Chapter Text
Legolas took a deep breath, like one that drinks a great draught after long thirst in barren places.
“Ah! the green smell!” he said. “It is better than much sleep. Let us run!”
“Light feet may run swiftly here,” said Aragorn. “More swiftly, maybe, than iron-shod Orcs. Now we have a chance to lessen their lead!”
...
“The brooch of an elven-cloak!” cried Legolas and Gimli together.
“Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall,” said Aragorn. “This did not drop by chance: it was cast away as a token to any that might follow. I think Pippin ran away from the trail for that purpose.”
“Then he at least was alive,” said Gimli. “And he had the use of his wits, and of his legs too. That is heartening. We do not pursue in vain.”
“Let us hope that he did not pay too dearly for his boldness,” said Legolas. “Come! Let us go on! The thought of those merry young folk driven like cattle burns my heart.”
Gimli would claim, later, that he did not remember much of the days they spent running and tracking the hobbits and the party of Orcs that had taken them. Only Legolas knew that he did not speak true; or at least, if Aragorn did not believe him, he did not say.
(Neither did Legolas, but a swift glance at Gimli one time was all he needed to make it clear he knew Gimli lied.)
Once, Gimli perhaps would have spoken with pride of their great chase, and reminded his companions of the hardiness of Dwarves. Boromir particularly would—
But the thought of Boromir burned, and stayed his tongue. Even later, much later, when his deeds were praised by those around him, he said nothing.
This was not, however, the true reason he would later claim not to remember those days.
In truth, grief and fear drove him, moved one foot in front of the other without his input, propelling him faster and ever onward. He existed only in a black cloud of it—even in daylight, he barely noticed the sun or his surroundings, other than the ground in front of him. When Aragorn and Legolas debated which way to go, or discussed the tracks left by the Orcs, he would come out of his haze long enough to add to the discussion, but when they ran again, he descended back into his worry.
Thus it was that his body did not tire, because neither did his fear. Each step brought a new thought, and his thoughts were racing.
A step, and he thought of the hobbits running, footsore and surrounded by foul enemies. Another step, and the lash on their legs. Another step, how hungry they must be. Another step, how afraid they would be also. Another step, and the pain in his own feet made him wonder about their pain. And thus the cycle repeated, over and over, for what felt like days.
Once, Gimli would have resented Legolas for blithely running on as though he did not notice the exhaustion of his companions, all while making some ridiculous remark about trees; certainly the ache in his feet did not agree that a smell could be better than sleep. Elves! But now, instead of scowling, Gimli smiled wearily, or would have smiled if he could have, or at least he glared while still lifting a corner of his mouth, tired but against his will endeared.
He exchanged a glance with Aragorn that spoke volumes, but Aragorn agreed in some part with Legolas, for he pushed them even harder onward.
And of course, running on green grass was indeed easier. They made good time. It did not calm Gimli’s fear, but the burning of his limbs at least felt as though it was not in vain.
The finding of the brooch of Lórien did ease his heart just a little, and he felt as though he let out a breath he had not been aware he’d been holding.
Legolas, as he was increasingly wont to do, spoke aloud the words in his heart. Gimli’s eyes found his, and his face must have spoken for him, for Legolas grasped his shoulder tightly, just for a moment, almost too briefly for Gimli to grab his hand and squeeze it hard.
They did not speak any words aloud, and were soon running again, too swiftly for speech. But now Gimli knew that despite Legolas’s sometimes light words, he did not run alone through a cloud of fear.
This did not lighten his
heart or his feet, but it did strengthen his will.
Gimli ran on.
Once, Legolas would have been increasingly frustrated with the slowness of his companions. No Elf with a quarry like this to chase would be able to rest, but these mortals and their constant need of sleep slowed them down; he feared they would escape despite their speed
But he had been humbled thrice over, even before the journey began, when he lost Gollum—who was to say that he could do better? And Aragorn’s skill as a tracker was unrivaled even among Elves, and Gimli was sturdy and untiring under the standards of mortals, and they were both as strong warriors as could ever be hoped for. Legolas would not have traded either of them for an army of Elves.
Still, fear rose in his heart with every delay, even the ones that brought slivers of hope.
He saw the same fear in Gimli’s eyes, and felt a wave of guilt. He did not resent his companions, but he still wished to go faster, and it seemed Gimli did too. It was not his fault.
Yet there was also grim determination in the set of Gimli’s mouth, and at last Legolas found heart. There was yet something to learn from mortals, and right now he was learning that there were things he could not change, but he could carry on trying to without despair.
Grateful once more for the
stubbornness of Dwarves, Legolas ran on.
Before dawn was in the sky [Aragorn] woke and rose. Gimli was still deep in slumber, but Legolas was standing, gazing northwards into the darkness, thoughtful and silent as a young tree in a windless night.
“They are far far away,” he said sadly, turning to Aragorn. “I know in my heart that they have not rested this night. Only an eagle could overtake them now.”
“Nonetheless we will still follow as we may,” said Aragorn. Stooping he roused the Dwarf. “Come! We must go,” he said. “The scent is growing cold.”
Gimli knew now that Elves slept differently than Men and Dwarves, needing it more rarely and sometimes able to rest their minds and dream while seeming awake. Legolas usually laid down and slept—or made a good impression of sleeping—with the rest of them, when it was not his turn to be on watch.
On this night, Legolas did not sleep.
Gimli slept deeply, managing to fight off his worry, but when Aragorn woke him, he felt an unease that he could not place. It was only once they began running again, under a gray and fitful sky, that he realized he had missed the warmth of Legolas next to him. Since Lothlórien, Legolas had always slept close to him, solid and comforting. He was quick to tease Gimli about snoring, but still slept in the same place, every night.
Gimil did not blame him for staying awake all night, watchful and worried as they all (but especially Legolas) were. But he missed him, hated seeing him so drawn and worried. He only spoke to say aloud his doubts about Aragorn’s choices, returning to ways that had seemed stiff and sanctimonious to Gimli when they first met. Now he knew that Legolas only talked in that way when he was anxious. He also knew that his own words were tight and brusque.
They did not fight as before,
but they both cast worried looks at each other when they thought the
other was not looking. And even when Gimli should have forgot it, he
felt the loss of Legolas by his side all day.
“Now do I most grudge a time of rest or any halt in our chase,” said Legolas. “The Orcs have run before us, as if the very whips of Sauron were behind them. I fear they have already reached the forest and the dark hills, and even now are passing into the shadows of the trees.”
Gimli ground his teeth. “This is a bitter end to our hope and to all our toil!” he said.
“To hope, maybe, but not to toil,” said Aragorn. “We shall not turn back here. Yet I am weary.” He gazed back along the way that they had come towards the night gathering in the East. “There is something strange at work in this land. I distrust the silence. I distrust even the pale Moon. The stars are faint; and I am weary as I have seldom been before, weary as no Ranger should be with a clear trail to follow. There is some will that lends speed to our foes and sets an unseen barrier before us: a weariness that is in the heart more than in the limb.”
“Truly!” said Legolas. “That I have known since first we came down from the Emyn Muil. For the will is not behind us but before us.” He pointed away over the land of Rohan into the darkling West under the sickle moon.
“Saruman!” muttered Aragorn. “But he shall not turn us back! Halt we must once more; for, see! even the Moon is falling into gathering cloud. But north lies our road between down and fen when day returns.”
Aragorn’s face, even more than Gimli’s, was every day more drawn and worried. Legolas found himself full of anxious fear on all accounts; for the hobbits, for the desperation of their chase, and for his companions as well. At night he paced as they slept, unable even to sit down. Aragorn muttered in his sleep as he never had before, but only in Elvish; Gimli shifted much, something he never did when Legolas had slept close to him.
Not for the first time, he wished he knew more about mortals. How often did they truly need to sleep? Were they both pushing themselves too hard, and was Legolas’s itch to keep going hurting them? Or could they be pushed harder? How much was normal for a man and a dwarf to run in one day? How long, really, could Dwarves go for before they tired? Was it a good or a bad sign that Gimli was snoring faintly?
(Under normal circumstances, Gimli never snored. Legolas only pretended that he did in order to hear him grumble.)
Legolas wondered now if laying down next to him would make it stop. But he could not do it, not now when he was so restless to run and run and run. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the horizon, hoping to see something new.
He could not even appreciate the stars above, for their faint light only mocked him, with the time they were wasting. He had never been so conscious of time, never been unable to let it pass in the manner of Elves. He’d recently learned to doubt the future, but now each moment was urgent, filled with peril, and thus he worried the whole night through, insensible even to the stars.
There was nothing new to see,
not all night, until the sun finally rose and turned the sky deep red.
At the sight, Legolas’s heart jolted in his chest as it never had
before. If he squinted, he could see to Fangorn Forest now, and he did
not understand what he was seeing; but he did not stop to think on it
longer before waking his companions in a hurry.
As before Legolas was first afoot, if indeed he had ever slept. “Awake! Awake!” he cried. “It is a red dawn. Strange things await us by the eaves of the forest. Good or evil, I do not know; but we are called. Awake!”
The others sprang up, and almost at once they set off again.
...
“Well, let us go on,” said Gimli. “My legs must forget the miles. They would be more willing, if my heart were less heavy.”
They spoke about it once, in a brief stop for water and to slow their racing hearts. “My heart is heavy too,” said Legolas. He was looking at the sky and into the lands beyond, straining, as he had done in every moment since they had set out.
“I know,” said Gimli. Legolas looked at him in surprise, and he managed a small smile. “Is it so strange, that I can read grief and fear in your unwillingness to stop?”
“Not anymore,” said Legolas. “I suppose I should expect you to know me as well as I know myself, or better.”
They looked at each other long—Gimli found that this did not help to calm his heart—until Aragorn cleared his throat nearby.
“We should continue,” he said. Gimli noticed that he was looking up, staring intently at the sky. “The day wanes,” he added, as if to explain why.
“A moment longer,” said Gimli. “I have not yet caught my breath.”
Aragorn looked at him for a moment, then sighed and sat down next to him on the flat limestone slab he had chosen to rest on. Good bones, thought Gimli absentmindedly. He might like this country, if he got a chance to see it some other way than on a desperate chase to rescue his friends.
The thought of Merry and Pippin brought back a fresh wave of fear that made him stand up again, for though the heaviness of his heart made it hard to run, he, like Legolas, could not do anything else while the hobbits were still in peril.
Legolas saw the expression on his face, and it seemed he also knew Gimli as well as he knew himself, for he understood instantly. “You are ready?”
“No,” said Gimli. “But I cannot sit any longer.”
“And I just sat down,” Aragorn said, so quietly he almost did not hear, but when Gimli looked an apology at him, he gave a half smile that said he was not angry.
“Have a little lembas first, mellonamin,” said Legolas. “The hobbits would be appalled at how little we have eaten.”
“They would,” said Gimli, smiling and taking this advice. He saw in his friend’s face how the thought of them burned, for the same feeling was in his own heart. “But then we must go, for they must be eating even less.”
Aragorn and Legolas did not
respond, for there was nothing to be said to that. They all knew; and
were trying not to think about it. But when they began to run again,
they ran all the harder.
The night grew ever colder. Aragorn and Gimli slept fitfully, and whenever they awoke they saw Legolas standing beside them, or walking to and fro, singing softly to himself in his own tongue, and as he sang the white stars opened in the hard black vault above. So the night passed. Together they watched the dawn grow slowly in the sky, now bare and cloudless, until at last the sunrise came. It was pale and clear. The wind was in the East and all the mists had rolled away; wide lands lay bleak about them in the bitter light.
One of the many times Gimli awoke that night, he lay there long, listening to Legolas’s soft singing. After a moment he felt eyes on him, and turned his head to see in the bright starlight Aragorn, also awake, watching him.
The stars were so bright and his night vision was so good (even for a Dwarf; it was something he was known for in his home) that he could read Aragorn’s expression. There was a silent question there, that Gimli understood well enough but did not yet know how to answer. He could only give a helpless, resigned shrug. What happened, would happen, he wanted to say. His will alone was not at work.
Legolas stopped singing suddenly, and spoke softly into the darkness. “You should both be asleep,” he said. “If my song keeps you awake, I will stop.”
“No,” said Gimli. The word fell out of his mouth before he could stop it. “It is not your song that keeps us from sleep. Please, do not stop.” He felt his mind stray to a word in the language of his hands, as it so often did in moments when he could not find the right words aloud, but he could not think of one that was appropriate for the feeling of the night and the stars, and the sound of Legolas’s soft singing nearby.
There was a long pause, before Legolas finally smiled, softly, and resumed singing. Gimli closed his eyes, to avoid meeting Aragorn’s eyes if nothing else, and tried to fall asleep again.
He still slept in fits,
half-waking for most of the night, but at least the song of Legolas ran
through his restless dreams.
The Rider looked at them with renewed wonder, but his eyes hardened. “Then there is a Lady in the Golden Wood, as old tales tell!” he said. “Few escape her nets, they say. These are strange days! But if you have her favour, then you also are net-weavers and sorcerers, maybe.” He turned a cold glance suddenly upon Legolas and Gimli. “Why do you not speak, silent ones?” he demanded.
Gimli rose and planted his feet firmly apart: his hand gripped the handle of his axe, and his dark eyes flashed. “Give me your name, horse-master, and I will give you mine, and more besides,” he said.
“As for that,” said the Rider, staring down at the Dwarf, “the stranger should declare himself first. Yet I am named Éomer son of Émund, and am called the Third Marshal of Riddermark.”
“Then Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark, let Gimli the Dwarf Glóin’s son warn you against foolish words. You speak evil of that which is fair beyond the reach of your thought, and only little wit can excuse you.”
Éomer’s eyes blazed, and the Men of Rohan murmured angrily, and closed in, advancing their spears. “I would cut off your head, beard and all, Master Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground,” said Éomer.
“He stands not alone,” said Legolas, bending his bow and fitting an arrow with hands that moved quicker than sight. “You would die before your stroke fell.”
Éomer raised his sword, and things might have gone ill, but Aragorn sprang between them, and raised his hand. “Your pardon, Éomer!” he cried. “When you know more you will understand why you have angered my companions. We intend no evil to Rohan, nor to any of its folk, neither to man nor to horse. Will you not hear our tale before you strike?”
Time had moved so slowly, each minute and hour a struggle not to scream in frustration at the wearing away and wasting of it. Now it snapped back into place and sped up rapidly for Legolas, who was not used to it moving this strangely at all. Suddenly everything was happening at once; there were horses and strange men all around him; they were demanding answers; they were insulting the Lady Galadriel; they were insulting Gimli.
Legolas would have killed the man without a thought, and he did not care.
He met Aragorn’s eyes defiantly even after the situation was diffused, even after Aragorn revealed a small measure of his authority and power; he was awed but not afraid. But he saw no anger there, only simmering amusement. Well, good! He would not apologize, now or ever. Anyone, no matter who they were or what had happened, who threatened Gimli would meet a hard end from his arrow’s point, or his knife if he had to use it.
Gimli was also not cowed, for though he eased his fingers off of his axe, his defiant stance did not change. When he met Legolas’s eyes, there was a fire there that took his breath away. And yet Legolas did not look away; indeed, he never could. Such was his fate. He only wished he could say aloud what was in his heart, that he would cut down every single foe that came their way.
His mind was not so addled by—emotion—of what kind he could not yet say—that he did not notice Aragorn skillfully managing, somehow, to make a friend and an ally out of this man and learn all that he had to tell about the Orcs his company had slain. He was not distracted from their mission for even a moment, no matter how tense the situation. A defeat, then, for Legolas the Elf and Gimli the diplomat!
And still he would do it
again.
There was great wonder, and many dark and doubtful glances, among his men, when Éomer gave orders that the spare horses were to be lent to the strangers; but only Éothain dared to speak openly.
“It may be well enough for this lord of the race of Gondor, as he claims,” he said, “but who has heard of a horse of the Mark being given to a Dwarf?”
“No one,” said Gimli. “And do not trouble: no one will ever hear of it. I would sooner walk than sit on the back of any beast so great, free or begrudged.”
“But you must ride now, or you will hinder us,” said Aragorn.
“Come, you shall sit behind me, friend Gimli,” said Legolas. “Then all will be well, and you need neither borrow a horse nor be troubled by one.”
A great dark-grey horse was brought to Aragorn, and he mounted it. “Hasufel is his name,” said Éomer. “May he bear you well and to better fortune than Gárulf, his late master!”
A smaller and lighter horse, but restive and fiery, was brought to Legolas. Arod was his name. But Legolas asked them to take off saddle and rein. “I need them not,’ he said, and leaped lightly up, and to their wonder Arod was tame and willing beneath him, moving here and there with but a spoken word: such was the Elvish way with all good beasts. Gimli was lifted up behind his friend, and he clung to him, not much more at ease than Sam Gamgee in a boat.
Legolas’s voice was choked as he made the offer, but it seemed no one noticed. Aragorn was the only one familiar enough with Elves to have the ear to catch such a thing, and he was thankfully occupied with his own horse. Legolas could only hope that Gimli was equally distracted, or at least not paying too close attention.
The offer was not altogether altruistic. Something in the pit of his stomach swooped when Gimli wrapped his arms around his waist—tightly, but Legolas could not say truthfully that he minded.
He was taking deep, calming breaths, when Aragorn caught his eye again, and once again there was deep amusement in his face.
Legolas did not deign to glare back. Indeed, his attention was immediately torn away, for Gimli was once again defending Galadriel, and it was again hard to breathe. He was still astonished when his friend had such a fire in him on the subject of Elves—and it made his heart race.
They rode away not a moment too soon. He needed something else to think about, and fast.
Time moved swiftly on, now,
every second bringing change, a new thought, a new mystery. Legolas
felt that he hardly breathe, yet still he continued to. His lungs were
tight with it.
Gimli had not noticed how cold he was until he was pressed against Legolas, and was suddenly warmed through again, as he had not been since they had ceased to sleep side by side every night.
If he clung even tighter, to
this warmth (and strong back) in a cold world, no one had to know the
reason why.
““We
are near to the mountain-marches of the traitor Saruman. Also we are on
the very edge of Fangorn, and it is perilous to touch the trees of that
wood, it is said.”
“But the Rohirrim made a great burning here yesterday,” said Gimli, “and they felled trees for the fire, as can be seen. Yet they passed the night after safely here, when their labour was ended.”
“They were many,’ said Aragorn, “and they do not heed the wrath of Fangorn, for they come here seldom, and they do not go under the trees. But our paths are likely to lead us into the very forest itself. So have a care! Cut no living wood!”
“There is no need,” said Gimli. “The Riders have left chip and bough enough, and there is dead wood lying in plenty.” He went off to gather fuel, and busied himself with building and kindling a fire; but Aragorn sat silent with his back to the great tree, deep in thought; and Legolas stood alone in the open, looking towards the profound shadow of the wood, leaning forward, as one who listens to voices calling from a distance.
When the Dwarf had a small bright blaze going, the three companions drew close to it and sat together, shrouding the light with their hooded forms. Legolas looked up at the boughs of the tree reaching out above them.
“Look!’ he said. "The tree is glad of the fire!”
It may have been that the dancing shadows tricked their eyes, but certainly to each of the companions the boughs appeared to be bending this way and that so as to come above the flames, while the upper branches were stooping down; the brown leaves now stood out stiff, and rubbed together like many cold cracked hands taking comfort in the warmth.
Legolas was no tracker such as Aragorn was, and he left the search for the hobbits to him gladly. He was driven near to distraction by having Gimli clinging to him for leagues and leagues, but Aragorn did not seem to need him, which was well.
Strangely, as distracting as it was, Legolas missed Gimli’s warm presence when they stopped at the battlefield on the edge of Fangorn to search of it. They found nothing, but the light was growing dim and Aragorn wished to search again in the morning, and so they were forced to make camp.
By then, he had found a new distraction.
The voices of the forest were new, such voices as Legolas had never heard before, and he stood long, trying to hear them. He wondered if they mourned the loss of the cut trees as he did; if they were angry at all intruders, or merely sad. Certainly there was sadness in this forest, down deep, but he could not catch anything they said or felt on the surface.
Legolas felt, suddenly, a strange feeling he had never quite had before. He found himself wondering if he would be able to return to Fangorn; if he would ever have the time. Even if they entered the forest, which he could not deny was his hope, he would not be able to explore and wander as he wished. They had a mission, one he did not begrudge and would not turn away from, but never before had he found himself worrying about having time.
Perhaps he had been around mortals too long, and it was affecting him. But somehow he did not think so. The thought had struck him like a strange premonition; he did not know what it meant.
A sound jolted him out of his reverie, one familiar but jarring, and he realized that he was hearing Gimli’s flint and steel as he had not in days. They had not had the chance to build a fire since they’d left Amon Hen, and the sound brought him sudden comfort. His gaze strayed to his friend’s skilled hands as he threw sparks into the kindling and began to build the fire.
Gimli, seeming to feel eyes on him, looked up after he had finished placing the first round of thin sticks on the fire, a question in his eyes. Caught, all Legolas could think to say was—
“Will you teach me?”
Gimli stared at him for a moment, but then his eyes crinkled in a laugh and Legolas relaxed a fraction. “Can you not build a fire?”
“Not so well as you,” said Legolas in complete honesty. “I never get sparks on the first try like you, nor do they always land where I want them to.”
“Seems a matter of needing more practice, not teaching,” Gimli said, adding more wood to the fire.
“Or perhaps you are hoarding secret wisdom of the Dwarves so as to be more impressive to your companions,” Legolas shot back. His heart was lifting as it had not done in days.
Gimli snorted. “Secret wisdom,” he grumbled. “Is nothing sacred to you anymore?”
“If I really am asking about something you cannot tell—” Legolas began, sure that he was not yet still wanting to be cautious, but Gimli flapped a hand at him impatiently.
“Fine, fine. Come here and show me what you’re doing wrong.”
Legolas chanced a look at Aragorn as he went to sit down next to Gimli, but saw that he was sitting some paces further away from where he had been, still leaning against a large tree and not looking at them. Perhaps he had needed a more comfortable place to sit and think, and had decided to find a different tree, Legolas thought. He turned his attention back to Gimli.
Gimli handed him the steel, and the sharp stone he’d been using. Legolas wrapped the steel around his knuckles, but Gimli stopped him.
“You can do that,” he said. “But if you miss often, you will tear your knuckles open with the stone.”
“I have done that,” Legolas admitted. “But I had not seen them used any other way. Already you teach me.”
“You can just hold it,” Gimli said, and when Legolas adjusted his grip, he smiled—his face was very close—and gestured to the stone. “Try, then, and let’s see what happens.”
Legolas did, feeling clumsy as he had not in many years, and as he had predicted, it took several tries to throw sparks.
“Use a sharper edge of the rock,” Gimli said, and to Legolas’s delight he reached and turned the stone in Legolas’s hands. Warmth seemed to spread from the place he touched him, all the way through his body, but he did not pull away, only tried again.
A spark threw on the second try.
“See?” said Gimli. “Here, you can use this kindling—hold the stone right above it.” He adjusted Legolas’s hands once again, and Legolas now felt his face grow warm. Thankfully, Aragorn was not watching them right now—he wouldn’t say a word, but Legolas did not want to answer to the look he would be giving them.
Legolas tried again. “Faster,” said Gimli, and so he followed instructions—and the kindling caught after many sparks.
Gimli grinned at him.
“I would have you try with a piece of burnt cloth on the flint, if I had some,” he said. “It would catch faster and you might find it easier. But I have not had the material to make any in many days.”
“You will have to give me another lesson, then,” said Legolas. He hoped he did not sound as breathless as he felt. Gimli was still very, very close. “Maybe someday I shall surpass you.”
“I should like to see you try,” said Gimli, laughing. He moved to tend to the fire, which to Legolas’s surprise was dying a bit. He had never seen a fire under Gimli’s care struggle, nor Gimli ever lose focus on building one.
Had Gimli been as distracted as he was?
It was a pleasant thought, but one he did not have time to dwell on. Gimli soon had the fire blazing, and Aragorn came over to join them.
When he saw the tree warming itself by the fire and pointed it out, his companions looked at him in surprise, though he did not know why. Why should a tree not be glad of warmth, like all other creatures? Certainly trees did not love fire if it was too close, but that was true for all living things. They also did not take offense, if the wood was already dead and not cut, any more than they minded a fungus growing on fallen logs. It was the way of the forest, that all things had a use in life and in death.
Thinking of forests brought his mind back to the one they were on the edge of and its vastness—and he saw in his friend’s faces that they were thinking the same.
There
was a silence, for suddenly the dark and unknown forest, so near at
hand, made itself felt as a great brooding presence, full of secret
purpose. After a while Legolas spoke again.
“Celeborn warned us not to go far into Fangorn,” he said. “Do you know why, Aragorn? What are the fables of the forest that Boromir had heard?”
“ I have heard many tales in Gondor and elsewhere,” said Aragorn, “ but if it were not for the words of Celeborn I should deem them only fables that Men have made as true knowledge fades. I had thought of asking you what was the truth of the matter. And if an Elf of the wood does not know, how shall a Man answer?”
“ You have journeyed further than I,” said Legolas. "I have heard nothing of this in my own land, save only songs that tell how the Onodrim, that Men call Ents, dwelt there long ago; for Fangorn is old, old even as the Elves would reckon it.”
“ Yes, it is old,” said Aragorn, "as old as the forest by the Barrow-downs, and it is far greater. Elrond says that the two are akin, the last strongholds of the mighty woods of the Elder Days, in which the Firstborn roamed while Men still slept. Yet Fangorn holds some secret of its own. What it is I do not know.”
“ And I do not wish to know,” said Gimli. “ Let nothing that dwells in Fangorn be troubled on my account!”
But Legolas did wish to know. He thought of the strange voices of the trees—he could have listened for an age, trying to hear all they had to say. He did not regret turning away, but—
Never had he been jealous of Aragorn’s wanderings, nameless and without a home, but in this moment the world seemed vast, with so many things he had not seen or spoken to. Again he wondered if he would ever return. If there would be time. He had always had time, and now it seemed to be running short every day.
Aragorn and Gimli were looking at him, waiting for him to draw his lot for the watch, and he realized he had been staring into the trees again.
Gimli drew the first watch. Legolas tried not to sigh; he would have liked to sit a while, listening. Or, if he must sleep, it would be better to do it with Gimli’s comforting warmth next to him.
Still, he laid down, and fell into the sleep of Elves, until Gimli stirred in surprise, and he jumped awake at the movement to see the figure that must be Saruman, and feel the overwhelming and confusing joy of their horses as they ran away.
“
Well,
they are gone,” said Aragorn at last.
“
We cannot find
them or catch
them; so that if they do not return of their own will, we must do
without. We started on our feet, and we have those still.
”
"Feet!” said Gimli. "But we cannot eat them as well as walk on them.” He threw some fuel on the fire and slumped down beside it.
“ Only a few hours ago you were unwilling to sit on a horse of Rohan,” laughed Legolas. “ You will make a rider yet.”
“ It seems unlikely that I shall have the chance,” said Gimli.
“ If you wish to know what I think,” he began again after a while...
...The night passed slowly. Legolas followed Aragorn, and Gimli followed Legolas, and their watches wore away. But nothing happened. The old man did not appear again, and the horses did not return.
Gimli would never admit it later, but it was only Aragorn’s awkward cough that drew him away from grinning foolishly at Legolas, who grinned back.
He felt suddenly that he ought to apologize to Aragorn, but he did not know what words he could possibly use to do so. It would be admitting something, somehow.
Still he wished that the moment had gone on longer. He would like to see what would happen, sometime, if they were truly alone, as they had not been since Lórien.
Of course the rest of the
watches were as such that they did not sleep side by side. Gimli was
cold most of the night, even with the fire nearby.
“ I feel the air is stuffy,” said the Dwarf. “This wood is lighter than Mirkwood, but it is musty and shabby.”
“ It is old, very old,” said the Elf. “So old that almost I feel young again, as I have not felt since I journeyed with you children. It is old and full of memory. I could have been happy here, if I had come in days of peace.”
“I dare say you could,” snorted Gimli. “You are a Wood-elf, anyway, though Elves of any kind are strange folk. Yet you comfort me. Where you go, I will go. But keep your bow ready to hand, and I will keep my axe loose in my belt. Not for use on trees,” he added hastily, looking up at the tree under which they stood. “I do not wish to meet that old man at unawares without an argument ready to hand, that is all. Let us go!”
When they awoke the next morning, Aragorn found signs that the hobbits were alive and had gone into Fangorn, and so Gimli was resigned to enter the forest himself. Yet the way Legolas’s face lit up, from within, as though he was being given a gift he had not dared to hope for, warmed him all the way through. He would face a great many dangers, worse than trees, to see that look on his friend’s face.
Where you go, I will go. Where you go, I will go. The words repeated in Legolas’s mind, so that he almost could not listen to the trees as he had been longing to do. Did Gimli mean it? How much did he mean it? For how long?
Gimli was at his side, looking into the trees suspiciously, but Legolas did not begrudge him this. It took great courage to enter a forest such as this, so old and full of sorrow, yet tense like a coiled spring. Legolas had gone into Moria, after all—he knew something of what it took to enter a place so strange and outside of what you were used to.
He breathed in deep, enjoying being in the woods once more. A deep calmness settled on him, as he had not felt since Lothlórien. He still worried for the hobbits, and felt the twinges of grief for lost friends, but the silence of the forest and the ancient feeling with in the trees sharpened his focus. He felt as though he was thinking clearly for the first time in days.
Perhaps it was this that made him speak—perhaps not. Perhaps it was simply walking beside Gimli as they let Aragorn lead. Either way, he said aloud what was in his mind: “You are brave.”
Gimli looked up at him. “What?”
Legolas took a deep breath, suddenly not feeling very brave himself, with those eyes on him, but he carried on. “I know you were...concerned, coming into this forest. I know you fear it. Yet you came.”
Gimli smiled. “Yes, brave indeed. A Dwarf walked into a forest! I hope I may go down in song.” The words were sardonic, but Gimli’s eyes laughed at him, so Legolas laughed himself, feeling his heart lift.
“And rode a horse,” Legolas reminded him. “I hope that earns you an extra verse among your kin.”
“It should!” Gimli laughed. “I would not trust that beast if I did not have you with me!”
Where you go, I will go.
“And yet you have no trouble facing down an army of men,” said Legolas, trying to make his voice light.
“Of course not,” said Gimli. “I had nothing to fear.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were there with me then, too,” said Gimli.
Legolas fell into stunned silence, for there was nothing he could say to that with Aragorn so near. Had the air of the forest always been so stuffy and hot?
Aragorn found tracks of the hobbits soon afterward, dragging his thoughts away for the moment, but later, they lingered long.
The
old man was too quick for him. He sprang to his feet and leaped to the
top of a large rock. There he stood, grown suddenly tall, towering
above them. His hood and his grey rags were flung away. His white
garments shone. He lifted up his staff, and Gimli’s axe leaped from his
grasp and fell ringing on the ground. The sword of Aragorn, stiff in
his motionless hand, blazed with a sudden fire. Legolas gave a great
shout and shot an arrow high into the air: it vanished in a flash of
flame.
“Mithrandir!” he cried. “Mithrandir!”
“Well met, I say to you again, Legolas!” said the old man.
They all gazed at him. His hair was white as snow in the sunshine; and gleaming white was his robe; the eyes under his deep brows were bright, piercing as the rays of the sun; power was in his hand. Between wonder, joy, and fear they stood and found no words to say.
If Legolas had been burned all the way to his core, before, from the pain of grief and loss—if he had been too numb even to feel his sadness through song—now the opposite was true. He had known, dimly, that every mortal experienced grief sooner or later; but had anyone in the history of the world ever felt joy such as this? It filled him all the way through, as clear and pure as the light from Gandalf’s staff.
And yet, like his grief, it stopped his tongue, for all he could do was stare. His mind was filled with questions, questions and disbelief, and yet to ask them and banish his fears would be to break a spell that he wanted to continue forever.
But it was not a spell. Gandalf was real, and he was here. He had returned. The darkness had not taken him; they had not failed him. He had returned.
At
last Aragorn stirred. “Gandalf!” he said. “Beyond all hope you return
to us in our need! What veil was over my sight? Gandalf!” Gimli said
nothing, but sank to his knees, shading his eyes.
“Gandalf,” the old man repeated, as if recalling from old memory a long disused word. “Yes, that was the name. I was Gandalf.”
He stepped down from the rock, and picking up his grey cloak wrapped it about him: it seemed as if the sun had been shining, but now was hid in cloud again. “Yes, you may still call me Gandalf,” he said, and the voice was the voice of their old friend and guide. “Get up, my good Gimli! No blame to you, and no harm done to me. Indeed my friends, none of you have any weapon that could hurt me. Be merry! We meet again. At the turn of the tide. The great storm is coming, but the tide has turned.”
He laid his hand on Gimli’s head, and the Dwarf looked up and laughed suddenly. “Gandalf!” he said. “But you are all in white!”
To take an axe to a friend was a grave offense, and yet Gimli was laughing. In fact he laughed so that tears did not flow from his eyes, although in this endeavor he was not quite successful—but if he wiped his face, no one said anything about it.
So many strange things had happened since they set out from Rivendell; why wouldn’t Gandalf be back from the dead? Lothlórien had been a waking dream all by itself. And yet this was even more of one, like something Gimli had wished for so many times that he had willed it into existence, but any moment he would wake up into a cold, dark world, and find that it had all come undone.
Legolas was staring at Gandalf as though he felt the same, although from what Gimli knew, Elves did not dream the same way as mortals; they knew when they were in a dream, and their subconscious did not invent fantasies or nightmares out of wholecloth. That Legolas felt the same was a comfort, at least.
Almost subconsciously, desperate to believe that this was real, Gimli reached out and grabbed Legolas’s hand, and—yes, yes it was flesh and blood, and Legolas gripped back more tightly than he ever would in a dream. Gimli let out a breath, and once again his eyes prickled, though he did not weep.
Gandalf had come back to them.
“To Legolas she sent this word:
Legolas Greenleaf long under tree
In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!
If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the
shore,
Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no
more."
Gandalf fell silent and shut his eyes.
“Then she sent me no message?” said Gimli and bent his head.
“Dark are her words,” said Legolas, “and little do they mean to those that receive them.”
“That is no comfort,” said Gimli.
“What then?” said Legolas. “Would you have her speak openly to you of your death?”
“Yes, if she had naught else to say.”
“What is that?” said Gandalf, opening his eyes. “Yes, I think I can guess what her words may mean. Your pardon, Gimli! I was pondering the messages once again. But indeed she sent words to you, and neither dark nor sad.
“‘To Gimli son of Glóin,’ she said, ‘give his Lady’s greeting. Lockbearer, wherever thou goest my thought goes with thee. But have a care to lay thine axe to the right tree!’”
“In happy hour you have returned to us, Gandalf,” cried the Dwarf, capering as he sang loudly in the strange dwarf-tongue. “Come, come!” he shouted, swinging his axe. “Since Gandalf’s head is now sacred, let us find one that it is right to cleave!”
“That will not be far to seek,” said Gandalf, rising from his seat. “Come! We have spent all the time that is allowed to a meeting of parted friends. Now there is need of haste.”
Somewhere in his mind, Legolas was glad for his friend and wondered what words he sang in his secret language. But stronger and more acute was the sense of dread at the Lady Galadriel’s words. He had not asked for such a warning; he did not want it. Unlike Gimli, he would happily go without a message from her if it meant not knowing about a dark future.
Time pressed upon him again, and the sensation was more unwelcome than ever. How much was there left, before the forests became inadequate for him? What else would he suddenly be ready to leave behind, at a simple sound?
How was it possible to suddenly want to leave behind something he had always loved? That had always meant home?
But he did not say what was in his heart, for he would not dampen Gimli’s joy. Moreover, time—as he had recently become aware—was passing. They could not linger. And so he tried as hard as he could to forget the Lady’s words.
“Time presses, so with your leave, my friends, we will ride. We beg you to use all the speed that you can. Hasufel shall bear Aragorn and Arod Legolas. I will set Gimli before me, and by his leave Shadowfax shall bear us both. We will wait now only to drink a little.”
Gimli exchanged a swift glance with Aragorn and also with Legolas, but Gandalf was already mounting Shadowfax and beckoning Gimli on, and the time was indeed running swiftly, and so he found he had no choice.
Indeed Shadowfax was a smoother ride than Arod, but not nearly so enjoyable.
Gimli sighed as they rode, missing feeling his arms around another warm, comforting body—and Gandalf heard him, for he said aloud, “I am sorry. I know riding a horse is not the preferred transportation of the Dwarves. But I hoped to lessen the sting by putting you on Shadowfax.”
Caught, Gimli felt himself flush, and was glad he was sat in front of Gandalf who could not see his face. “It is not that,” he said. “Well, not that alone.”
But he did not elaborate. He could not; not here, with Legolas riding beside them, so close—and still somehow so far away.
“I see,” said Gandalf after a long moment of silence, but he did not sound as though he really did.
Gimli did not speak further. He brooded on the landscape again, wondering what was ahead in this strange and new country.
They
rode on through sunset, and slow dusk, and gathering night. When at
last they halted and dismounted, even Aragorn was stiff and weary.
Gandalf only allowed them a few hours’ rest. Legolas and Gimli slept,
and Aragorn lay flat, stretched upon his back; but Gandalf stood,
leaning on his staff, gazing into the darkness, east and west. All was
silent, and there was no sign or sound of living thing. The night was
barred with long clouds, fleeting on a chill wind, when they arose
again. Under the cold moon they went on once more, as swift as by the
light of day.
Legolas smiled a tired apology at Gimli when they stopped, but Gimli only shrugged back, so he did not think his friend was upset.
“You still are not a horseman, I see,” he said lightly, instead of what he truly wished to say aloud.
Gimli smiled at him. “If you could not turn me into one, I do not think such a thing is possible.”
“Ah, but we have only had one ride together,” said Legolas. “I need more time, if I am to take on such a task!”
“You know I would do it as often as you liked, if it was with you,” Gimli said fondly, apparently unaware that every time he said such a thing, Legolas’s heart pounded in his chest. “But I would beg you not to!”
“Only at need, then,” said Legolas, smiling warmly now. He saw out of the corner of his eye Gandalf giving Aragorn a look that he could not interpret, but he could not think of that now. Gimli was nearly asleep on his feet, and still he talked with Legolas as though they were both fresh from a long night’s slumber.
“A fair bargain,” said Gimli. “And kinder words from a Dwarf you will not hear!”
Legolas laughed. “You are drooping,” he said, sitting down at last.
“And you are not?” Gimli retorted, but he sat, and then laid, down next to Legolas. Soon they were drifting off to sleep, side by side at last. They did not have much time—again—but he found he did not mind, with Gimli’s warm and comforting presence so close. On instinct, he put his head on Gimli’s shoulder, and felt him drop off almost immediately.
Overhead was the moon, and stars, that he wished to look at and contemplate on, for now that he did not spend every night half-awake and full of anxiety, he remembered anew that no sky was ever the same, not even after all his years walking the earth. This one seemed at a glance both beautiful and ominous. But as with the trees of Fangorn, he did not have the time to give them the attention they deserved. Moreover, his need for rest was too strong to look at them long.
Legolas could not even imagine how wearying time must be for mortals, if his new sense of it was already so exhausting.
Before he did fall into Elvish sleep, he heard Gandalf say, very quietly (but not quietly enough for his sharp ears to miss it), to Aragorn: “How long?”
“Since Lothlórien,” Aragorn said, equally quiet.
“Not long, then,” said Gandalf.
“Long enough,” said Aragorn. He sounded weary; this made sense, as nothing else in their conversation did. He had been riding long and was tired.
Yet Gandalf, for some reason, chuckled softly. “Give them time. They may last together for many years.”
“Forever, I think, if they ever speak of it to each other,” said Aragorn. “Yet I fear they are both too stubborn.”
Not understanding, and too tired to eavesdrop further on a strange conversation, Legolas dropped off into sleep before he could hear Gandalf’s reply.
After
some time he returned. “Follow me!” he said. “Théoden gives you leave
to enter; but any weapon that you bear, be it only a staff, you must
leave on the threshold. The doorwardens will keep them.”
...
“Whatever its name may be,’ said Háma, “here you shall lay it, if you would not fight alone against all the men in Edoras.”
“Not alone!” said Gimli, fingering the blade of his axe, and looking darkly up at the guard, as if he were a young tree that Gimli had a mind to fell. “Not alone!”
“Come, come!” said Gandalf. “We are all friends here. Or should be; for the laughter of Mordor will be our only reward, if we quarrel. My errand is pressing. Here at least is my sword, goodman Háma. Keep it well. Glamdring it is called, for the Elves made it long ago. Now let me pass. Come, Aragorn!”
...
“Well,” said Gimli, “if it has Andúril to keep it company, my axe may stay here, too, without shame”; and he laid it on the floor. “Now then, if all is as you wish, let us go and speak with your master.”
The guard still hesitated. “Your staff,” he said to Gandalf. "Forgive me, but that too must be left at the doors.”
“Foolishness!” said Gandalf. “Prudence is one thing, but discourtesy is another. I am old. If I may not lean on my stick as I go, then I will sit out here, until it pleases Théoden to hobble out himself to speak with me.”
Aragorn laughed. “Every man has something too dear to trust to another. But would you part an old man from his support? Come, will you not let us enter?”
“The staff in the hand of a wizard may be more than a prop for age,” said Háma. He looked hard at the ash-staff on which Gandalf leaned. “Yet in doubt a man of worth will trust to his own wisdom. I believe you are friends and folk worthy of honour, who have no evil purpose. You may go in.”
The ride into Rohan was strange. Gimli did not think Legolas took notice; he looked around curiously, not seeming to mind the stares they were getting. Gimli thought it likely that he found the whole place a bit quaint, Men thinking themselves ancient when in the mind of Elves they were young indeed.
But Gimli was more used to suspicious looks, and he did not like them at all. The faces peering out at them were pale, only sometimes with dark hair, and they did not seem to know what to make of him and Legolas. He thought he even saw a few people point at Legolas’s eyes; he doubted they had ever seen a single-lid eye, common as they were among both Dwarves and Elves and even hobbits, and Gimli did not want to know what they were saying about it.
It would be unwise to hack anyone’s head off in this country. Gandalf and Aragorn would be very angry if he did so. Gimli only hoped he wouldn’t have to.
And so, by the time they got to the doors of Edoras, Gimli was not in a trusting mood. He did not miss the look Gandalf and Aragorn exchanged when the guard at the entrance said the word “staff”. They did not say anything, but Gimli wondered if there was some plan at work; some reason Gandalf must not be divested of it. They might have spoken of it while he and Legolas were asleep.
Gimli could only guess at why, but his mind worked frantically as they rode to the gates of Meduseld. He did not like the idea of giving up his axe, even briefly. He did not think Aragorn or Legolas would give up their weapons easily, either. Especially if there was some trouble with the King—it seemed imprudent to be unarmed.
Yet if a King demanded it...
Still, there must be some reason the staff was important, to the extent that the gatekeeper had specified that they must leave it.
His mind was working overtime to keep his temper from flaring up, and he knew it, but no one had said anything untoward to Legolas; they seemed more focused on Gandalf. And so his attention remained sharp and focused.
When Aragorn protested leaving Andúril, Gimli could see that his reluctance was real, but Gandalf’s scolding seemed almost theatrical—he was just a shade too agreeable about leaving behind his also-famous sword. And so Gimli found himself almost instinctively playing the part of prickly Dwarf, standing up for Aragorn (it was true that he would level a field of any warriors, no matter how great, who threatened any of his friends—and also true that he did not in the least trust any of these Men).
And when Aragorn laid his sword down at last, Gimli agreed to leave his axe as well, against all the protests of his Dwarvish instincts (uncultured Men indeed, to even think to ask a Dwarf to leave his axe!). He hoped in doing so he could move the conversation along, and distract them from the staff.
It did not entirely work, but Aragorn picked up where he left off seamlessly, and the doorward was convinced. Thus they entered Meduseld; staff and all.
Gimli did exchange a glance at Legolas as they entered; he had seen Legolas lay down a single knife, and he knew his friend carried more than that. But Legolas’s face was blank, impassive.
He was not the only one who did not trust these Men.
“Then
it is true, as Éomer reported, that you are in league with the
Sorceress of the Golden Wood?” said Wormtongue. “It is not to be
wondered at: webs of deceit were ever woven in Dwimordene.”
Gimli strode a pace forward, but felt suddenly the hand of Gandalf clutch him by the shoulder, and he halted, standing stiff as stone.
These Men should count themselves lucky that they had taken away Legolas’s bow. He would’ve laid waste to a field of warriors, no matter how great, for even daring to level an insult so clearly targeted to incite Gimli’s wrath.
He settled for glaring daggers at Wormtongue. If they became literal daggers later, he would not be sorry. He had one hidden up his sleeve. And would have used it, if not for Gandalf.
Mortals!
Now
men came bearing raiment of war from the king’s hoard, and they arrayed
Aragorn and Legolas in shining mail. Helms too they chose, and round
shields: their bosses were overlaid with gold and set with gems, green
and red and white. Gandalf took no armour; and Gimli needed no coat of
rings, even if one had been found to match his stature, for there was
no hauberk in the hoards of Edoras of better make than his short
corslet forged beneath the Mountain in the North. But he chose a cap of
iron and leather that fitted well upon his round head; and a small
shield he also took. It bore the running horse, white upon green, that
was the emblem of the House of Eorl.
A Dwarf on his dignity was a fearsome opponent, and Gimli could have made trouble for everyone if he had wished; but once Théoden was returned to his mind, he found himself satisfied as to the courtesy of his Hall in every respect. The suspicious stares melted away entirely; some of the looks towards Legolas had even turned admiring, which Gimli found far more appropriate. Elvish beauty was renowned, after all.
Moreover, the offer of armor was so proper and generous that Gimli found it easy to put all previous slights down to Wormtongue’s poison and accept their kindness.
The armor, however, posed an entirely different problem.
Gimli had never seen Legolas in mail before; it was an odd sight. He did not quite know what to think of it. Yet he smiled when Legolas looked at him with a question in his eyes.
“It suits you well,” Gimli said, though he had not decided if that was true. “Do Wood Elves often wear mail into battle?”
“Yes,” said Legolas. “At need. But I have never been in a battle, so I have never worn it before.”
“No battles?” said Gimli, somewhat surprised. It was his first large one as well, but Legolas was so much older than he.
“Skirmishes only,” Legolas said. He looked somewhat uncomfortable. “And...I was not permitted to fight in the Battle of the Five Armies.”
“Why not?” said Gimli, even more surprised now. The Elves had not originally come in anticipation of a battle, it was true, but still it was a surprise that Thranduil had left such a capable warrior at home. Unless—“Were you left at home to prevent evil forces from overtaking the fortress?”
“That was my stated charge,” Legolas said stiffly. He looked more uncomfortable than ever, as Gimli had not seen him since the early days of knowing him, when they both fought constantly. But he must have seen the taken-aback look on Gimli’s face, for he said, more gently. “I wanted to go. I was denied—and I was furious.”
At this point, Gandalf, who had come with them to look at the armor even though he did not need it, snorted. They both turned to look at him—Gimli at least had forgotten that he and Aragorn were there. But Gandalf did not say anything, only looked at Legolas reprovingly, as though he was chiding him over something Gimli did not know of.
Legolas sighed, and Gimli wondered with some trepidation what secret he was about to be told. “I was left at home because my father did not think I could control myself around Dwarves, if they were still alive, which we did not know at the time. But my father thought it not impossible, and wanted me far away from them. He was worried about what I might do.”
“Oh,” said Gimli. “Is that all?”
Everyone stared at him.
Gimli chuckled. He’d had far worse thoughts about Elves. And if they thought this revelation would shock him— “Legolas, we’ve been standing on either side of an Ages-long feud for all our lives. Did you think I could not guess at what you used to believe? Truly, you should hear some of the things my father and uncles have said about Elves. Or perhaps you should not! We would be at odds with each other all over again, if we were to go over everything we’ve said and done in the past.”
Now Legolas was smiling at him, and as always when that smile was directed at him, he could see or think of nothing beyond the warmth in his friend’s gaze. “You are not wrong. So we agreed the first time we—” He stopped, as if not sure how to phrase something.
“The first time we had a real conversation?” said Gimli. He was aware suddenly of Aragorn watching intently, and then relaxing abruptly when Gimli spoke. Why, he did not know.
“Yes,” said Legolas, sounding relieved. “And my father also could say some things about Dwarves! But I was a fool to listen to him.”
Gimli patted his hand—if they were the same height it would have been his shoulder, but this was what he could reach. “We are beyond that. I would have liked to be at that battle too, yet it was for the best for both of us, that we were not. I am glad to be here with you instead. And was it not you, Gandalf, who said not to bring up the petty grievances of Elves and Dwarves?”
Gandalf, for some reason, looked extremely satisfied. “Oh, yes,” he said. “But some things should not be kept secret.”
“Aragorn was right,” Legolas said. “You still speak in riddles.”
Now Aragorn, who had been watching the exchange silently, laughed. “Riddles to you, maybe,” he said. “I understand perfectly well.”
Legolas looked at Gimli helplessly, but he could only shrug in response. “We are friends with a Ranger and a Wizard,” he told Legolas. “They love to be mysterious. Come, I must choose a shield, and then we can leave them to their secret plots.”
Happily, they found one that was the right size. And perhaps because the conversation had sent his mind to other matters, when his thoughts returned to the question of Legolas and mail, Gimli found that he knew exactly how he felt seeing him arrayed that way.
I should have made it, he thought, and was surprised at the intensity of his sudden desire to see Legolas in real Dwarven mail, made by his own hand.
Some
held in readiness the king’s horse, Snowmane, and others held the
horses of Aragorn and Legolas. Gimli stood ill at ease, frowning, but
Éomer came up to him, leading his horse.
“Hail, Gimli Glóin’s son!” he cried. “I have not had time to learn gentle speech under your rod, as you promised. But shall we not put aside our quarrel? At least I will speak no evil again of the Lady of the Wood.”
“I will forget my wrath for a while, Éomer son of Éomund,” said Gimli; “but if ever you chance to see the Lady Galadriel with your eyes, then you shall acknowledge her the fairest of ladies, or our friendship will end.”
“So be it!” said Éomer. ‘But until that time pardon me, and in token of pardon ride with me, I beg. Gandalf will be at the head with the Lord of the Mark; but Firefoot, my horse, will bear us both, if you will.”
“I thank you indeed,’ said Gimli greatly pleased. “I will gladly go with you, if Legolas, my comrade, may ride beside us.”
“It shall be so,” said Éomer. “Legolas upon my left, and Aragorn upon my right, and none will dare to stand before us!”
It was an honor not to be refused, and his pleasure was not feigned, but Gimli still cast a despairing look at Legolas. Would no one cease to offer him the honor of riding with them? He had only been frowning in anticipation of another long horse ride—he did not wish to change arrangements yet again!
Legolas, however, only laughed at him. “Perhaps Éomer of Rohan shall succeed where I have failed,” he said. “If you can teach a Dwarf to love horses, Éomer, they will sing songs in your honor for years to come!”
“I hope I may go down for more than that,” Éomer said with his own laugh.
“My own feet have always been good enough for me,” Gimli retorted, to more laughter, and in his heart he despaired of his friends ever understanding him truly.
Night
closed about them. At last they halted to make their camp. They had
ridden for some five hours and were far out upon the western plain, yet
more than half their journey lay still before them. In a great circle,
under the starry sky and the waxing moon, they now made their bivouac.
They lit no fires, for they were uncertain of events; but they set a
ring of mounted guards about them, and scouts rode out far ahead,
passing like shadows in the folds of the land. The slow night passed
without tidings or alarm. At dawn the horns sounded, and within an hour
they took the road again.
As they made camp, Legolas was once again treated to the sight of Gimli being helped down from a horse and stretching stiffly, clearly uncomfortable and sore, but still managing a tired smile in Legolas’s direction.
Legolas smiled back, knowing that all the warmth and affection he felt in his heart was shining through, and not caring in the least. “Are you still not a horseman?” he said.
“Not in the least,” Gimli said emphatically. “No offense meant,” he added to Éomer, who only shook his head in amusement, and left them to aid with ordering the setup of the camp.
Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli looked at each other. “Well, we are headed to war,” Gimli said at last, as the other two tended to their horses.
“I hope the hobbits are well,” Legolas said before he could stop himself. He had not meant to dwell on them, but abandoning the hunt had been hard.
“We must trust Gandalf,” Aragorn said. “And hope that our paths will indeed cross again.”
“Of course,” Legolas said. “But trust and hope are not comfort alone.”
“They are not all we have,” said Gimli. When they looked at him, he added: “We have each other. We’ve come this far together; who knows how much further we can go?”
“First, into war,” Legolas repeated, with a wry smile.
“There is no one I would rather fight beside,” said Gimli.
There was a long pause, before Aragorn cleared his throat. “It will be a short night,” he said. “We should rest while we can.”
They took their places to rest and eat where they were told, and Éomer soon joined them. Around them, the other warriors of Rohan made camp, meager as it was. Legolas noticed for the first time that there were women among the soldiers, which was a surprise but also a relief; he had never understood the strange ways of Men who separated their women who were perfectly capable of fighting, but forced other men into battle who were not suited to it. The Men of Dale did things thus, and they always asked strange and rather rude questions about the female Elves who went into battle.
Almost as soon as he thought this, he heard Gimli asking about it.
“They are shieldmaidens,” said Éomer. “In our country, all who are capable must fight. Do your Dwarf women fight?”
“Of course,” said Gimli. “At need.” He did not elaborate. Legolas knew, suddenly and without being able to say quite how, that if he had asked the question, Gimli would have said more. But among this company, he kept the silence of Dwarves.
At the thought, his heart seemed to speed up, and he had to look away from the others. Almost instinctively, his eyes were drawn to the horizon and the sky above, searching for danger even though he knew the guards around them could do their jobs well without his help. Still, since leaving home, he had been asked so many times to use his sharp eyes, that he now found himself constantly on watch. And if he could not speak without revealing himself, he would look to the stars, who would not betray him as his tongue might.
He heard his name, and realized abruptly that they were all looking at him. “Your pardon,” he said. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“Did you see something?” said Gimli, for of course he knew at least part of what was on Legolas’s mind.
“No,” said Legolas. He smiled apologetically at Éomer. “And so my poor manners have no excuse.”
“It is no crime to be watchful in these dark days,” said Éomer. “But since all is well, I will ask again, what you think of Rohan, since you and Gimli have not traveled here before.”
Legolas’s mind went blank; he did not know how to answer. He had thought often of Fangorn since arriving, but the forest was on Rohan’s borders, not within Rohan itself—and these plains and rocky mountains were a strange place for a wood-elf. The cities and towns of Men seemed small and fragile to him, not like the ancient cities of the Elves.
He could not say any of this, however, and was nearly frantic for an answer until he remembered with relief the horses. “You are a brave people,” he said, hoping he had not lingered too long over his words. “And never outside of Elves have I met anyone who understands horses so well.” Éomer did not say anything right away, and Legolas’s words continued to tumble out, falling over themselves. “They love you as much as you love them—they are lucky indeed to be beasts of Rohan, and they know it well, and are proud.”
Éomer looked at him in surprise. “You can hear their speech, then? I have heard that Elves could speak to plants and animals, but I did not believe it to be true.”
“In a way,” Legolas said. “We cannot converse as you and I can. But I can understand them, and I can make them understand me as well, though not in their own language.”
“He can talk to stones, too,” said Gimli.
Legolas sighed, half laughing. “As I have told you a thousand times—”
“You do not speak to them, you listen to them and sense their memories,” Gimli said. “I remember.”
Legolas stared, for despite his jest, he had only said so once. Yet Gimli remembered what he said word for word. “Yes,” he said. “That’s right.”
They must have looked at each other too long again, for Éomer sounded somewhat awkward when he said, “Then I suppose the real question is, is there anything the Elves cannot speak to?”
“The stars,” said Legolas immediately, for they were bright overhead and he had been thinking, almost absentmindedly, about the way Gimli’s eyes caught in the light of them. “If they have speech, I do not know it.”
“Forgive him,” Aragorn said to Éomer, a laugh in his voice. “If there is an Elf in this world who would not rather stare at the stars and sing than speak, I have not met them.”
Éomer chuckled softly. “And what of the stars in Rohan?” he said. “Are they different from your own land?”
“They are the same,” said Legolas truthfully. “I suppose we would have to go further south for them to change. Look, there is—I suppose you would call it the Sickle—in your land, just as it is in mine.”
Gimli, seeing where Legolas was pointing, said, “That is the Crown of Durin, to us. You see—without the handle of your Sickle. We saw it reflected in the Mirrormere, even in bright daylight.”
“That is wondrous,” Legolas said. “You did not tell me.”
“We were not speaking then,” said Gimli. His smile was even more beautiful in the light of the stars.
“Would you take me with you now?” Legolas could not help asking—even with Éomer and Aragorn so close.
“Of course,” said Gimli. “If you wished to go, I would take you anywhere.”
“It is the Sickle to hobbits, too, but in Gondor they call that constellation the Bear,” Aragorn said into the silence that followed. “They do the opposite of the Dwarves, and connect it to other adjoining stars. And there, in its smaller, mirror constellation—if you follow its brightest star, you will always find your way North.”
“We use it for that too,” said Éomer. “But here your large Sickle, Bear, or Crown—to us it is the Plough. And over there, across the sky, is the horse to pull it.”
“Those four stars are the Border of the Sun, to us,” said Legolas.
“That is the Anvil,” said Gimli. “If you connect it only to those two stars, instead of all of Éomer’s. And over there, the Hammer, its partner—or just the Axe, depending on who you ask.”
“In Gondor they say that is a pair of fish,” said Aragorn. “Though I would agree with the Dwarves that it looks more like an axe or hammer, in this case.”
“It is not only the Elves, then, that are captured by the stars,” said Éomer. “All of us have stared up at them and made them into shapes in our minds.”
“And found our way by them,” said Aragorn.
“It is also not only the Elves who wish to understand all things,” said Legolas. “And all free people of Middle-Earth find beauty in their own way.”
“So it is,” murmured Éomer.
Gimli’s eyes were shining at him in the starlight.
Gimli
stood leaning against the breastwork upon the wall. Legolas sat above
on the parapet, fingering his bow, and peering out into the gloom.
“This is more to my liking,” said the dwarf, stamping on the stones. “Ever my heart rises as we draw near the mountains. There is good rock here. This country has tough bones. I felt them in my feet as we came up from the dike. Give me a year and a hundred of my kin and I would make this a place that armies would break upon like water.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Legolas. “But you are a dwarf, and dwarves are strange folk. I do not like this place, and I shall like it no more by the light of day. But you comfort me, Gimli, and I am glad to have you standing nigh with your stout legs and your hard axe. I wish there were more of your kin among us. But even more would I give for a hundred good archers of Mirkwood. We shall need them. The Rohirrim have good bowmen after their fashion, but there are too few here, too few.”
“It is dark for archery,” said Gimli. “Indeed it is time for sleep. Sleep! I feel the need of it, as never I thought any dwarf could. Riding is tiring work. Yet my axe is restless in my hand. Give me a row of orc-necks and room to swing and all weariness will fall from me!”
They had little time to explore the fortress when they arrived, but Gimli wished to see as much of it as possible anyway. He did not want to fight on entirely unfamiliar ground. Of course Legolas came with him, and indulged his talk along the way.
“This is good work,” Gimli said; he couldn’t help himself. “Not as good as Erebor, but we could make it so, in time. Look at the craftsmanship on these stairs! Carved out of the living rock! If you did not know they were there, you would fall down them—they say the Deeping Wall has never been breached, but this alone would claim enemies if it was!”
Legolas smiled bemusedly at him. “Have you ever carved such stairs?”
“Oh, no,” Gimli said. “But we have them, at home. In fact—” he grinned suddenly at Legolas as a memory struck him. “The children of the Mountain would sit on shields and slide down the stairs,” he said, laughing. “I was too old, of course. It would be undignified for me to participate.”
Legolas laughed. “I do not believe that! But that seems dangerous, for children—did they not fall?”
Gimli shrugged. “Dwarf skulls are strong,” he said, in complete truthfulness. But he could not leave it at that. “And Dwarf stair sledding is an ancient tradition, of course.”
“Of course,” said Legolas, catching on at once. “You could not disrespect your ancestors by not doing it!”
“It’s good training for future battles, too,” said Gimli. “In the Battle of Moria, Dáin’s brother Náin came sliding down on a shield at Azog, and knocked him to the ground, thus allowing Dáin himself to behead Azog and get revenge for his brother’s death and that of Thror.”
This was pure fiction—Náin had been slain on the stairs, and it was well known to all Dwarves that Dáin had beheaded Azog, but to Gimli’s knowledge no Dwarf had ever slid down the stairs in the midst of battle. Such a thing would be absurd.
Unless you were an Elf. Legolas had a contemplative look on his face.
“Oh no,” Gimil said. “Whatever you are thinking, no.”
“But,” said Legolas.
“No.”
“This strategy seems flawed...I do not criticize your ancestors, of course,” Legolas added, shooting Gimli a sly look that said exactly how much nonsense he knew his friend was spouting. “But one cannot defend oneself when one is sitting on a shield, hanging on for dear life.”
“I am offended,” said Gimli. “This is an outrage. An Elf insults the traditions of Dwarves—again! We are at war once more.”
It didn’t work. Legolas was not deterred; or fooled. “But if you were standing on the shield...”
“You are going to get yourself killed,” Gimli said. His hands, which had been still all the time they traveled with Aragorn and Gandalf and all the others who had joined them since, made the sign for idiot and then idiot child I am fond of. Legolas’s eyes went to them immediately, though he said nothing about them.
“Your hands would be free,” Legolas pointed out. “You’d be less likely to trip on the stairs.”
“If you fall in battle and split your head open, I will mourn your death, but I will also never cease to mock you, as long as I live,” Gimli threatened. He signed foolish death.
“We could find an empty, less treacherous staircase and try it there first,” said Legolas.
“You are absolutely not allowed to tell Gandalf or Aragorn that you got this idea from me,” said Gimli.
“A fair bargain,” Legolas said, now grinning widely at him. Gimli felt himself give in.
“All right,” he said. “But you had best hope it does not fall on me to clean up Elf blood if this goes poorly.”
“It won’t,” said Legolas. His smile turned sly. “I have very good balance.”
Gimli didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, or why it made his ears heat, but he coughed, glad as usual that he was wearing a helmet, and went to find a spare staircase.
It wasn’t overly difficult; the Hornburg was full of stairs, and most people were in the lower areas of the fortress, with only bowmen at the top, and only outside on the walls. Gimli refused to let him use his newly-borrowed shield, but they did find a spare one, through the very simple method of asking the armorers if they had one that was a bit more battered that they could borrow for a few moments.
The man in the armory looked confused when they asked, then seemed to remember that they were with Gandalf and Aragorn (and also the King), before shrugging and letting them take what they wanted.
Legolas was right about his balance. He mastered not only the technique of sitting, but invented a way of standing on it, with only a few tries, and no gruesome scenes ensued.
Gimli despaired of him, and said so.
Legolas only grinned, clearly having trouble restraining himself from laughing loudly, which Gimli knew because he must have the same look on his own face. It wouldn’t do to gather all the Men of Rohan to their back staircase, with questions about what was so funny on the eve of battle.
“You should try,” said Legolas. “It is truly not hard!”
“No, thank you,” Gimli said, in as dignified a tone as he could muster. He had climbed up the stairs so he could glare down at Legolas properly, as he had never been able to do before. He felt Legolas deserved it. It also served to prevent him from attempting the absurd stunt again until Gimli was good and ready. “I have already shared far too many Dwarven secrets with you tonight, thank you very much, Master Elf!”
Legolas’s smile turned fond. He climbed up a stair until he was eye level with Gimli, and Gimli found he was not prepared for the sensation. “You are signing again,” he said. “I think you spill secrets against your will, Master Dwarf.”
Gimli was helpless under that gaze. “I do,” he said quietly. It was like a confession. “I told you once that I do not like having secrets from you.”
“You did.” There was something else in Legolas’s eyes now, that Gimli could not entirely read, but if he had to guess, he’d say that his friend was close to making a decision—close to doing something—and he was moving closer, reaching for Gimli, about to do touch him, about to—
There was a shout somewhere far away, and Gimli had not realized how close their faces were to each other until they both jumped away from each other.
They looked at each other, then away, then back.
“We are about to go into battle,” said Legolas.
“Yes,” said Gimli.
“We should get to the walls,” said Legolas.
“Yes,” said Gimli.
They were quiet for a moment, neither of them moving.
“This isn’t over,” said Legolas.
“No,” said Gimli.
They looked at each other for a moment longer, not quite smiling, before, without a word, they turned to climb up the stairs and find their battle stations.