As night fell on the Three Hunters, weariness closed in upon them. Too many days and nights of running, of searching, of desperately hoping they would not be too late to save their captive friends were taking their toll. Gimli the Dwarf sagged as he tried to keep up with his lithe companions, his axe dragging behind him on the grass. Aragorn, always so resilient, enduring more than many a Man could, was not as quick in his step as he had been earlier; fatigue pressed down upon his strong shoulders. Only Legolas the Elf remained sharp and tireless in the manner of his kind, his bright eyes watchful.

Finally, after much gruff cajoling from Gimli, Aragorn surrendered to his own exhaustion and permitted the party to rest for the night near the eaves of Fangorn Forest. As he knelt to build a fire, his two companions unrolled their blankets and brought out their meager supplies.

Once a crackling fire burned before him, he stood with effort, sighing, "Try to get some rest, my friends. I shall take first watch."

"No!" Legolas looked up hastily, coming to the Ranger's side and touching his arm gently. "Aragorn, you are half-dead with weariness. You must rest; you have greater need of it. Come, I shall keep watch; you know we Elves do not need sleep as do Men and Dwarves."

Aragorn looked as though he might argue, but then he simply nodded and slowly made his way to a spot beside the campfire, stretching out the lanky limbs that had earned him the nickname of Longshanks. Within minutes, he was asleep. Not long after, Gimli's snores mingled with the nighttime noises. Rest must come to all, even those with such great purpose.

Hours later, a thrush took flight from a lofty tree branch, and Gimli awoke with a start. Muttering in annoyance, the Dwarf sat up, immediately ensuring that his helmet and axe were still beside him; once he ascertained that they were, he grunted softly and looked to his surroundings. Aragorn still slept soundly, and the fire burned small. He got to his feet, cursing under his breath, and prodded the coals a bit to earn a brighter blaze. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out his carved pipe, filled it, and put it to his lips. When he exhaled, misty smoke wafted up before his eyes, blending into the dark sky.

"I see slumber has abandoned you, mellonin," a voice said from above him.

Sputtering, Gimli looked up to see Legolas perched on a tree branch, smiling down at him. "Why, ye pointy-eared rascal! Is it typical of yer kind to hide in trees, startling innocent folk who go past? For shame!"

Grinning, Legolas leapt down, landing gracefully on his feet like the most elegant of cats. "We only do so when we choose to," he replied, "which is not often, I assure you."

"Well," Gimli chuffed, "that's a fair disappointment. It seems just like something ye prissy woodland imps would do."

Legolas sank to the ground, his back against a tree and his long legs stretched out before him. "Nay, friend Gimli, we are not so uncivilized as that. We are more like to sing in the trees than to use them for such mischief."

"Singing!" Gimli shook his head, using a fallen log as a makeshift bench so that he need not stand. "Such pretty pastimes ye have! We Dwarves have much more productive things to do"—he gestured with his axe—"than sing like little birds! Why, Dwarven forges are never silent—neither day nor night can no clanging be heard! Aye, we're craftsmen, my people, and proud of it!"

Legolas tilted his head. "An admirable thing, I grant. We, too, have dabbled in the forges, and there are none better than ancient Elvish blades."

Gimli grunted, patting his axe with emphasis. "Then ye have never met with Dwarvish steel! That would cleave your pretty weapons, I warrant!" He laughed, but not loudly enough to awaken their sleeping comrade.

"Come, let us have a truce," the Elf suggested, raising his palms in a gesture of peace. "Both our weapons can wage war against the Great Eye and his armies, and that is all that truly matters, is it not?"

"Aye, laddie, that is true!" Gimli acknowledged. "And may we destroy many a filthy Orc in the days to come!"

"Indeed. But we cannot only focus on destruction—without beauty in this world, what joy would there be?" Legolas stared ahead, lost in some peculiar Elven musing. "That is why my people so greatly value our art, our song. Even tragic tales move us most deeply when put to song." He looked to Gimli. "We have songs for most things, you see—history, battles, marriages—"

"Marriages!" Gimli interrupted, smirking. "Is it true that ye do not wed as the rest of us do?"

"If you mean that we have no ceremony"—Legolas shifted—"that is true. For us, the act of love itself is covenant enough, in the same way as wedding vows among other peoples."

"Oh, really? And I'd imagine ye've got a bride waiting for ye upon your return to Mirkwood, aye?" Gimli chuckled with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows, gesturing with his pipe.

Legolas smiled wryly and ducked his head. "I rather think not, mellonín. I doubt such a thing will ever be my fate."

His nearly wistful sobriety after such light teasing aroused Gimli's curiosity. "And why mightn't that be, for a pretty little princeling such as ye? Surely there's many a fetching Elf maid who'd be eager to have ye."

There was now something anxious, something despairing, in Legolas' countenance. "'Tis not that," he said slowly. "I am…" He hesitated for several moments, glancing at Aragorn as if to ensure he truly slept, before finishing, "Unnatural." The word was a strangled whisper, his eyes closed as if in pain—as if it hurt him to impart such a truth.

Gimli lowered his pipe, studying the Elf. It was no longer the time for jokes. "Because ye are drawn to other males," he affirmed gently. It was not a question. Legolas' eyes snapped up, a measure of fright in them. Gimli offered reassurance—"I've been your closest companion on this journey, lad. Do not think I wouldn't know such a thing."

Legolas nodded mechanically, his eyes downcast. "Yes. I suppose so." The proud Elven prince of earlier days was barely recognizable, his face twisted in grief and self-disgust, his posture defeated.

"Ye needn't be ashamed, my friend. Ye'll find no judgement here."

Pale hands fisted in the grass, torment in the blue eyes. "You don't understand, Gimli. My … my perversion"—he choked out the word—"is unknown among my people. We know of such things among Men, but none other has succumbed as I have. There are no laws pertaining to it, no records of it, no tales—it is not spoken of because it is irrelevant to my kind. I do not know why I am such an … abomination."

There were no tears, Gimli marveled. In his strange, stoic Elven way, Legolas did not cry, and yet sadness shone from his skin like some inner light. The Dwarf sighed, murmuring only, "I canna tell ye, lad. I canna tell ye."

There was silence for a time, as the wind whistled in the branches above them, causing brittle leaves to fall at their feet. The quiet was broken by another harsh whisper of Legolas'—"I love him." There was anguish, utter hopelessness, in that voice.

Gimli did not need to ask whom he meant—he had eyes and ears, and he knew well enough. He had seen the glances, long and full of yearning, filled with love far deeper than friendship. He had noticed the small touches, loving and wistful, too great a solace taken in the contact. Oh, yes, he knew. "Aragorn."

A single, glistening tear on Legolas' cheek and the way he turned his head away were answer enough. Gimli stood stiffly, leaning on his axe, and went over to his friend, swallowing his pride and hugging the slender figure close; in a rare and vulnerable gesture of affection, Legolas returned the embrace, clinging tightly to the sturdy Dwarf.

Gimli knew what it was to love unrequited, though not to this extent. He had only to adore from leagues away, cherishing a memory and a token. Legolas, however, was cursed to spend night and day with his love; to spill blood and sweat at the Ranger's side; to endure Aragorn's deep affection and know that it could not go deeper, could not be what Legolas wished. It was tragic, really—Legolas knew Aragorn's heart belonged to another; he knew he was doomed to ache and yearn from afar, never confessing, never receiving. Loving but unloved. Not in the way he desired most.

From against Gimli's chest, Legolas spoke again, but his voice was different—harder, with a certain urgency about it. "Gimli. He cannot know. I will not burden him with this."

Gimli patted the blond head. "Aye, laddie. He'll not hear it from my lips."

And thus, aside from Gimli, it was only the trees of Fangorn that heard the Elf's heartbroken confession—trees which had heard many secrets over thousands of years. Their memory stretched back near unto the beginning of Middle-earth. And trees—they never told these secrets. Trees did not speak aloud the sins committed under their branches or the forbidden words that wafted up to their boughs. Trees might speak, might sing, but never confess. They were always steadfast, even in their silence. Legolas' secret was only one of many disclosed to the memory of the forest, mingling with all the others in the ancient silence, never to be spoken.