So as many of you are aware, because of my #@$%ing laptop woes, I haven’t been able to get the chapter out when I hoped. 

*pouts*

But! I get a new laptop this afternoon, and I have access to some of my work. So, here we are: another little sneak-peek! Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!

Sansûkh Chapter 41 – excerpt from draft 

---

Dear Da and Mum, Gimris and Bofur,

I’m alive. I’m not hurt. I’m not wounded. I’m eating. I’m
wearing my helm, I promise.

I have worried constantly about the Mountain. Is all well
with our family? Are you hale? I heard of the death of Dain, and I sorrow with
you. May Mahal watch and protect him. Do our friends prosper? How does Dale?

You will know this from other messengers, no doubt, but the
War is won at last and the Quest has succeeded. My friend Aragorn is now King
in Gondor and Arnor, and there is much work to be done. I have pledged the work of my hands and mind to rebuilding the Gates of Minas Tirith, and would see many of our people join me in making strong both the city and our friendships with Men. Too, I have found the most glorious place in the White Mountains above Rohan. I must speak to our new King about it. But. That’s not what
this letter is about.

I’ve found my One.

I would tell you this in my own voice and in the same room,
if I were able. But with things the way they are, well, we are no longer
unknown, not even here in Minas Tirith. Indeed, we’re rather famous, it seems?
Anyway, all this is to say: you may hear the news thanks to rumour and gossip,
and I would prefer it to come first from me.

This is hard to put to paper, but I will try it in one
strike, and perhaps it will sting less. Here goes: You may have already deduced
that my One is no Dwarf. Aye, he is not. He is an Elf.

Please, put the letter down and do not throw it in the fire.
Mum, please stop Da from throwing the letter in the fire.

Gimris, sit on him if you must. At least until he calms down
enough for the rest.

Bofur, stop laughing.

Here is the rest: He is Legolas Thranduilion, the son of
Thranduil. He is in fact the very Elf who once insulted Mum and called me a
‘goblin mutant’. He makes truly appalling first impressions. It’s sort of
breathtaking, how poor they are.

Bofur, I said stop laughing.

I have not lost my mind. I am not writing this under duress.
I am not under some ridiculous Elf-spell or bewitchment. This is not some
flight of fancy or passing infatuation. I am perfectly aware of what I do and
where my heart has found its home.

He is not as I thought him to be. I am not as he thought me
to be. The past is more complicated than we were ever led to know. We were both
entirely, completely, grievously wrong. About many, many things. And I thank
Mahal and all the Valar that I know better now.

The whole story is long (and full of tedious walking,
horses, boats and running). But
suffice to say that my eyes have been opened, and I see more clearly now than I
have ever done.

Legolas will return with me to the North, after we have seen
our friend crowned and the Hobbits healed, and after we have attended to a
small journey that we have pledged to each other. We wish to wed. Legolas
wishes to meet with you, and I with his family and people.  

I want only peace between my beloved and my family. I will understand
if your reception is chilly, but for love of me, I beg that you receive us,
that you hear him with an open and unclouded heart, and leave the past where it
lies – for now.

I love you all. I miss you all dearly.

Gimli

P.S. All right, Bofur, you can laugh now.

---

My beloved King and father, my dear and valiant brothers,

I will be home before the snows fall again. I have missed
you. So very much. The lands to the south are warmer than our woods, but the winds blow strangely and the sea-birds call in voices that are hard to ignore. I have missed our trees and our rivers. I have not heard a Silvan accent in what feels like decades, and these stately Galadhrim and the steel-eyed Peredhil make me feel gauche and incomplete. 

Aragorn is crowned, but his kingdom lies ruined, exhausted from centuries of watchful suspicion and outright war. The olvar here are starved for the sun: the spume of Mordor now dissipates, but it has choked the life from much that is green and good. I have begun whispering to them, coaxing them to put forth leaves and stretch high, but the plants are as weary and frightened as the people. 

I long to be home, where wild roots sink deep and strong into the earth and not even darkness can tear them free. Soon, I will begin the journey. I have a promise to keep, to go south to visit the White Mountains and from thence to see the Onodrim and wander the ancient boles of Fangorn. I think that they would approve of what I do here, with these frightened young trees. 

After I have seen to my promise and to the mountains and the woods, my feet will turn northwards, and home. 

My hus

I would have you meet my

I will be bringing a guest: Gimli, son of Gloin, a
Dwarf-Lord of Erebor. He is one of the Nine Walkers, the champion of Galadriel
of Lothlorien. She bestowed upon him three hairs from her head.

You read that correctly.

He is also the one to whom I plight my

I love him.

You also read that correctly.

It grieves me to know that my love will cause you more pain.
I do not love him to hurt you. I love him because he is brave and kind and
noble and great of heart. Because he has brown eyes and a warm smile, and his
hands could crush bone but he holds me so gently. Because he is Gimli, and no
other.

I write these words not to warn you, nor hurt you. I love
you, and I am proud to be your son, your brother, proud to walk Middle-Earth
wearing the emblems of the Greenwood. I write these words to give you time, and
to prepare you. I would not spring Gimli and the nature of our connection upon
you, nor you upon him, without first telling you of what has transpired.

Much of what you know of Dwarves is wrong. I beg of you, put
aside old tales, caricatures and suspicions, and meet Gimli with an open heart
and clear eyes. He will surprise you. He is endlessly surprising.

I did not care for him at first. I thought I despised him. I
thought every cruel thing that has ever been spoken was true. Yet he was
ever-faithful, ever-stalwart and generous and true, even in the face of terror
and grief and disdain. Our journey has torn away every false belief, and slowly
I have learned to see Gimli, just as he learned to see me. Once I saw him, truly saw him, then I could not help but
love him.

Laindawar, please do not sneer at him. He is a Dwarf, yes,
he is smaller than you, bearded and broad and thick-bodied. He is also a mighty warrior, and
though he is quick to anger he is quick to forgive – and how he forgives. His heart could contain the whole world. He knows
little of trees, but much of home.

Laerophen, I pray you do not account yourself wiser than
him. The Dwarves may have lost much of their records, what with their sorrowful
history, but there is much we do not know and will never know. He sees this world differently to you or I, but no less clearly. He has secrets
upon secrets, his eye is keen, and his mind is quick.

Father, I cannot NOT love him, not even for y

Adar, forgive me for the direction of my heart. And
please do not drain the wine-stores dry

And also I beg that you forgive me this: Gimli’s grandmother
was a Firebeard. Her name was Haban. She died at Moria, during the terrible War
of Orcs and Dwarves so many years ago. She was an honest and hard-working trader who travelled far and
wide, transporting her goods from Ered Luin to the Iron Hills and between. She was a loyal soul and a clever one: the old tales make her people seem like monsters, but she puts the lie to them. She was a good Dwarf. Gimli has her red hair.

Last but not least painful: He is the son of one that we imprisoned, eighty years ago. The one with the red fire-touched hair and the scar over his brow is Gloin, Gimli’s father. Thorin Oakenshield is Gimli’s cousin. I mocked his family and stole his image, long before I ever saw his face.

He has long since forgiven me, and will soon
forgive you for love of me.

Galadriel calls him ‘Lock-Bearer’, but he holds my whole
heart in his great and gentle hands.

I can only hope that your hearts are gentle in return.

Your son and brother,

Legolas Thranduillion, Prince of Greenwood the Great

---

TBC – thank you so so much for reading!

(The first sneak-peek for ch41 is here)