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Gimli sat among the ruins of the Keep with a deep, heavy sigh. He was weary, and he saw the same tiredness on the face of Aragorn and Legolas—yes, even the Elf was feeling the pains of battle, though not as strongly as his mortal companions. It seemed that they had not had a proper moment to rest since Lothlorien at least, and they looked it. Aragorn and Gimli bore a thousand small wounds from the battle and their hair and skin were caked in blood, dirt, and other things they cared not to think about. Legolas had escaped the worst of it, but black Orc blood streaked his clothes and hands, and his hair was mussed. As they sat, he tried to reach around his own back to retie his braid, which was more than half undone, but he winced and sucked in a breath.
“Are you injured?” Gimli demanded, alarmed at the sound. Legolas flashed a feeble smile.
“Worry not, my friend. It is only a scratch on my shoulder, dealt towards the end of the battle, and it will be healed by the turn of another day—but it stings at the wrong movement.”
“Then here.” Gimli stood and trudged towards him. “Turn and bow your head, and I will fix your plait.”
To his astonishment, Legolas jerked back and looked up with wide eyes and red cheeks. Beside him, Aragorn snorted.
“You will—” Legolas choked. “No, no, sit and rest. I will do it myself, when I have had a moment to recover.”
“Don’t be a fool, lad. You’ll only pull your wound open again, and never mind how fast it might heal. With our luck, we will need the full strength of your arms soon enough.” He stepped closer again and reached out to touch the end of Legolas’s braid, and this time the Elf nearly fell forward to avoid being touched. At the last moment he caught himself, and delicately wove away from Gimli’s outstretched hand. Gimli stared. “What in Durin’s name is wrong?”
“I…” Legolas turned towards Aragorn for assistance. The Ranger was shaking with silent laughter, but he managed to calm himself and he looked up with a grin.
“Elves are notoriously shy about their hair, my friend—particularly the Mirkwood strain. Best to leave him be until his face has returned to its typical color.”
“You are a strange creature by way of a friend,” Legolas said icily, and Aragorn’s eyes danced with mirth. Legolas sighed and sat down again, still a few feet from Gimli’s grasp, though he did his best to make his voice patient and gentle. “Tell me, Gimli, do Dwarves suffer their hair and beard to be touched by others, proud and private as they are?”
“Aye,” Gimli answered. “By kin, and friends—particularly those dear to our hearts, with whom we have shared battlefields and braved many perils.”
Try as he might, he could not keep the hurt from his voice, and guilt flashed across Legolas’s face. He glanced at Aragorn and then looked around the room. Seeing that no one was paying attention to them, he breathed a heavy sigh and turned, bowing his head.
“Thank you for your offer. I accept it gladly. But—” He whipped his head around again and held up a finger warningly. “You must do it exactly as I have done.”
“My fingers are not lacking in skill,” Gimli said with a shrug. “The braids of Dwarves are often quite elaborate; you ought to meet my father’s friend Nori.”
“Yes, but do you remember precisely how it must look? Including these on the side?” he asked, indicating the two small braids at his temples.
“Yes, yes,” Gimli said impatiently as he began to undo the tie at the bottom of the long plait. “I have sat behind you on Arod often enough, and I doubt I could forget the pattern if I tried. Now, bow your head and sit still.”
Legolas obeyed and Gimli reached out and carefully began to braid. The elf needed not have worried—he had the same care and attention to detail as any dwarf craftsman, and Gimli easily replicated the exact style he had had before. If he let his hands linger for just a moment among the golden hair as fine as silken ribbons—well, no one was going to comment.
-
Later that night, Legolas begged leave to sit with his kinsmen after the evening meal, while Aragorn and Gimli sat on the walls of the keep and lit their pipes.
“What was all that about, then?” Gimli asked.
“What do you speak of, my friend?” Aragorn said innocently, quirking an eyebrow.
“You know what. Legolas’s braids. Was my request so odd?”
“In a word, yes. Elvish peculiarity, you see. They are… well, they find fine hair to be extremely attractive,” he said with a shrug. “And as such, it isn’t uncommon for them to become proud, or even vain, of their hair. The fashion has died down somewhat in Rivendell, and is fading in Lothlorien, but it is not unusual to find that young and unmarried Elves typically develop one style of braids that is particularly flattering. They may have two, one for every day and one for special ceremonies, but they do not like to deviate from them.”
Gimli stared at him, dumbstruck.
“Do you mean to say,” he spluttered after a moment, “that all that was about vanity? Durin’s beard, we had just finished a battle, and there are only a handful of elves in Helm’s Deep in the first place! What mate is Legolas expecting to find here of all places?”
“That is not quite his concern, I think,” Aragorn said with a smirk. He sucked on his pipe for a few moments and enjoyed Gimli’s impatience before he elaborated. “You will notice I specified that this holds true for unmarried Elves. Well, it is a common assumption that upon the act of marriage taking place, that particular hairstyle will become somewhat mussed.”
“Act of marriage?” Gimli asked, thinking of a Dwarven wedding, which consisted of exchanging rings, kneeling for a blessing, and reciting some vows. Nothing that would ruin one’s hair.
“Ah, well… let us say, simply, that while a wedding celebration is commonly attended by kin and friends, an Elven wedding ceremony consists of the couple alone.” He waited and bit back a smile when Gimli realized what he meant. The Dwarf’s cheeks turned as red as his beard.
“I understand. But what does that have to do with me and Legolas? Nothing!” he answered himself hastily.
At that, Aragorn really did laugh.
“Perhaps not, in your eyes, but I believe our friend could not help thinking of the old Elvish bit of wisdom that, if a newly married couple is to be happy, they will fix each other’s hair the morning following the wedding—altering it, of course, to their own taste or skill. Throughout the Elven lands, it is still very common for a newly wedded Elf to be greeted by their friends saying ‘You have new braids!’ or something similar. Rather a ribald joke to them.”
“And the Galadhrim… oh, Durin’s beard. I made a right ass of myself by insisting, didn’t I?”
“You did not,” Aragorn said soothingly. “None of the other Elves were in the Keep, Legolas made sure. In fact, you did all of us some good. Legolas learned more of your culture, you learned more of his, and I was very entertained.”
“Aye, and still are, you wretched villain!” Gimli growled. “Strange friend, indeed!”
Aragorn leaned back, stretching his long legs as he blew smoke rings into the air.
“Strange? Perhaps, my dear Dwarf, but of the three of us I think I made out the best, and that is enough for me.”
-
Some months later, Gimli woke up in his marriage bed in Minas Tirith to the sensation of hands threading through his hair. He opened his eyes and smiled at Legolas, who smiled back, although his eyes were soon drawn again to Gimli’s hair.
“You’ll need a comb first.”
A light blush touched Legolas’s cheeks.
“I wondered if Aragorn had told you…”
“Aye, he did.” He sat up and stretched, letting out a satisfied grunt when his bones popped neatly into place, and grinned. “Now turn around, my beloved, and let me see to your hair. I have been thinking about this for a good long time…”