“Oh, darling, all of the city lights never shine as bright as your eyes. I would trade them all for a minute more, but the car's outside and he's called me twice, but he's gonna have to wait tonight. I'm not gettin' in the Addison Lee unless you pack your bags, you’re comin' with me. I'm tired of lovin' from afar and never being where you are. Close the windows, lock the doors, don’t wanna leave you anymore.” - Car’s Outside, James Arthur 

They reached Erebor at last, and for the first time in months, Frodo’s eyes lit up with curiosity as they reached the great gate. Gimli smiled to himself, relieved to see it. They were all relieved to see that light returning to Frodo’s eyes.

There was much to do. Kingdoms to rebuild, dead to mourn, loved ones to reunite with. There was much grief in the world, but much beauty to be found too. The glimmer of gold and gems, bright sunshine glinting off rivers and lakes. Snowcapped mountains, the flames of forges. The fair and golden Lady Galadriel, the most wondrous sight to behold.

Gimli glanced at Legolas, his One. Aye, there was a lovely sight indeed.

They were here for a few things, chief among them to introduce Legolas to his parents. Gimli must pay his respects to their new King Thorin and kneel before Dáin’s tomb. He was unsure if anyone had sent word of what happened to their kin and friends in Moria, he must see to that too. And his hobbit friends were most curious to see the royal tombs, the memorials Bilbo had told them all about.

Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain. Crown Prince Fíli. Prince Kíli. Sons of Durin.

As it transpired, Gimli and his Fellowship reached the Lonely Mountain before his parents did. They had a few days yet until their arrival, until it was finally time to introduce them to Legolas; or re-introduce in Glóin’s case. 

King Thorin Stonehelm, eyes shadowed with grief, welcomed them kindly, clapping Gimli on the back. He bowed to Aragorn, eyed Legolas warily but did not comment or complain, and bowed to the hobbits once they were introduced. 

Gimli thought of another King Thorin in another time. Another life entirely, or so it seemed. 

He thought of his cousins, always joined at the hip, always up to mischief. Merry and Pippin reminded him of Fíli and Kíli most painfully, and it was not just Gimli who saw the similarities; every now and then, Gimli had caught Gandalf watching the wee lads carefully, eyes shadowed, a worried frown on his face. 

“Well then,” Gimli said gruffly. “On to pay our respects, eh, lads?” 

Long ago, when Gimli was just a little lad, he’d been dreadfully anxious about an upcoming test on his Westron. As a young child, he chiefly spoke Khuzdul, as most little dwarves in Ered Luin did. 

He’d never been a diligent student outside of sparring. Classrooms didn’t interest him, but he remembered worrying anyway, upset at the idea his parents would be disappointed. At the end of the day, he was still a son of House Durin, and there were certain standards, no matter how distant or close the relation.

He remembered sitting outside, perched on some rocks, with Fíli and Kíli. Fíli quizzed him but it was Kíli who held the large book open on his lap, confirming if Gimli’s answers were right or wrong. Kíli’s dark hair had fallen from its braid again as he did cartwheels and handstands, so Fíli had thrown the book at him, ordered him to sit down and set to work on taming his brother’s hair as best he could. As Kíli was notoriously terrible at sitting still, he was facing a hard battle.

Gimli had done cartwheels too as he tried to answer every question. Blasted translations made his head spin. But his cousins grinned at him every time he was right and encouraged him every time he was wrong. 

He remembered…Oh, how he remembered…

He remembered falling asleep, tucked safely under one of Fíli’s arms, at a New Year feast. Gimli remembered hurrying after both his cousins, stubbornly trying to keep up. He remembered tripping and Kíli running back to lift him up, holding Gimli’s hand to help him run faster. 

Gimli remembered the two of them running and laughing, escaping the tutors and masters-at-arms alike, always a pair, always up to some mischief. One golden-haired, one dark-haired, one stocky, one slim, so different in appearance, yet so alike in heart and soul. 

He remembered Kíli’s coming-of-age party, and how Fíli joyfully teased his younger brother for finally being an adult, with dreaded responsibilities. Kíli had threatened to pour his ale over Fíli’s head, but he’d been laughing too. 

(Kíli had poured his ale all over Fíli in the end. Fíli tackled him, Nori took bets, Glóin led the cheering, and Thorin had to force them apart.) 

He remembered some fool muttering something about Kíli and his bow, his lack of beard, something about Elves and something about ugliness, (Gimli didn’t quite catch it or even understand what was being said) and he remembered how Fíli turned to confront him, but it was Thorin who grabbed the foolish dwarf and slammed him face-first into the wall. Gimli couldn’t recall what exactly that sneering fool said and didn’t understand what he meant until he was older, but he clearly remembered Thorin threatening to gut the fool like a fish if he ever spoke of his nephew again. 

He remembered Óin and Bofur quietly confirming that an elf-maid saved Kíli’s life. He remembered Dís’ heartbroken sobs as she knelt before the tombs of her brother and sons. The statues were not yet complete at the time.

Gimli remembered another fool commenting on the tombs. A stonemason who told their new King Dáin that Fíli and Kíli should be on either side of King Thorin, that the King ought to be in the middle as he’d been at the wake itself, not Fíli. He said the Princes should flank the King, that it was only right and proper. He even commented on the proper symmetry of the placement.

Dáin had hit the roof. 

“I WILL NOT BE THE ONE TO SEPARATE THOSE BOYS!” he’d bellowed, throwing a tankard at the stonemason as poor Dís broke down all over again, and Glóin and Dwalin had flanked her protectively. Gimli, still counted as a teenling himself, not yet of age, had edged closer to his mother, frozen to his core by the sight of so much yelling and tears, so much grief and rage and loss.

(They’d reclaimed their ancestral home but at what cost?) 

They hadn’t arrived in time for the funeral, of course. They’d been buried so quickly. Gimli did not get to meet the hobbit his father spoke of so fondly for many years indeed. 

They weren’t there for the funeral, but they were there when the sculptures were finished and put in place. Three Sons of Durin, seated on ornate chairs, each with their weapon of choice laid across their lap. Solemn and stern and still.

Gimli looked at those statues and he remembered hating them. He remembered that first spark of anger, pushing through a flood of grief. It was a good likeness of Thorin, perfect in fact. And there was no denying these stone representations of Fíli and Kíli were marvellously done- but it wasn’t them. Where was their laughter, their cheeky grins, the sparkle in their eyes? Where was all their joy and life? 

Kíli’s never still. Fíli’s always smiling. I’ve never seen them look so stern. It’s not them, it’s not right.

Most of all, Gimli remembered his last sight of them as they set out on their fateful quest.

He remembered their bright grins. He remembered Fíli softly knocking their foreheads together with that well-known and well-loved smile, and Kíli gently tugging on Gimli’s braids, dark eyes sparkling, cheeky grin in place. He remembered their voices as they promised to be back soon. 

He remembered them walking away. They looked back and waved goodbye. 

“See you later, Gimmers! We’ll be back, Amad!” Kíli called, walking backwards until Fíli turned him the right way around, laughing.

“Goodbye, Mother!” Fíli shouted to Dís, smiling, always smiling. 

And then they were gone. 

The royal tombs were deep underground, in the deepest level of the ancient city. It was a massive, splendid cavern, crafted from dark green marble, veined with gold. There was always a chill in the air, despite the lanterns and candles. The black ceiling looming overhead glittered with gems, like colourful stars. 

They stopped at the most recent grave, Dáin’s. The statue was perfect; Dáin’s chair was engraved with the likeness of his beloved boar. Petal, he had named her, much to everyone’s amusement. 

And then the others…

Kíli’s elf must have been here recently. A wreath of blue roses lay in his lap, pale as a winter sky at morning. 

“Oh, Tauriel,” Legolas whispered sadly.

At the feet of Thorin, Fíli and Kíli were crystal vases, full of flowers made of jewels. That started with Kíli’s elf too. Some time ago, she’d arrived with a new gift for Kíli as she always did, but this one was truly splendid; a delicate crystal vase full of jewel-flowers. The flowers were shining diamond ones, unfamiliar to Gimli, (the shape reminded him of stars) and gleaming ruby roses. The stems and leaves were all made of gold, not a thorn in sight. 

It must have cost her a fortune. Somehow, that was what silenced the final nay-sayers. Maybe it was the silent knowledge that she didn’t have a fortune to squander, that Tauriel must have saved up for this gift for many years. Maybe it was the sheer beauty of this offering. 

Gimli himself had ceased to glare at her after that, though he still did his best to avoid her. She was, at the end of the day, an interloper. No lovely offerings would change that.

It inspired Dís however. She commissioned similar offerings for Fíli and Thorin. Amethyst and sapphire flowers for Thorin. Emerald and fire-opal flowers for Fíli. Gold stems and leaves, and crystal vases for them all. 

Dáin himself had declared (after speaking with Óin and Bofur) that Lady Tauriel was free to come and go as she wished. He decreed that no one was to block her path or disturb her while she was at the young Prince’s grave. The use of Kíli’s title drove his point home; there were grumbling and complaints, there were insults and glares, but no one dared block her way. 

Gimli spotted her from time to time, though he’d never spoken to her. He’d no wish to. He’d resented her presence for so long, glaring every time he saw her, biting back the urge to shout at her to go away, to leave his people be. Gimli wanted to rage and fight, to demand she leave his family alone; he wanted to take her to task for besmirching his beloved cousin’s honour even now, so long after Kíli was gone.

He’d been furious every time he saw her at Kíli’s grave; it felt like she was stealing his time with his kin, for he could not even visit Fíli or Thorin while she was with Kíli. Not comfortably. He couldn’t talk to them with her there, so he always stormed off in anger and waited for her to leave. He was always happy to see the back of her. (Until now, until now that he finally understood. Now he was sorry to have missed her.) She always came with gifts for Kíli and she always stayed for a long time, hours and hours on end. The Lady Tauriel offered all manner of things to the youngest Durin: a beautiful eagle feather, wreaths of flowers, a four-leaf clover, drawings of the stars and moon, of various landscapes across Middle-Earth, presumably done by her own hand. 

Sometimes she knelt at Kíli’s feet, one pale hand gripping his knee, her face bowed, her sad eyes on the marble floor. Sometimes she stood there and stared at Kíli’s tomb as if trying to bring him back to life through sheer force of will. As if hoping she could simply wish it all undone. 

Once, she left a gold bead in his lap. Dís kept it safe even now. 

Gimli once got in a massive tavern brawl when another dwarf spat on the floor and called his dead cousin an elf fucker. Gimli had knocked out many teeth and broken many noses that night. 

Glóin had nodded in approval, chuckling, and did not punish him. 

“That’s really them,” Merry whispered. His wide eyes were on Thorin. “It’s them.” 

“So young,” Aragorn sighed, glancing between the three. Gimli was not used to thinking of Thorin as young. Even now, in his mind Thorin Oakenshield was larger than life, unmovable as a mountain, fierce as a forest fire. But he understood Aragorn’s point.

Boromir likely would have said the same. Ah, the lad should be here with them still…

Much like the three fallen Durins should still be here. 

“Bilbo’s descriptions didn’t do them justice,” Frodo said with a small, sad smile. Sam, always so kind-hearted, placed a bouquet at the base of each statue. 

Gimli returned Frodo’s sad smile. “The statues don’t do them justice,” he admitted. “Thorin…Ah, now there was a fine warrior. A good, strong leader. Most folk were terrified of angering him, but when it came to the wee ones…When it came to Fíli and Kíli especially, he was soft as a lamb.”

“I wouldn’t call Oakenshield soft,” Legolas said with a smirk. “He made Father’s blood boil.”

Gimli was tempted to point out that it didn’t take much to piss King Thranduil off, but refrained. 

Pippin went straight to Kíli’s statue as Gimli had suspected he would. The two youngest. Echoes of each other. Ah, but his cousins would have adored Merry and Pippin. 

“They were good lads,” Gimli sighed. “Brave and loyal. Clever little trouble-makers. Absolute terrors when they wanted to be, the bane of every tutor’s existence…Ah, but they had such big hearts…” He glanced at Merry and Pippin. “You remind me of them,” he admitted. 

Their eyes widened and they exchanged startled, but pleased glances. “We do?” Merry asked, and he sounded quite awed. 

He nodded. “Aye. Reckon that’s why Gandalf’s always been so hard on you.”

“You think we remind Gandalf of them?” Pippin’s eyes widened further, practically about to pop from his head. 

Frodo looked thoughtful. Gimli wondered if Bilbo had seen the echoes too. If he’d ever commented on it, ever said anything to his young ward.

“They would have joined us if they lived,” Gimli said, stepping closer to his cousins’ graves, eyes on their pale marble faces. Thorin, as King Under the Mountain, could not have joined them, but Gimli didn’t doubt he would have sent Fíli and Kíli to Rivendell in his stead. As for Fíli and Kíli…They would have volunteered to join the Fellowship. Gimli didn’t doubt it for a second.

Would it have made any difference? Or perhaps nothing would have changed.

But they would have been here and that was what mattered. Fíli would tease Gimli about Legolas relentlessly, and readily offered his support anyway. Kíli would have been with his Tauriel, and Gimli didn’t doubt he’d still be an utter whirlwind of a dwarf. They could have met Aragorn, they could have met Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin, they could have met Boromir. They could have reunited with Bilbo and Gandalf.  He didn't doubt they'd have a soft-spot for Aragorn and Arwen's tale.

They could have been alive. 

“It was a tragic day indeed, when Middle-Earth lost such bright lights,” Gimli sighed, lowering his head in respect.

For a long moment, he and his friends stood there in silence, all of them with their heads bowed, all with a hand pressed to their hearts.

“I remember King Thorin telling my father to eat dragon shit,” Legolas commented mildly, which set them all off laughing despite the circumstances. If he was still here, Thorin would be smirking, proud of himself, utterly unapologetic about it. 

Legolas said, more softly, “I had to cover for Tauriel. She sneaked down to the dungeons so often to speak with Prince Kíli. I remember her rage when a captured orc laughed about striking him with a Morgul arrow.” He peered closely at each statue, hardly blinking in that odd, intense way he had. “I was not there to witness her healing Prince Kíli but I was there when Prince Fíli thanked her. I did not know many pairs of siblings…I found myself most curious despite my own mistrust. Mostly I was just worried about Tauriel, honestly. I didn’t understand…” He waved vaguely, frowning. “Any of it. I just worried about what my father would do to her, for her defiance.”

“He banished her, didn’t he?” Aragorn asked sadly.

“Yes.” Legolas’s eyes darted between the three statues again, lingering on the wreath of blue roses in Kíli’s lap. “I still worry about her.” He held out his hand and Gimli took it, allowing Legolas to hold on as tightly as he wished. “She’d be insufferable about this, you know. She’d tease me until the breaking of the world.” There was the ghost of a smile on his face. “Maybe then I can tease her about Prince Kíli. When they’re reunited.”

Tauriel sometimes went years without visiting Erebor, but she always came back. Gimli found himself hoping she’d break that pattern and return within the next few weeks, while the Fellowship was here.

He tried to imagine it; witnessing Legolas being cut down. He couldn’t do it. His very being flinched away from the very concept, cried out in despair at the mere idea. He couldn’t imagine it at all, but he knew what agony and loneliness would follow. How could anyone recover from losing their One?

Gimli could not reunite Lady Tauriel with his cousin, but…

He squeezed Legolas’s hand. Perhaps he could help to reunite her with her friend.