gems and rocks they encountered.

It had also come to pass that Gimli, originally most irritated by Legolas's voice--he'd harkened it to the prate of an obnoxious, unruly child--had now come to enjoy its dulcet singsong. Nay, now he relished Legolas's lilting tenor. The elves almost sang when they talked, and there was no voice more lyrical than Legolas's. Sometimes Gimli would find himself almost hypnotized by its gentle cadence.

The sweet tenor, the comfort of his pipe, the whisper of the wind through the leaves, and the promise of some fine ale gradually unwound the nasty knots in Gimli's neck. And except for the fact that now he really needed to take a piss, he found himself very happy indeed.

"You're back to yourself, my friend. The pipeweed has restored you." Legolas put a hand on his shoulder and ended the reverie.

Gimli nodded. "Aye, my friend, and your treatise on trees. Let's go back to the palace. A pint, nay, two pints would be most welcome. But first I need to piss. That large bush should do." Gimli motioned with his chin to a tall clump of green near the bench.

"Gimli," Legolas barked and cuffed him on the shoulder in frustration. "You weren't paying attention. I knew it. That is not just a large bush, but a variety of rosemary."

"At this point, Legolas, I could care less. I'm looking for a modicum of privacy. The genus of this shrub concerns me not," and with that he made a beeline for the bushes, Legolas trailing behind.

Gimli fumbled with his breeches and then sighed with relief as he began to pee. He watched as the arc of his piss hit against the grass. There was another arc of piss as Legolas relieved himself. And this piss went just a little further than his had. By Aule, what was this? He looked over at Legolas, who was standing a foot away from him wearing his "I-can-do-it-better-than-you-can" smirk, blues eyes merry with mischief.

No, my dear Legolas, you won't get away with it.

He stopped peeing.

Legolas must have known the game was afoot, because suddenly Legolas stopped peeing as well. Both men turned and faced each other, cock in hand.

"Do not think you'll get the better of me, Legolas. My rather stouter, uh, sword will best you in this match." Indeed, Gimli's cock was thick and as solid as the dwarf himself.

Legolas gave Gimli's rather prominent "sword" a glance and murmured as if to himself, "I see the old adage about the width and size of the feet is quite true." But with a saucy toss of his head, he said in a louder voice, "As always, Gimli, your overconfidence will undo you. As you can see, I certainly might not be as fat--"

"Fat?" Gimli choked.

"But I do have length on my side." He glanced down at Gimli, then at his own long, slender cock, and favored Gimli with a small, but supremely confident smile. "At least several inches longer, I'd say. An advantage in this instance, you must concede."

Gimli stifled a shout of outrage. Several inches! Surely not! Maybe half of an inch longer, nay, a quarter of an inch at the most. Inspecting Legolas's equipment with a ferocity he usually reserved for assessing the quality of axes and blades, he had to concede that indeed Legolas did have length. He gave his own "blade" a quick once over and was pleased. His was definitely the thicker, wider "blade." More stamina to his mind. He would win.

"In my experience, Legolas, in battle the long, poorly forged, flimsy--"

"Flimsy? Poorly forged?" Legolas sputtered.

"Blades just don't measure up against the stouter ones. We must mark the original spot with a stone and have one more go around. I assume you have enough left," Gimli demanded. Had Legolas spent himself in his oh-so-obvious-attempt to overreach Gimli's first pass?

The smirk returned. "Do not worry, Gimli. While you were pouting at that meeting, I drank quite a lot of wine to stop myself from making rude gestures and comments." Legolas shifted his head back a little and lowered his lids until only a sliver of blue peeked out, his chin thrust out in a challenge. "I've got gallons left."

Taking a minute to retie their breeches (Gimli was quite cold all over), both of them went in search of stones. They disagreed first about the size of the stones to mark the spot. Gimli complained that Legolas's stones were minuscule--not an issue for someone with elven eyesight who could spot a stone the size of a man's fingernail from three leagues away. With much grumbling, Legolas found several stones, "That even a blind dwarf could see."

Next it was the question of where their piss had landed. After bickering for several minutes, both realized at the same time that the only way to determine the "exact" spot was by getting down on their hands and knee. As neither wanted pee-soaked knees or wet hands, they quickly compromised on that score. Then there was another spat about where they'd been standing originally. Both were loathe to admit it, but fifteen minutes of arguing had allowed them some precious time to add to whatever "reserves" they had. Gimli wasn't sure Legolas was bluffing about the wine consumption and decided to be as cantankerous as possible to gain a few extra drops.

As Gimli had gone first before, they decided that it would be only fair if he went first for the second round. Legolas stood a few feet from the original mark, stone in hand, poised to mark the spot. With cold fingers, Gimli undid his breeches and grabbed. Gimli thought of the sea, he pictured rivers rushing, he envisioned water coursing through his fingers, he imagined guzzling an enormous tankard of ale in one long gulp, the yeasty, bitter wetness of the ale as it cascaded down his throat. And when the pressure in his bladder become almost unbearable, he aimed and let loose, almost groaning with relief. He hitched himself back into his breeches, laced them up by rote, and found to his surprise that his eyes had been closed. He blinked a couple of times and focused on Legolas.

Legolas's face was stiff, pale, his eyes wide with some emotion Gimli had never seen before. In fact, if Gimli didn't know this was impossible, he would have sworn that Legolas was freezing, his entire body rigid. The classic grace that characterized everything he did had abandoned him.

"Legolas," he cried. Gimli began to move toward him, but Legolas brought up a palm so swiftly and with such force in an order for Gimli to stay his place that he stopped in his tracks. Legolas jerked his shoulders, bent over slowly as if in pain, and placed a stone a foot or so beyond the first stone. After a couple of seconds, he stood up, gave Gimli a grim smile, and motioned with his hand to take Legolas's place as scorekeeper.

It was not like the elf to be silent. At the very least there should have been six or seven disparaging remarks about Gimli's poor performance. Gimli took Legolas's place, aware that somehow the rules of the game had changed but he didn't know why.

Legolas reached the spot where they'd designated the starting line. Legolas stood there for a couple of seconds staring at Gimli, then turned around. Gimli could tell Legolas was unlacing his breeches, and he was at a loss to understand this modesty. For months they had bathed together and pissed together, and yet now Legolas was turning away?

Slowly, Legolas turned around. His head hung forward. The wind had died down and his impossibly blond hair, as shiny as mithril, hung in sheets shielding his face. Mesmerized at the beauty of this hair, Gimli watched every strand as it gently caressed Legolas's cheeks. Legolas's hands fumbled inside his breeches (had Gimli ever seen Legolas fumble at anything?), and then he arched back and let loose with a moan. Gimli didn't even see where the piss fell. All he saw was the stunning arc of Legolas's slim, elegant body, the sheen of his hair as it fell back from his cheeks, and the grimace on his face, as if in sexual ecstasy.

Desire like he had never felt in his life nearly crippled Gimli. He wrapped his arms around himself as sexual hunger twisted his groin and stomach into shreds. A man who had faced ten thousand orcs without blinking once found himself so terrorized by this desire, a heat that raced up the back of his legs with such fury that he was almost in agony, that all he could think of to do was to flee. He ran into the copse and didn't stop running until he could no longer hear Legolas's frantic cries of his name. And despite his exhaustion and his shame, he could not scour the image of that body arched against the sky. He wished to feel that arch in all its terrible beauty against him.

It was nearly dark before he returned to the palace. He would write a note to both Aragorn and Legolas saying that his father required him home, pack, and then go. He could not face Legolas again.

The walk back to the palace was a blur. That image of Legolas against the sky burned continuously in his mind. Gimli had had sex with other male dwarves--female dwarves were so rare--and as he'd spent most of his life as a warrior, his home was a bedroll and a campfire somewhere. A fifteen-minute fuck with another man was a way to scratch an itch, nothing more. He didn't believe that Legolas's experience was much different, despite his two thousand years. And as he got older, he found his sexual yearnings more than satisfied by the exhilaration of battle. This was none of those things. This was a desire like nothing he'd ever experienced, and he knew that he'd never be able to be with Legolas again and not desire him. Not want him. When not fiercely protecting each other during battle, their friendship had always been largely a harmless series of contests and verbal jousts. If anyone had suggested that there was a deeper, sexual dimension to this bond between them, Gimli would have instantly grabbed his ax and cleaved their head open in one determined swoop to silence such blasphemy. And yet, Gimli's unbidden, unabashed lust at seeing Legolas arced back as if in orgasm was a private acknowledgment, nay, a wholehearted embrace of this blasphemy. A door had opened that could never be shut. He must leave, leave at dawn.

Without quite knowing how, Gimli reached his room. He put his hand on the door handle, suddenly so exhausted that even the simple act of pulling down on the handle seemed overwhelming.

The door flew open. Legolas was standing in the doorway. Uncharacteristically, his hair was wild; twigs and leaves were tangled in it as if he'd been running in the treetops. The shoulder of his jerkin was torn, a deep, ragged laceration still bleeding, suggesting that a sharp tree branch had cut into him.

Without thinking, Gimli put out his hand out toward the wound. "You're hurt."

Legolas slapped his hand away and pulled him into the room. Gimli was always surprised at Legolas's strength, how much power lay hidden in those slender arms. Legolas marched him over to the fireplace and shoved him with force into a chair. A fire was blazing and an empty bottle of wine lay on its side on the hearth.

Legolas began pacing, but none too steadily; it was clear who'd finished the wine.

"What in the name of Elbereth have you been doing? Why did you run away? I've been looking for you for hours." The pacing became more frantic. "Did you hear me call you? Were you lost in the forest?"

Gimli couldn't respond. He'd never seen Legolas like this. This frenzy. This anger. Gimli's room was large, befitting a great friend of the king, and Legolas kept walking the length of the room, firing questions that Gimli couldn't answer.

Finally, as if he'd exhausted himself, Legolas came to a halt in front of the fire, not a foot away from where Gimli sat rigid in the chair, afraid to move, afraid to speak. Legolas bent his head in a cruel imitation of his previous stance that very afternoon, only this time his hair didn't look as it had been fashioned from mithril. The glow from the fire enveloped him; his entire body looked as it had been spun from gold. Gimli stopped breathing. The desire he'd spent all afternoon denying consumed him again, only a thousand times worse. His hands began to shake. He clasped them tightly together to stop them from grabbing Legolas and pulling that slender golden form to him, clasping that gold, and letting it engulf him, freeing him from this physical and mental torture.

Legolas held out his hands, as if to gather warmth from the fire. "Are you angry with me?" Legolas asked in such a low voice that Gimli could barely hear him above the hissing of the fire.

Gimli didn't trust himself to speak. When Gimli didn't answer, Legolas turned toward him and asked, slurring slightly now that the anger had dissipated the wine was taking over, "The game, did I take it too far? Sometimes," and here Legolas blushed, "I wonder if we cross the line. I would never hurt you, Gimli. Did I do something wrong? Tell me," he begged. Legolas slowly raised up his hand. "I am so worried," he whispered, and with two fingers he gently smoothed back an errant lock of hair from Gimli's forehead.

Only something as agonizing and wonderful as this simple gesture would have given Gimli the strength to move. He bolted from the chair, knocking Legolas into the wall beside the fireplace, and went to open the door. His hands were shaking so badly he needed both of them to manipulate the handle.

"I must ask you to go, Legolas," Gimli managed to growl. "I must pack. I've received a missive from my father. I must return home. I leave at daybreak."

Legolas braced his hands against the wall and pulled himself upright.

"But Fangorn... The caves..." his voice quavered, like that of a child who has suddenly lost an innocence that will never return.

"I must return home. My father..." he repeated. "Another time," he said brusquely and opened the door wider. He tried to look away but could not. Legolas's eyes darkened and then went dull; some light had been permanently extinguished. This is what betrayal looks like, Gimli thought sadly.

Legolas stiffened against the wall like he'd been slapped. A fury Gimli had only seen when Legolas was killing orcs raged over his face. "You're lying," he shouted, then kicked the chair that Gimli had been sitting in. It crashed to the floor, but neither man paid any attention to the clatter.

Gimli had no response. He couldn't bear to see the anger, pain, and confusion in Legolas's eyes. Once more he fled.

He wandered the palace searching for any staircase would lead him down, down, down into the darkest place in the palace. Finally he found himself in the armory. Surrounded by axes, swords, chainmail, and blades, he found a tiny measure of peace. A lone candle threw out a weak light. Gimli sighed in relief. As close to a cave as possible. A womb of stone. This was a world he knew, a world he trusted. Perhaps here he could come to some sort of terms with these terrifying emotions he seemed to have no control over. His snuggled back against the limestone walls, deriving strength from the stone itself.

He didn't know how long he sat there, trying to make sense of the events of this horrible day. Gimli was practical in the extreme but irony was not lost on him. They had survived the evil of ten thousands orcs, and yet their friendship was laid asunder because of a simple pissing match. What orcs had failed at, their competitive natures had done quite nicely. He lifted his head. The candle had nearly burned out and he was stiff, the cold of the stone penetrating his joints.

As much as that scene in the garden shamed him, it was nothing to the betrayal in Legolas's eyes when he'd reneged on his promise to take him to the caves, to go with him to Fangorn. He came to a resolution. This was the deepest of betrayals.

He must tell Legolas why he was leaving. For a few minutes, he wondered if he could hide this desire, pretend his bizarre behavior was just an extension of an earlier anger, but quickly he dismissed this as an impossibility. Legolas was a physical being, constantly slapping a shoulder, casually dispensing embraces in displays of friendship. Gimli knew he couldn't endure these gestures, pass them off as if they meant nothing to him. Two elegant elven fingers across his brow had been physical agony.

He must get up, find Legolas, make his confession, and then leave. He braced against his hands against the wall as if to push himself up, but he found he hadn't the strength; he was almost paralyzed with exhaustion. He raked his nails across the limestone and then brought them up to his nose and sniffed. Its scent curled up into his brain, centering him, reminding him who he was. Out loud Gimli spoke to the stone and the weapons, "Gimli, Son of Gloin. A dwarf who is loyal, brave, true, who does not betray his friends."

"Is that so, Master Dwarf?" a small, very tired voice inquired.

Legolas sat across from Gimli on the opposite side of the room. Like Gimli, he sat hunched with his arms clasped around his knees; unlike Gimli, his back did not use the wall for support, as if the stone would scald him.

They sat there in silence for a few moments. Gimli knew it was up to him to speak, to mend as best he could this breech.

"You followed me." It wasn't a question.

Legolas didn't answer at first. His eyes appeared just over the top of his knees, the rest of his face hidden. He slowly raised his head and shrugged. "I knew you'd seek the deepest place in the castle. You promised to take me to the Glittering Caves, Gimli. I have always believed that a dwarf's word is his life. I would hate to be proven wrong."

Gimli swallowed, the betrayal flung in his face. "You are not wrong, Legolas. I cannot take you to the caves because of... It's nothing you've done."

"Oh, Gimli, Son of Gloin, you are lying, yet again," the elf groaned, but this was not in anger, if anything, resignation. His eyes closed, fluttering as they did so. As if possible, the elf tucked his body further into itself as if to shield itself from a physical blow.

I must end this, he thought. "Legolas," Gimli said in a sharp voice, "You are not to blame." The tone in his voice caused Legolas to open his eyes. "You are not to blame," he repeated. "I... When I saw you standing there in the sunlight, your hair in front of your face like a sheet of mithril and your body arced against the blue sky, I..." Gimli looked away, resting a cheek flush with humiliation against the limestone wall.

"Gimli," Legolas commanded in desperate voice, "Look at me. Please." Legolas's eyes were unnaturally bright in the weak light of the dying candle. "Tell me, now. I need to know," he whispered.

Gimli turned his head back to face Legolas. "Had never seen anything... You were so beautiful." Gimli's normally gruff baritone descended into a bass. Legolas's eyes darkened, but not as they had upstairs in Gimli's room. They were all iris with some demand Gimli couldn't fathom. "I was paralyzed with desire. I had never felt that way before. About you. And I find I cannot go back to...the way we...are. Were." Gimli finished lamely. He ached to reach across the room and stroke Legolas's hands that were clasping his knees so tightly that Gimli could see the white of the knuckles. "I cannot be with you and not desire you. Not want to love you." Gimli couldn't say anymore. He closed his eyes again and waited for the quick padding of footsteps signaling Legolas's leaving. Well, he had done the right thing. He was so tired.

What he heard was not footsteps but sobbing. Gimli had never heard an elf cry. It was the most beautiful of sounds and the saddest of sounds, like birds in mourning. Legolas's keening ricocheted off of the limestone, multiplying his grief over and over again until it sounded like all grief in Middle Earth was housed in Aragorn's armory. Bolting from the safety of his wall, he rushed over to Legolas's side and knelt, enfolding the shaking, sobbing elf into his arms. Immediately, Legolas's arms wrapped around his waist in a vise and began covering his face and neck with lightening fast kisses. He was so stunned by the heat and hunger of these kisses that he couldn't move. Every kiss was like a benediction, a release from the shame he had felt at his own desire. The tears on Legolas's face mingled with his own, and wetted his hands and face as Legolas tasted every inch of him that wasn't covered in beard or clothes.

"I thought it was me," Legolas panted in between sobs and kisses. "That you saw my face. That my desire for you..." more sobbing, kissing, "was so evident that you ran away... Were disgusted..."

Gimli grabbed Legolas's shoulders, his fingers digging into the hard muscles of the elf's slender shoulders, and pulled him away from him until they were looking into each other eyes.

Legolas gazed at Gimli in what could only be described as wonder, a preternatural glow infusing his face. Why had Gimli never noticed this light that emanated so naturally from Legolas? It was like a warmth without physical heat. Legolas brought up a hand and began wiping away the tears on Gimli's cheeks.

"Oh, Elvellon, you were so strong, determined, even the trees seemed intimidated by you. You had such a look of peace about you and then all that strength. I'd never seen you quite like that. Beautiful. Too. I wanted you like I have wanted no other," Legolas hissed and then blushed at the baldly stated need in his voice. "Didn't you see the look on my face? I thought you ran away because you were disgusted with me." A thumb nestled its way under Gimli's bushy mustache and began tracing the outline of the dwarf's mouth. "No?"

Gimli closed his eyes and savored the slow torturous trail of Legolas's thumb as it caressed his lips. Ecstasy.

"No," Gimli replied before taking that thumb into mouth. Gimli sucked hard, then harder, Legolas's soft moans filled the room.

"I think, Elvellon, that we will finally determine..." more moans and was that a growl? Gimli moved on to sucking the other fingers on Legolas's hand. Such beautiful fingers.

Gimli stopped for one second. "Determine what, my dear Elf?"

"Whose sword lasts the longest, of course."