#and here i was thinking that i'd probably never write anything in legolas's pov for this au lol

[tathrin]

A response to this ask; taken from this prompt; anyone can feel free to send other numbers in at any time, I don’t care how long it’s been. (Just maybe add some context to your ask if it’s been like a month or more since I posted this, because otherwise I won’t know what to do with the random number in my inbox).

#36....to give up control.

This one takes place within the setting of this fic. For those who have not and do not care to read it, the set-up is that it’s an AU where Boromir took the Ring to Denethor, Sauron surrendered to Gondor in chains and surely isn’t planning to pull a Nûmenor on them oh no and Gimli was forced to take Durin’s Ring and be appointed Lord of Erebor by Denethor to prevent Gondor from sacking the Mountain. Legolas is currently a captive of the Lonely Mountain, specifically Gimli’s captive.

Legolas hates the sight of that Ring. That band of gold, that glittering gem — it is loathsome against Gimli’s flesh, its beauty foul beyond measurement in Legolas’s eyes. The Shadow of its power lies between them like a haze, casting Gimli’s features into a strange veiled darkness whenever he puts it on...and as Lord of Erebor, he cannot often afford to take it off.

(Too, he does not want to. That is how those Rings work, Legolas knows. Part of Gimli wants to cast the wretched thing away...but part of him, Legolas knows, does not. And never, ever will.)

Legolas hates it.

But the Lonely Mountain lives under Denethor’s heel now, and the Lord Denethor would be angered if his thrall cast away the leash of that Ring, and Gimli cannot afford to bring Gondor’s wrath down upon his people — and neither can Legolas. He is a captive of the Mountain, yes; this terrible mountain where so many of his people are held cruelly, and killed more cruelly. That does not mean he wants every dwarf in Erebor to die, does not mean he wants to watch their mountain burn the way the woods of Lothlórien burned; the way Mithrandir burned.

Does not mean he wants Gimli to die.

(Never, never wants that.)

But, oh, how he hates the sight of that Ring upon Gimli’s strong and skillful hand, hates to see the Shadow of its evil thought dull the brightness of his sight. Hates to feel the icy heat of its metal against his own skin, when Gimli takes his hand or touches him.

There is more of that now that they have found this desperate solution to the problem of Legolas’s captivity. Before, when Legolas was merely locked in Gimli’s chambers, he was always careful — oh, so careful! — to remove the Ring. But now that Legolas walks the halls of the Lonely Mountain behind Gimli, they do not have that luxury. If Gimli’s people are to truly believe that their lord keeps this elf as a precious pet of his own — if they are to convince Gondor that that is why Legolas has not been slain with the rest of his people — then they cannot allow themselves such comforts.

So Legolas has learned to brace himself against the touch of that foul gold against his skin, the whisper of it between his ears. He cannot hear the Thing, not clearly; not the way Gimli can. But when the Ring touches him, flickers of its thoughts break through; whispers, low and soft and terrible. It is a Thing of selfish greed and coveting bitterness and furious jealousy. The scrape of its sinuous words in Legolas’s mind is a thousand times worse than the brush of its metal sides against his skin...

But he cannot recoil from the touch of the Lord of Erebor, the dwarven lord who owns him. (It is a lie, of course; but it is also a truth, too, for while Legolas wears no chains anymore, he is not free. He cannot leave without Gimli’s permission, and Gimli does not have the power to grant him freedom, not without dooming the whole of the Mountain. They are both of them prisoners here.)

So when Gimli takes Legolas’s fingers with the hand that bears the Ring, Legolas lets him. When the gem of it blinks brightly in the torchlight that illuminates these underground halls, casting its Shadow over the brighter gleam of Gimli’s eyes, Legolas smiles as though his heart is not breaking at the sight.

When Gimli takes Legolas’s chin in his marvelous, strong, broad fingers, and the frigid heat of that fell metal pressed against his skin runs up through his veins and makes him shudder, Legolas leans down into the kiss, and closes his eyes against the tears that long to fall at the sight of his beloved Gimli chained to such darkness.

At the terrible truth of Gimli bowing to evil to save his people.

Legolas closes his eyes and leans into the kiss, as though if he only sinks deep enough into the warmth of Gimli’s heart he will find a core of fire strong enough to burn away the Shadow that shrouds his dear dwarf; the Shadow that lies over the whole Mountain, slowly eating the goodness of these stalwart dwarves away so that only greedy, selfish shells remain. As though if he surrenders himself to Gimli’s kiss, he can forget all the other surrenders and defeats that have brought them both to this place.

As though he can still be safe in Gimli’s arms.

It is a lie. But it is a lie that Legolas would give nearly anything to have become the truth.

The Ring whispers empty promises to him, offers to do just that. Legolas shudders, knowing that it cannot — and knowing, too, that it is only the knowledge that Durin’s Ring cannot stand against the One in the White City that owns it that keeps the offer from tempting him. Legolas had thought it terrible, on that desperate Quest that failed, to have the One Ring whispering its offers to him in the darkness of the empty night, but there was nothing that it could promise to give him that he wanted and so its words were thin and weak and easily ignored.

This is different. This is harder, because this is Gimli.

His dear, beloved Gimli. Legolas whimpers into the kiss, and Gimli draws back enough to wipe his thumb across Legolas’s cheeks, soothing away his tears.

When Legolas opens his eyes again, he sees the glimmer of their wetness on the gem of Durin’s Ring, bright as mithril in the torchlight, and thinks that he has never seen anything so terrible.

Then he looks up, and sees the Shadow in Gimli’s smiling eyes, and that is so much worse.

It is easier to sink down into the kiss again than it is to look upon the sight of his beloved dwarf so marred by Shadow; easier to drape himself across Gimli’s lap and curl down to part the soft braids of that beautiful beard and press his lips to Gimli’s; easier to let himself drown in the warmth of wide dwarven arms folded tight around his waist; broad dwarven hands spread strong against his back and curled across his knees; to let himself be held by those hands, so wide and strong that they might cradle a whole mountain in the protection of their palms, were it not for that terrible band of gold curled so dark upon them.

It is so much easier to simply surrender.

The fight, after all, was lost years ago. All the world is darkness now; all save the comforting embers of Gimli’s arms around him, Gimli’s lips upon him, Gimli’s braids draped across him. So much easier to surrender, when you have already lost.

Durin’s Ring whispers its seductive offers in Legolas’s ear and he closes his eyes and kisses Gimli harder. It is what the Ring wants, of course, but it is what Legolas wants too—or at least, is as close to what he wants as he will ever come in this world fallen so far into Shadow.

Hope is dead. So he kisses Gimli, chasing its last fading embers into the dark.