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Gimli stood with his back to the harsh wind, the hood of his cloak he pulled over his head. His helm lay at his feet upon a stone.
The frigid air stung his lungs with every labored breath he took, he was tired, but unwounded. In the gray of the dusk upon the fields of Pelennor he watched Legolas approach him.
Legolas walked at a steady pace, neither rushed nor weary. His hair, dark with rain clung to his skull like wet grass.
There were pieces of wet grass in his hair, that Gimli was able to see now that he was coming closer. His light shoes were coated in a layer of mud and his face and tunic were smeared with it. At least from a far it had looked like mud, and Gimli had hoped that it was. But now Legolas was almost before him, and the putrid smell was unmistakeable.
He stooped down and embraced the dwarf in a rare display of open affection. Gimli flinched at the squelching sound the Orc blood made when they were pressed against each other. He breathed through his mouth trying to avoid smelling it. The scent was a thick, tangible thing, he could taste it bitter, and sour, and merciless. His eyes began to water, and he coughed, desperately trying to rid himself of lingering aftertaste. It was in his throat, in his lungs now, and he could not get it out. It was the sent of fear, of sweat upon the brows of the enemy's thralls, it was the muck at the bottom of a bog, it was fruit upon twisted boughs, over ripe, and beginning to rot. It was the sick in the stomachs of old spiders.
It was something far worse than all of that of course, something he could name, but would not. Not even in his own private thoughts.
He pulled away faster than he would have, if he were not choking down bile.
Legolas looked down with a blank expression upon his blood covered face. He looked entirely unconcerned, with the smell, with Gimli's reaction, and with their dreary surroundings. The dark secretion contrasted with his pale skin.
There was something in his hands, more foul than the grime that had soiled his clothing and hair. So repulsive, was it's bare form that Gimli was grateful for the wet soil, bodily fluid, and bits of foliage that partially concealed it. Beneath that meager coverage, raw tissue was still woefully, horribly visible, as was the webbing of dark veins that ran through out it.
The elf held it out as if it were a priceless gem he had cut, as if it were mithril he had mined, as if it were sacred. It was still bleeding, black liquid trickled through his splayed fingers. The severed organ pulsed, twitched ever so slightly as it's veins emptied.
"For you" He said, solemnly.
Gimli looked at him, unsure if he should conceal his disgust. Was this an important wood elf custom, or a tasteless practical joke? (It was hard for Gimli, to tell the difference sometimes.)
He looked up and his friend was not smiling. There was no jest or lie in his eyes, in fact, he looked quite reverent, and rather sincere. Gimli took the heart gingerly, with one hand and tried not to grimace.
"Thank you", he said politely, his fingers fumbling on the moist sinew.
He looked up at Legolas, who stood upon the battlefield in bloodstained clothing and skin. Among corpses, and discarded limbs, hands slick with gore and trembling with fading adrenaline. The sky churned with Dark foreboding clouds, and the air was filled with the smell of flesh just beginning to fester.
He smiled, and all the world was wonderful.