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Gimli’s head throbbed, though he would rather face another Uruk-hai army than complain about that fact. Legolas may have called it the “stiff neck of dwarves”, but it felt churlish to complain about a simple scratch when so many lay dead or grievously wounded.
Legolas was not chiding him now, however. His fair face was drawn with worry, and the hand that cleaned Gimli’s wound was gentle.
“I am not made of glass, my friend,” said Gimli firmly.
“Certainly not.” Legolas dipped the cloth into a bowl of warm water before returning to his ministrations. “But nor are you made of stone, no matter what you may claim.”
“I live, Legolas.”
A soft sigh left his friend’s lips, and the Elf’s fingers rested briefly against Gimli’s cheek, then curled lightly into his beard.
Gimli’s heart kicked. The brush of Legolas’s fingers seemed to ease the pain in his head. The Elf’s skin was cool, and the callouses marring his fingertips caught slightly in Gimli’s beard. Somehow Gimli had not expected there to be such imperfections; he tucked that knowledge away like a gemstone.
“Yes, you live,” Legolas said, a wistful note in his voice. “And I have never been gladder.”