The stars were already disappearing in the sky and the Dwarf, Gimli, was still awake. He wasn’t one to be undone by change, being very confident of himself even in the most unexpected of situations, but the journey that he and Legolas would begin on the morrow held a future that made even the grounded Gimli uneasy.
        His eyes traveled across the fire to where the fair Elf, Legolas, lay. He was lying on his back with his head cradled in the hand thrown casually behind it. His sparkling blue eyes were open, as always, even in sleep. Gimli wasn’t anxious to begin this trip, but he thought that perhaps his troubled mind would find a respite from his anxiety once they were on their way. He’d spent the night stirring wildly, trying to get comfortable to no avail. He turned over once more, grumbling. His body ached from tension and lack of sleep. As he felt his body finally begin to relax, a voice startled him back to edgy consciousness.
        “Gimli, if you’re going to be up all night you might as well be up.” Legolas’ voice was warm and soft, hinting at the beauty of his singing ability. Being a Grey-Elf, or Sindarin, he was gifted with this remarkable talent as a descendent of the Teleri line. It is said that the Teleri could sing before they could speak, and while it was uncertain that this was the case with Legolas, his vocal skill was undeniable.
        Though Legolas hadn’t so much as blinked nor made the slightest movement, Gimli, startled by the sudden voice breaking the silence of the night, jerked upright. “Gah! Must you insist on doing that?” he snapped. “It’s eerie enough watching you stare like the dead in your slumber. Need you shake a person out of their skin?”
        The corners of Legolas’ mouth curved up as he turned his head slightly toward the firelight. “You aren’t usually so easily unnerved, my diminutive friend. What has you in such turmoil? Are you giving second thought to our journey?”
        Gimli, realizing that sleep was now beyond the realm of possibility, shook himself free of his bedclothes. He dug around in his pack until he located his pipe then proceeded to stuff it with some Longbottom Leaf. This had been named after the Hobbit-village in the Shire where the first pipeweed had been grown and cultivated and from where the best crops still originate. As he had prepared his pipe and taken the first few comforting puffs, he contemplated the question Legolas had posed and tried to formulate an answer to explain the elusive feeling of dread which hung over him. Gimli found himself at a loss.
        “I cannot explain it, Legolas,” he finally replied. “There seems to be this inexplicable sense of doom that has me unnerved and with every moment that we get closer to the time of our departure the burden becomes heavier.”
        Legolas sat up, his movements smooth and graceful. Even the sheet of his golden hair seemed to move in slow motion as it fringed forward across his shoulders. “We’ve been traveling a long time,” Legolas remarked, his long, deft fingers whisking a stray braid behind his delicate leaf-shaped ear. “Perhaps we should stay here in Mirkwood with my father a while longer.”
        Gimli shook his head. “No, my friend. You’ve been looking forward to this for a great while and I shan’t disappoint you.” He stood then, stretching his short stocky body. “Once we’re well on our way I shall either find myself rid of this dark cloud, or I shall be able to reason precisely what prickle this is nagging at me.”
        Gimli regarded Legolas for a moment, inhaling the smoke from his pipe, then decided that now would be as appropriate a time as any to broach the question he had long wanted to ask. He stepped around the fire to stand beside Legolas, seated on his bed, and inquired, “And what of you, Legolas? Surely there must be something…someone…here in Middle Earth who could hold you here? How old are you, Legolas? Surely you’ve chosen a mate by now.”
        Legolas, with a rather haughty air, replied, “If you must know, I'm 2,931. And the answer is ‘no’, I haven’t chosen a mate.”
        “Aren’t you lonely?” asked Gimli quietly, treading carefully into an extremely personal area which neither of them had discussed before.
        Legolas contemplated it for a few moments before answering. “I’ve had opportunities, Gimli, but it never felt right. In truth I never ‘felt’ at all. It’s not that I don’t like women. It’s that I’ve never found a woman who moved me to such a degree that I felt that I couldn’t live without her. And when you consider that, with some exceptions, Elves live forever…well eternity is a long time to be bound to someone who doesn‘t overwhelm your heart.”
        “Ever the poet, aren’t you Legolas?” Gimli chuckled. “You find a song in the sunrise.”
        The Elf stood then and stretched himself yawning, his tall, fit frame towering a good two feet above the Dwarf. As he reached for his bow and quiver of arrows, always ready at hand, he replied grinning, “And I’ll sing that song of sunrise until I have you bellowing for mercy.”
        Gimli laughed, slapping Legolas heartily on the arm. “Come. Let’s get our gear on the horses and be off.”
        “The sun isn’t even up yet,” Legolas smiled.
        “Then perhaps you can sing it on it’s way, hmm?” Gimli winked.