The night before they leave, Legolas comes knocking on Gimli's door.

"Gimli," he greets, after Gimli has stepped aside to let him into the room. He holds up his hands. "My hands are healed."

Gimli raises an eyebrow. "Aye," he says, "that I can see."

Legolas reaches into a pocket and pulls out a wooden bead. Gimli recognizes it instantly; the simple, blank bead that signals he has a One, but has not found them yet. "You told me to give it back," Legolas says, and takes a step closer, "when my hands were well."

"Aye," Gimli agrees. Yet when Legolas tries to hand him the bead, he takes a step back and shakes his head. "Legolas, I think it is time we have a talk."

They will die at the Black Gates, and Gimli refuses to die without saying this.

He guides Legolas to the bed, sits down on it, and gestures for him to do the same. Without a single complaint or question Legolas sinks down opposite of him, and Gimli's heart quivers. "Do you remember which braid this came from?" he asks, pointing to the bead loosely held in Legolas' hand.

Legolas nods. "The one that says you – that you can… that you have someone you can love?"

"Aye." Gimli smiles softly. "They are called Ones. The braid means I have a One. The exact meaning of the braid, however, changes depending on the bead." Upon seeing Legolas' intrigued expression, Gimli ploughs on. "There are three beads. One means that the wearer has not yet found their One. The second means they have found them, but have not told them. A third means they have found them, and have told them, and have been accepted."

"This," Legolas says, holding the bead up to his eyelevel to glance at it critically. "Means the last?"

Gimli blinks. "What?" He blinks again, processes the words – what Legolas might think – what it might mean. "No! It means I have not found my One yet. Why would you…"

Legolas snaps his head around so quickly Gimli fears his neck might break. "What?" he says, his eyes going wide. "You have not found your – " He breaks off, emotions flickering across his face too fast for Gimli to follow.. The emotion that emerges on his face, at last, is wonder. "All this time I have held my tongue, because I thought you were – I thought you had – I thought you loved – "

"I have found my One," Gimli says, his hands shaking, his heart thundering.

The wonder on Legolas' face shatters, and he draws back, brows furrowing. "But… you said…"

Gimli breathes. Breathes. "He sits right before me."

Legolas drops the bead. Terrifying hope shines in his eyes. "I thought it was Ori," he blurts.

(he cannot explain how he knows, yet he does know, he does, the way Legolas has looked at him, the way Legolas looks at him, how they have touched, how they have spoken –)

"You fool," Gimli says, and kisses him.

It takes only a moment, and then Legolas is kissing him back, hands rising into his hair. Gimli inhales sharply, shifting closer, closer, hands on Legolas' waist –

"Gimli," Legolas breathes against Gimli's lips, "Gimli, meleth, calad nin – elves take only one mate – " And then they're kissing again, feverish and warm, and Legolas is on his back, Gimli above him –

"Aye?" Gimli says, pulling back just enough to stare down at him, cheeks flushed and lips soft. "You have one already?"

Legolas shakes his head frantically. "No! No – I – Gimli – " He leans up to kiss Gimli again, hand tightening around his hair.

"Ah," says Gimli, grinning down at him, and he burns. "You want me to be your mate."

Legolas whimpers, arching against him, mouth hot on his skin. "Yes," he whispers, "yes, naur nin, yes – Gimli."

"I have heard," Gimli says, and then he can't speak for they're kissing again, and he needs he needs he needs – "a funny little rumour" – he puts his mouth to Legolas' neck – "about elven marriage."

Legolas tugs at his hair, and Gimli obeys, moving up to kiss him again. "What says they?" Legolas asks, when they move apart just a bit.

"That laying together equals wedding vows," Gimli says. Legolas tugs at his hair again, but this time he does not obey, instead watching Legolas, the way his chest heaves, the way his ears have gone ruby red. "That sleeping together, the act of it, is a wedding."

Legolas stares back up at him, eyes clearing somewhat. "Yes," he allows, at last. His gaze flickers, searching. "The rumors are true."

"Do you want that?" Gimli asks, and though his words are gruff his tone is gentle. Absently he plucks at Legolas' hair, toying with the strands.

"I do," Legolas says without a moment's hesitation.

"Good," says Gimli, and kisses him again.

Gimli wakes up to a face-full of hair.

Legolas lies opposite of him, one hand carding through Gimli's beard. His skin is pale against Gimli's fiery hair.

It looks right.

"Good morning, husband," Gimli says. The words rumble through his chest.

It feels right.

Legolas smiles a small, soft smile. "Good morning, husband," he whispers, leaning close to kiss him gently. "I have some questions for you."

Gimli traces the shape of Legolas' ear. It's bruised, ever so slightly. "About Ori," he guesses.

"Yes."

"Alright."

And so he explains dwarven love. He explains that there is not only friendly and romantic love – explains that some dwarrow love their friends so hard and so deeply they wish to wed them. That it's a bond tighter than that between parents and child, that it's tighter than friendship, that it's just as holy and cherished as lovers.

They sit close, heads lowered together, fingers tangled – Legolas' knee pressing against Gimli's stomach, Gimli's thigh flush against Legolas' waist.

Legolas nods through the whole thing. "I don't understand," he says, "not fully. But I know you speak true."

Gimli leans against him and breathes, breathes, breathes.

He braids his One braid anew, holding it still while Legolas braids on the other side. The simple wooden bead secures them where they connect.

They break apart, briefly. Gimli pulls out a small box from his pack – wooden, engraved, and inlaid with silver. Inside lies the bead his mother made him, for his coming-off-age – meant to rest in the hair of his beloved.

Legolas sits terribly still while Gimli braids. Neither of them truly breathe while he works. When it comes to securing Legolas' with the bead, he reaches up and clasps Gimli's hands – steadying, guiding, anchoring.

From his hair Legolas pulls a clasp – made for silky elven hair, certainly, but it fits well in Gimli's wild mane, the polished bone bright against his warm fire.

Legolas presses a kiss to Gimli's brow. "Minuial nin," he whispers, the words fanning across Gimli's skin.

Gimli knows not what the words mean, but he can guess at them, and he replies in kind. "Aye. Danakê."

When they meet with Aragorn before they leave, he takes a single look at their joined hands, rolls his eyes skyward, and says, "Finally!"

They ride. Gimli behind Legolas, Legolas in front of Gimli, and if Gimli holds him a bit closer, a bit tighter, then no one can comment on that.

"Legolas." The stars twinkle above them, Gimli curled up into Legolas' side. "Know you of Dwarven names?"

Legolas shifts, moving to face him in the darkness. "…secret ones? I have heard rumors."

"Aye." He reaches up to trail a finger down the side of Legolas' face, marveling at his soft skin, at the way the soft gleam lingers on his finger when he pulls it back. "Dwarrow are born knowing their true name. It is, as you say, secret. Only the very closest know a dwarf's Name."

"It is important, then?" Legolas asks, absently cupping Gimli's cheek.

Gimli leans into the touch. "Oh, aye. The most important there is to know. Knowing it is… it means you know all there is to know, of a Dwarf – you know their very deepest self. Do you understand?"

Legolas nods.

"Good." He takes Legolas' hand and presses a gentle kiss to his fingers. "Kurdubrazul."

Legolas' eyes widen. "Gimli – "

"Kurdubrazul," Gimli repeats.

The sound Legolas makes is something in the middle of a sob and a choke and a laugh, and when he surges forward to kiss Gimli, his mouth is warm.

Gimli child of Gloin stands before the Black Gates of Mordor, his palm pressed flush against Legolas Thranduilion's. His heart beats against his husband's, and he stares ahead.

Fierce determination burns in his veins.

"Kurdubrazul," Legolas says, ever so softly, ever so gently. Gimli looks up at him, and he looks back, as though there is nothing in this world except him.

They say no more. The words hang in the air between them. Unspoken.

Understood.

Legolas' eyes shine.

Gimli child of Gloin stands before the Black Gates of Mordor.

And he is not afraid.