Chapter Text
Gimli had been enjoying his time in Mirkwood—no, he corrected himself, Eryn Lasgalen now; he had to remember that, lest he insult his hosts—his time in Eryn Lasgalen more than he had expected to, when first he had agreed to accompany Legolas on his return home. They might have gone to the Lonely Mountain first, but Gimli had still been debating with himself whether to ask Legolas to come and meet his kin or not; he wanted to show Legolas his home, and introduce his friend to his family, but he had heard some of how his people had fared in their part of the War and Gimli was unsure if bringing an outsider to their lands now might not be a poor decision. Dwarves are private people, and they would not like for one they deemed a stranger to see them in their mourning and their hurts. Better, perhaps, to wait and see how things stood with his kin and what the mood was on the mountain before he invited Legolas to join him there—yet the idea of parting from his friend even for so sensible a purpose caused his heart to clench.
Legolas, for his part, had seemed to have no such reservations about inviting Gimli to pass beneath his trees; or if he did, he hid them better. Whatever uncertainty might or might not have filled the elf's thoughts, they were all dashed away the moment he saw the pall of smoke still hanging over his long-shadowed forest.
"Ai, Gimli!" the elf had cried. "How my heart weeps at the sight of such devastation! Many of these trees I have known all their lives, and some for all of mine! How grievous now to see them so assailed!"
"Grievous, ay," Gimli had said, "but glorious too, surely, for they come at last out from beneath the Enemy's great Shadow."
"And yet it will be many years yet before we have coaxed them to forget their memories of that darkness," Legolas had replied softly, "if indeed some ever will. Ah, Gimli, I would not delay you on your travels, for I know your heart longs for your mountain and the kin within as surely as mine does for my forest, and yet—and yet I perchance would ask—but no! I cannot be so selfish."
"Speak your piece, elf," Gimli had growled then, poking his friend hard beside his quiver. "Let us have none of this dilly-dallying!"
Then Legolas had turned upon the horse's back and looked at Gimli and said, "Would you come with me first to Mirkwood, 'ere you go to your own people? It is a great favour that I ask I know, begging you thus to delay your own return; and yet the Lonely Mountain is not so far from my father's halls, and I would be glad to bear you there on Arod after; for oh, Gimli, I know that I will have the strength to face whatever losses my land has suffered without flinching, if I can do so with you at my side!"
So great was the distress in his eyes that the dwarf had not the heart to refuse him. "Ay," he said, "of course I will come," and so they passed beneath the trees into the great forest that all of Gimli's kin had long counselled him never to enter, and yet no harm had found him there at Legolas's side.
His welcome had been at once warmer and colder than he had expected, for there seemed few in Mirkwood who were not so overjoyed to have Legolas returned that they could help but to greet his companion with like joy, the proud king included; and yet Thranduil's people had suffered greatly in the War, and their trees as well, and so even as the Shadow lifted at last the forest was filled with much lamentation for their losses, and few seemed to have the time to pay any mind to one lone dwarf.
Still, Legolas was too good a host to leave a friend long unattended, even as the bulk of his time was spent rekindling ties with those friends he had left behind those many months ago when he had gone to Rivendell, or mourning those who had died in the battles in between. Gimli was introduced to a great many elves (at times it felt as though the whole of the forest's populace was paraded before him!), some of whom were fascinated to meet this dwarf that had so quickly claimed such a large place in their friend's heart and some of whom barely seemed to notice he was there. None of them were unpleasant to him, however, and if ever they made merry at his expense they were sly enough to do it where Legolas did not hear them.
Certainly Gimli could not complain about the hospitality he was offered, nor the entertainments; simple the revels of Eryn Lasgalan may have been, when stacked against those of grander realms, but rarely could Gimli recall any celebrations whose participants were so determined to enjoy them. There was nothing here of the slow stateliness of Rivendell, or the soft elegance of Lórien. The dancers under these trees fair threw themselves between one another's arms, laughing and shouting their joy out into the night as though they would make spears of every sound and song and use their very revelry to drive away all the darkness that still lingered near.
The closest comparison he could make was to the nights spent in Rohan with the riders who were boisterous in their victory and unabashed in their grief; but even still, there was an ache about the unchecked revels of the Silvan elves that made the heart beat faster here—the sense, perhaps, that every glass of wine or song might be the last thus shared; the fear that holding anything back for tomorrow might mean letting those words unspoken or steps undanced be lost to the world forever. The strength of their joy was shouted like a defiance against the Shadow that had long beset them as Legolas had once described, yes, but it was also a defiance towards Time itself, or so it seemed to Gimli as he watched the elves around him cavort and whirl in endless, eddying song. The elves of Eryn Lasgalen knew their world was fading, but unlike those of Rivendell or Lórien, they were not content to let it gently go.
The song of the Sea seemed far away beneath these tall, dark trees, and Gimli was glad.
Which was not to say that conversation between the dwarf and his elvish hosts was always easy. Not all of Eryn Lasgalen's people spoke Westron, and Gimli's command of Sindarin was fragmented at best, albeit steadily increasing. At first Legolas made efforts to translate everything, but since he was the returning traveller nearly every conversation centred on him. Either he was requested to tell the stories of his months away, or he sat and listened while his friends did the same for what had passed in their forest without him. It was thus difficult for him to play translator as well, lest the whole thread of the conversation unravel over the delay.
Elvish voices were pleasant to listen to even when their words were inscrutable, however, and Gimli found it no trial to sit and bask in the gentle babble of their talk while he smoked his pipe and rested his weary feet on soft elvish cushions.
Their time was not all spent in rest and revels, however. The forest had suffered many wounds, from fire not least of all, and not all of the fell things that had laired in Mirkwood had been slain or driven out in the final battles. The Shadow was lifting; that did not mean that all the darkness it had cast upon this forest was done away with at once. The elves spent much of their time singing to the trees, or talking with them, or walking and dancing beneath their boughs, coaxing them back to the light and hope that had for so long seemed forever lost.
Gimli could do naught to help with that; all he could feel of the spirits of Eryn Lasgallen's trees was a faint sense of darkness slowly fading, and trees did not respond to dwarven coaxing the way stone and metal did. He sensed that Legolas would have liked to do more to draw the trees out of their shadows, but was reluctant to stray far from the halls where Gimli stayed. So when one of Legolas's most boisterous friends, a young elf named Gladhanar, came bounding into a cheerful gathering, babbling about a spider-nest that they had found nearby, and asking Legolas to come along and help them slay the creatures, Gimli waved for him to go.
"You could come as well, my friend," Legolas suggested. "None of my people have seen your prowess in battle, and I know they would be much impressed to see how skillfully your axe is wielded!"
"Alas," Gladhnar said, and Gimli might have taken offence if the elf had not seemed truly sorry, "the nest is high in the trees, up among the slightest of boughs. I do not believe that dwarvish feet can walk those paths, no matter how great the skill of their arms in battle!"
Gimli gave Gladhnar a little bow and said, "It is true, we are creatures of the ground, not of twigs and wind-blown leaves. Should you find an enemy closer to my natural terrain, I should be glad to join your people in their fights. This hunt, however, I shall leave to elven feet to run!"
He had seen the elves racing along their tree-roads, and at first he had thought little of it, assuming that there were long wooden paths laid like the flets of Lórien between the trees; upon discovering that there were no roads at all, but simply empty branches over which the elves ran as easily as though on solid earth, Gimli had quite firmly declared that no power yet residing in Middle-earth would draw him into those trees—and any that did had best bring strong ropes, lest he fall straightaway out of them again! The company of elves who had been sharing their fire and their wine that night had laughed long and loud at his declaration, and toasted the dwarf many times. Gimli had laughed back readily enough, and downed the wine, but he had not changed his mind about their so-called tree-roads. Horses were one thing; twigs and branches quivering some dozens of feet above the ground were quite another.
"Come, Legolas," Gladhnar insisted. "It has been too long since we hunted spiders together!"
"It would be good to see for ourselves if you have kept any of your old skill with a bow, or if it has all withered away during so many months spent with clumsy Men!" teased a short elf with white flowers in his hair.
"Ay," another said, "and I for one would like to see this grand bow of the Galadhrim in action!"
Many of the others agreed with her words, and Legolas was pulled to his feet and drawn towards the door. He hesitated, looking back many times at Gimli, although there was an eager smile on his face and the sort of bounce in his step that said he was halfway to imagining himself running over those branchy paths already.
"Oh, go on then!" Gimli said, his beard quivering around his broad grin. "I think I can entertain myself without your hovering for one afternoon, Legolas!"
The dwarf felt less enthusiasm than he affected at the idea of spending a day alone in Thranduil's halls, but he wasn't going to stand in the way of Legolas spending time with his friends—and especially not if it might give him a chance to prove to his people that he was more than the untempered youth so many of them still seemed to think him. Legolas was one of the Nine Walkers, one of the Three Hunters! He was no feckless elf-child, and while Legolas did not seem to mind overmuch that his people still saw him so, it burned Gimli's heart to see his valiant friend treated so dismissively in his own homeland. It was long past time for Mirkwood's elves to learn to appreciate their prince properly, Gimli thought, and if that necessitated that the dwarf endure an awkward afternoon as a guest who was but little wanted, well, he had certainly endured worse than that. He would be fine, and this outing would do Legolas good.
"Be off with you!" Gimli blustered when Legolas still hesitated. "You can plague these hapless folk with your incessant chatter for a bit, and give my ears some rest!"
"Oh, very well," Legolas finally conceded as several of the waiting elves laughed. "But feast not too much without us, Master Dwarf! These spiders should take but little time to slay, and I would regale you with the tale of it over our fine dinner."
"I shall find you before I come to table, Master Elf," Gimli replied gallantly. "Now shoo! Go pester your spiders, and leave me be!"
The elves dispersed, some to fetch weapons and others to carry the remnants of their interrupted revels back inside. Galadhnar and the elf with white flowers in his hair went like squirrels into the nearest tree, already chattering together in their own tongue; others quickly followed, all of them going as lightly up the thick bark as though long ladders had been carved there for that purpose.
"Are you quite sure?" Legolas dithered one last time. "I should not like to think of you bored here in our absence."
"Mahal's teeth, Legolas, I am not some fickle child who needs a nursemaid cooing over my crib every hour of the day to keep me from fussing." Gimli snorted. "Away with you! Show these flighty friends of yours what the Lady's bow can do!"
"At your command, Master Dwarf," Legolas said with a bow. Finally he slung the aforementioned bow onto his back and, with a final nod of farewell, hopped straight up into the air. Gladhnar leaned down from his branch and caught him by the wrist. The other elf slung Legolas up into an adjoining tree as easily as though he were a particularly flexible sack of flour, and with a murmur of silvery laughter and Sindarin chatter the small company took off running fleetly through the rustling branches.
Gimli shook his head at their silliness and stomped back inside. He knew exactly how he would pass the time until Legolas returned. Elves were creatures who took little sleep, and the revels in Greenwood tended to last late into the night. Gimli had so far enjoyed the stories and the songs and even the dancing—and the wine and feasting most of all, aye, but even he would admit that some of the stories had been almost good enough to grace a dwarvish hall—but it was a struggle to keep awake as late as his hosts, and a larger struggle to wake early again the morning after.
He was going to have a nap.