#elf sleep

@deheerkonijn

…

The stone in Gimli's chambers in Aglarond drank up the heat of the hearth like moss in water. The fire was well-contained, screened away from the room and vented out of the mountain through a long-snaking set of chimneys, but the warmth had seeped into every corner of the room, the stone floor almost too hot to touch - for some. Gimli himself was moments away from stretching gloriously out on his belly like a lizard, cheek pressed to the stone to soak it all in, and only the sleepy languor of the evening prevented him from leaving his nest of blankets to do so.

But Gimli was not the only one lulled near to sleep tonight. He shifted to tuck a corner of the blanket more securely around himself, and Legolas's head rolled in the crook of his neck and shoulder. He made a small sound against Gimli, like a contented cat, but otherwise did not stir.

Gimli looked down at him and laughed, soft and fond. Legolas's face was slack and peaceful, lips fallen just slightly apart, eyelashes brushing his cheeks - eyes not yet closed, but very nearly. His whole body had gone slack against Gimli, melted like wax over Gimli's left arm, all the ordinarily-palpable humming tension in him drained away. Legolas always felt as if he was poised to burst into motion, vibrating like the heart of a bird about to take flight; even in his rest, that faraway, open-eyed repose, he appeared just on the edge of consciousness, ready to spring awake and alert at any moment. But Gimli treasured these moments, when Legolas’s own energy could sustain him no more and he drifted closer and closer to sleep – true sleep, deep sleep – and gave himself over to Gimli’s care.

It happened infrequently enough, but especially so in this season – this season of cold winds and long nights, when years beyond Gimli’s reckoning had trained Legolas into alertness. He held his body like a knife in the winter, stiff and sharp and ready to draw blood; resting little and sleeping less. But even an elf must rest at last, and here – in their safe den within Aglarond, shutters closed against the chill and the stone glowing in the friendly light of their embers – it seemed at last to be the moment.

“Is it time, then?” he murmured, reaching up to cup Legolas’s head in his left hand – running his thumb over an angular cheekbone. He marveled, not for the first time, at the smoothness of it: the way his thumb glided over warm skin as easily as perfect polished stone. No other dwarf could appreciate such a sensation, he had been told more than once – but then no other dwarf had ever attempted to find out.

Gimli would keep the satisfaction for himself, then.

Legolas was yet aware enough to turn into the motion, peeping a tiny “mmm,” as he nestled into the cradle of Gimli’s palm like a cat, and Gimli nearly bowed over him, bending despite himself from the force of the wash of affection. No other dwarf knew this – knew of Legolas, hearth-warmed and sleep-pliable, the steel of his body melted down beneath the hand of a trusted smith. And Legolas would allow no other dwarf to see it. Here, in midwinter, in the season of danger, he allowed the knife of his body to be melted – he laid himself out in excruciating vulnerability, trusting Gimli to do as he would.

It was almost startlingly violent, the surge of affection – the desire to crush Legolas against him, to sink his teeth into him like a starving dwarf set before a feast. It came upon him sometimes in moments like this, the thought that there would be no embrace close enough, that he wanted to eat Legolas alive, swallow him up – and that only the thought of that trust was what held him back. He restrained himself now to a kiss to the crown of Legolas’s head, smoothing back that sleek, fire-hot hair – nearly as warm as the stone. “Let us take you to bed, then,” he teased, “lest you melt all over my blankets and I be forbidden their use until you wake!”

For he would sleep long, Gimli knew – he always did, after so long awake. He would sleep long, and Gimli would be alone in the task of guarding his rest – the rest he took because he knew he would be kept safe.

Gimli had been given charge of the colony of Aglarond, of the rebuilding of Gondor, of many a scouting or trading party – and yet somehow he felt no charge had ever been so precious or so sweet as this.

And so he helped Legolas to his faltering feet, supported him into the bedroom, all as Legolas murmured sleepy nonsense and sought to curl his body into the warmth of Gimli’s own. Gimli could hardly stand himself, bones soft and loose with tenderness, with warmth – with the closeness of this night together, of the safety of their shared presence – but he eased Legolas down onto the pillows, tucked him in under blankets – climbed in beside him when Legolas reached for him in sleepy petulance.

In the other room, the fire had burned down to coals, the glow on the walls faded into a scarce whisper. It would burn out soon, and then the cold would creep in – would steal in through the windows, leach the warmth from the stone beneath their bed, waiting to freeze the first feet that landed on it in the morning. Gimli would wake on his own tomorrow, with no eager husband to leap out of bed and stoke it up again, let the room warm before he must emerge from the blankets – the luxurious indulgence Gimli always so looked forward to when Legolas spent winter nights with him here.

And yet . . .

…

It is the early days of winter, the chill of autumn tilting over into a freeze, the nights stretching greedy fingers into the day, and the king is asleep.

Laerwen paces the halls outside her father’s chambers, her feet a restless pad against the cold stone, soft-soled shoes not silent on its unforgiving surface. Her hand finds the hilt of her sword, its pommel warm from her frequent grip, though the rest of the metal is cold unto ice. Tension holds her back upright like a planting post; her shoulders square in her best soldier stance – ears alert for any call, any sound out of the ordinary, muscles tense and trembling with the weight of the kingdom that is hers to hold, for however long until her father wakes.

It is at times like these that she can feel it – that they all can: how thoroughly their wood has taken him in, woven itself with him and him with itself, wrapped leaves and bark around the point of connection until it is nearly impossible to grasp. That point shudders, now, weakened in his rest, as the forest strains to retain its awareness, as the elves cower in their rooms and brandish shields against the menace that lurks in the night – as Laerwen paces his halls, arms straining with the unseen weight of his burden. It is nights like these that she understands how much she has yet to learn – how much he has taken unto himself, not only to protect the kingdom, but to protect her from the burden of it. She was born into this land as he was not, but she cannot do what he does. Not yet.

But he cannot stay awake forever. He is still an elf, and he must abandon himself to sleep beyond dreams, to restorative oblivion – and when he does, their defenses shiver in the icy wind, and Laerwen stands for him.

Winter creeps through the heart of the Greenwood, tendrils of frost snaking through cracks in doors, icy gusts rattling ominously at shutters left ajar. The very air trembles, illusions of safety wavering like the surface of a pond, waiting for but the touch of a fingertip to shatter. The oldest oaks groan with the chill, the few children moan without knowing why, and the king sleeps.

And Laerwen waits.

She does not turn at the sound of the footsteps, at the change in the air. Does not exhale at the warmth of the arrival, does not relax the set of her shoulders even as the presence of her very heart settles over them like a cloak. But when Siril’s arm comes around her, she does incline her head to accept a kiss to her cheek.

“How do you fare?”

“Well enough.” There is no other answer. “And the defenses?”

“Hold.” Siril does not come only on pleasantries, after all; she can feel the cobweb connections in the wood, the strands that bind elf to tree to soil to mushroom to safety – can see those that tremble on the brink of snapping. Can shore them up, if it comes to that – or so they all must hope. “Celair keeps watch now.”

“Good.” Siril’s sibling is as attuned as she is to such matters; they take their own shifts, even as Laerwen wakes while her father sleeps, waits at his post for word from the elves she commands, eyes that own cobweb of connections for any breaks she might need to mend. The others in the hall have not been told that the king rests this night, but she wonders if they can feel it – the way her shoulders tremble under the weight, the flimsy supports that shore up the ache of his unawareness. Do they know what it is, what is amiss this night? Can they feel the unsupported place at the center? Or do they merely huddle, and they do not know why. “And you?” She has not asked yet, even as Siril opened her speech with concern for Laerwen’s own well-being. It is of no consequence to Laerwen herself, but Siril’s is – and if she can spare no extra thought tonight, she will spare this.

“As well as you do, I imagine.” Siril shoulders up against Laerwen. Her skin is warmer than the pommel of Laerwen’s sword, alive on its own, and a tiny hearth glows inside Laerwen’s frozen heart. “Would you have a companion in your vigil?”

This is something Laerwen has that her father does not – one more advantage in her efforts to hold a weight she has still been ill-trained to shoulder. She should not need it to give her strength, perhaps, but if there is one thing she has learned from her father, it is that no amount of pride can compensate on its own for needed aid.

And anyway, she would never turn down an offer of Siril’s company.

She nudges her wife back, allows herself that much bend in her rigid posture. “Always,” she murmurs, and smiles at Siril’s soft exhale.